Pawn In Their Twisted Love Game

I was the scholarship girl with a 4.0 GPA, dating the untouchable Branson Ayers. My dream of winning the Rhodes Scholarship was just one interview away.

Then, a deepfake video with my face on it destroyed my life overnight. The scholarship was gone, and suddenly, I was the girl from the video.

I ran to Branson for help, only to overhear the horrifying truth from behind a hedge. He' d orchestrated the whole thing to give the scholarship to his childhood sweetheart, Kennedy.

But the cruelest cut was the second secret. For two years, the passionate man who came to me in the dark wasn't my boyfriend at all.

It was his identical twin brother, Hanson. I was just a pawn in their sick game-a body for Hanson to use while Branson kept himself "pure" for the woman they both loved.

When I called my parents, they didn't ask if I was okay. They disowned me for shaming the family and booked me a one-way ticket to London.

Betrayed, used, and discarded by everyone I trusted, I took the flight. But as the city lights disappeared below, I made a vow. One day, I would return. And they would regret ever thinking they could destroy me.

Chapter 1

Ally Gomez POV:

The video that destroyed my life had my face, my voice, and my body. The only thing it didn't have was me.

It surfaced on a Monday morning, spreading through the Kingston University servers like a virus. By noon, the Rhodes Scholarship committee had sent me a terse, formal email withdrawing my final-round interview. My dream, the one I had bled for, the culmination of my entire existence as the perfect, brilliant, working-class prodigy, evaporated in a single click.

My world, once a pristine ivory tower of academic achievement, was now a public cesspool. Whispers followed me down the manicured campus pathways. Eyes, once filled with admiration, now held a mixture of pity and disgust. I was no longer Ally Gomez, the scholarship girl with the 4.0 GPA. I was the girl from the video.

I needed to find him. I needed to find Branson. He would fix this. He had to.

I ran to the Ayers family' s designated sanctuary on campus, the exclusive Epsilon House, a place so steeped in old money it seemed to repel the very air I breathed. I was let in by a stony-faced fraternity brother who looked at me like I was something he' d scraped off his shoe. He pointed me toward the back garden.

That' s where I heard them. Their voices floated from behind a perfectly sculpted hedge, laced with the casual cruelty of the untouchable elite.

\"Honestly, Branson, it was a masterpiece,\" a voice drawled. It belonged to Kennedy Kaufman, the beautiful, ambitious socialite who had been Branson' s shadow since they were in diapers. \"The way she looked so... cheap. No one would ever suspect it was a deepfake. The Rhodes committee practically tripped over themselves to drop her.\"

My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against the hedge, the leaves scratching my cheek.

Branson' s voice, usually so calm and measured, was laced with a chilling satisfaction. \"She was a necessary sacrifice, Kennedy. The scholarship was always meant for you. I told you I' d handle it.\"

\"You did,\" she cooed. \"But having Hanson handle the... physical side of things? Utterly brilliant. It kept you pure for me.\"

A third voice, one I knew with a terrifying intimacy, laughed. It was a careless, hedonistic sound. Hanson Ayers. Branson' s identical twin brother, the impulsive, artistic \"bad boy\" to Branson' s polished prodigy. \"Honestly, I did you a favor, bro. Kept you pure for your little princess while I got to play with the scholarship girl. She's not bad in bed, by the way. A little naive, but eager to please.\"

The world tilted sideways.

The air in my lungs turned to glass, shattering with every shallow breath. A wave of nausea so powerful I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting right there in the pristine flowerbeds.

\"She actually believed it was you for two whole years,\" Hanson continued, his tone dripping with amusement. \"That' s the best part. I had to transfer in from my art school in London just for this little game. Totally worth it.\"

\"It was all for you, Kennedy,\" Branson said, his voice softening into a tone I had never, not once, heard him use with me. \"Everything I do is for you.\"

\"I know,\" she whispered, her voice thick with triumph. \"And now, nothing stands in our way.\"

My body started to shake uncontrollably. The foundation of my life, the very reality I had inhabited for the past two years, crumbled into dust.

It was all a lie.

I stumbled back, my legs feeling like they were made of water. The memories, once so precious, now flashed through my mind like scenes from a horror film, each one a fresh stab of betrayal.

I remembered the first time I saw Branson Ayers. He was standing on the library steps, the autumn sun catching in his dark hair. He was beautiful, unattainable, a god among mortals in the world of Kingston. He was the heir to the Ayers Global fortune, a business school legend who treated everyone with a cool, detached politeness. Everyone except Kennedy Kaufman. With her, he was different. Softer.

I was nothing. A first-generation American from a cramped apartment in Queens, here on the charity of a scholarship. I knew my place. I kept my head down, buried in books, my future a singular, blazing point of light: Oxford. The Rhodes Scholarship.

Then, things started to happen. \"Coincidences.\" We were assigned as partners in a project. He' d show up at the same coffee shop. He started walking me back to my dorm. He was reserved, almost shy during the day, a stark contrast to the rumors of the wild Ayers twins.

One rainy night, under the soft glow of a campus lamp, he' d stopped me. \"Ally,\" he' d said, his voice quiet. \"I can't stop thinking about you.\"

My heart, which had been dormant for twenty years, exploded in my chest. I, Ally Gomez, was being seen by Branson Ayers. I said yes before he could even finish asking me to be his girlfriend.

Our relationship was... strange. During the day, in public, he was the same Branson. Distant, impeccably polite, his touches fleeting. But at night, in the privacy of the off-campus apartment he insisted on getting for us, he was a different person entirely. Passionate. Demanding. Almost feral. His hands knew my body with an artist' s confidence, his mouth was a whirlwind of breathtaking sensation. He' d whisper things in the dark, his voice huskier, rougher than his daytime tone.

I' d chalked it up to his upbringing. He was a private person, I told myself. He didn't like public displays of affection. The pressure of his family name made him guarded. I invented a hundred excuses, a thousand justifications, because I was so desperately in love with the lie.

Now, standing behind that hedge, the truth crashed down on me with the force of a physical blow.

The man I saw during the day, the one I had intellectual debates with, the one who reviewed my thesis, was Branson.

The man who came to me in the dark, the one whose body I knew as well as my own, the one I had given my first everything to... was Hanson.

I was not a girlfriend. I was a project. A pawn in a cruel game designed to secure a scholarship for the woman they both loved. I was a surrogate body for Hanson to use while he obsessed over Kennedy, and a target for Branson to destroy.

A single, choked sob escaped my lips. I slapped my hand over my mouth, my knuckles digging into my teeth.

I had to get away.

I turned and ran, my feet pounding against the stone path, each step an echo of my shattered heart. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I couldn't breathe.

My phone rang, shrill and insistent. It was my mother. I fumbled to answer, desperate for a lifeline.

\"Alessia,\" she said, her voice tight with fury. She only used my full name when she was truly angry. \"Your father and I just saw it. The video. How could you? After everything we sacrificed for you, how could you bring this disgrace upon our family?\"

\"Ma, it's not real,\" I gasped, tears streaming down my face. \"I was framed. It's fake.\"

\"Fake? Do you think anyone will believe that?\" she shrieked. \"Our neighbors are whispering. Your cousins have been calling. Our name is mud because of you! You have shamed us!\"

There was no concern. No asking if I was okay. Just shame. Blame. The same cold, transactional love I' d been trying to earn my whole life. I had spent years being the perfect daughter, the academic trophy, all to win their approval. And in my darkest hour, all they saw was their own tarnished reputation.

\"We have booked you a flight to London,\" my father's voice cut in, cold and final. \"You will go to your aunt's. You will stay there until this scandal dies down. Do not contact us. We cannot have this shame attached to us.\"

The line went dead.

I stood in the middle of campus, the world blurring around me. Betrayed by my love, used by his brother, discarded by my own family. I was utterly, completely alone.

A cold, hard numbness settled over me, extinguishing the fire of my grief.

They banished me.

But I would be the one who never looked back.

Ally Gomez POV:

I moved through the apartment like a ghost, my limbs heavy, my mind a hollowed-out cavern. Every object was a monument to a lie. The books Branson had recommended, the records Hanson had played during our nights together, the single, perfect rose in a vase on the nightstand-a gift from \"Branson\" that morning.

My hands began to move, slow and mechanical at first, then with a frantic, desperate energy. I pulled a large black trash bag from the kitchen and began to purge.

Books went in first, their pages filled with promises I now knew were empty. Then the records, their vinyl sleeves slick under my touch. The cashmere blanket he-no, Hanson-loved to wrap around us. The photograph on the nightstand, of me and Branson smiling at a university gala, a picture of perfect, calculated deceit. It all went into the bag. My treasures. My life. My mistakes.

I was on my knees, pulling out a drawer of his-their-things when the front door clicked open.

\"Ally?\"

Hanson' s voice. But it was tuned to Branson' s frequency-softer, more concerned. The voice of my daytime boyfriend.

He walked into the bedroom and stopped, his eyes taking in the scene. The overflowing trash bag, the stripped bed, my tear-ravaged face.

\"Baby, what is all this?\" he asked, stepping forward. He was the perfect imitation. The worried frown, the gentle tone. A masterpiece of deception.

I slowly got to my feet, my empty hands clenched at my sides. I just stared at him, my eyes so raw and swollen they felt like open wounds. I wanted him to see the devastation. I wanted it to burn him.

\"Look familiar?\" I croaked, my voice a shredded whisper. I gestured to the trash bag. \"All the props from your little two-year play. You can take them with you when you leave.\"

A flicker of something-surprise? confusion?-crossed his face before it was smoothed away, replaced by that practiced concern. He ignored my words, stepping closer to cup my face in his hands. His thumb gently stroked my cheek.

\"Your eyes are so red,\" he murmured. \"Did you cry all day? I told you I' d handle the video. It' s been taken down from most sites. Don' t worry anymore. I' ll take care of you. You don' t even have to finish school. I' ll support you.\"

The words, meant to be comforting, were a cascade of fresh insults. I' ll support you. The casual, arrogant offer of a gilded cage now that they had broken my wings. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the swirling vortex of my despair.

He leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead, then my temple. His scent, a familiar mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely his, a scent I used to find intoxicating, now turned my stomach.

\"I missed you,\" he whispered, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me against him.

The moment his body touched mine, a violent, full-body revulsion seized me. My skin felt like it was crawling. My stomach churned, and bile rose in my throat. This body, this man, who I thought was the love of my life, was a stranger. A liar. A performer who had used me as a stand-in for another woman.

With a strength I didn't know I possessed, I shoved him away. Hard.

He stumbled back, genuine surprise finally breaking through his mask. \"Ally? What' s wrong?\"

\"I' m... not feeling well,\" I mumbled, turning away so he couldn' t see the disgust on my face. It was the only excuse my shattered mind could conjure.

He stared at me for a few seconds, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, a slow, easy smile spread across his lips. \"Okay,\" he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate purr I knew so well. \"You rest. I' ll go take a cold shower.\"

I watched him disappear into the bathroom, his casual acceptance a testament to how little he truly cared about my feelings, as long as his end goal was met. I resumed my task, my movements numb and robotic. Erase them. Erase every trace.

Later, he slid into bed beside me, his skin cool and damp. He turned off the light, plunging the room into the familiar darkness where our charade always played out. His arm wrapped around me from behind, his hand settling on my stomach. His lips found the back of my neck.

I lay there, rigid as a corpse, enduring the touch that had once been my greatest solace. It felt like a violation. Each kiss was a brand, each caress an act of desecration on the memory of what I thought was love.

I must have drifted into a state of sheer exhaustion, because I was hovering on the edge of consciousness when I heard it. A soft, breathy murmur against my ear, spoken in a moment of unguarded intimacy.

\"Kennedy...\"

My eyes snapped open in the darkness. My entire body went rigid. The blood in my veins turned to ice and flowed backward, straight to my heart, freezing it solid.

He thought I was her. In the dark, in the throes of a passion that was never meant for me, he had called out her name.

I shoved him again, this time with a strangled gasp, scrambling away from him to the far edge of the bed. \"Get off me!\"

He propped himself up on an elbow, the shadows masking his expression. \"Hey, what is it?\" he asked, his voice thick with sleep and thwarted desire.

\"Don' t touch me,\" I choked out, my voice trembling with a new, deeper layer of horror.

He sighed, a sound of weary tolerance. \"Fine, fine,\" he said, as if placating a difficult child. \"I' ll be good. Just let me hold you.\" He shuffled closer, pulling me back against his chest.

I was trapped. I lay there, stiff and unmoving, as silent tears streamed from my eyes, soaking the pillowcase. I endured his touch, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breathing, forcing myself to stay still, to breathe, to survive until morning. The revulsion was a physical thing, a living creature clawing at me from the inside out.

When I woke, the space beside me was empty. Of course it was. \"Branson\" never stayed the night. He had classes. He had a pristine reputation to maintain. He had to be seen walking to his 8 a.m. economics lecture with Kennedy Kaufman.

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Why he never walked me to class. Why our public life and private life were so completely separate. It wasn' t discretion. It was logistics.

I dragged my aching body out of bed and went to the university, my mind set on one thing: filing the paperwork for my withdrawal. It was the only thing I had left to control.

I had just stepped onto campus when a classmate, Sarah, ran up to me, her face pale with urgency.

\"Ally! Thank God I found you,\" she panted. \"Professor Albright is looking for you. He said it' s an emergency. He' s in his office.\"

A cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach. Professor Albright was my thesis advisor. An emergency? After everything that had already happened, I couldn' t imagine what could be worse.

But I was about to find out.

Ally Gomez POV:

I knocked on the heavy oak door of Professor Albright' s office, my knuckles barely making a sound. A tight, cold knot of dread was coiling in my stomach.

\"Come in.\"

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. My eyes immediately fell on the person sitting in the chair opposite the professor' s desk, and my heart plummeted.

Kennedy Kaufman.

She looked up as I entered, her wide, innocent blue eyes meeting mine. For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, unadulterated triumph in their depths, a smug, predatory glint. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a mask of nervous, doe-eyed vulnerability.

Professor Albright' s face was a thundercloud. He didn' t greet me. He just slapped two bound papers down on his desk with a loud crack that made me flinch.

\"Miss Gomez. Miss Kaufman,\" he said, his voice dangerously low. \"Perhaps one of you would care to explain why your final theses are nearly identical.\"

My gaze dropped to the papers. My thesis. And another, with Kennedy' s name on the cover. My blood turned to ice.

\"I don' t have to tell you,\" Professor Albright continued, his glare shifting between us, \"that academic dishonesty is the single greatest sin at this institution. I am giving you one chance. One of you needs to confess right now.\"

\"Professor, I swear, I didn't copy,\" Kennedy burst out immediately, her voice trembling artfully. She looked on the verge of tears. \"I worked on this paper for months. Every word is my own.\"

I stared at the two theses, my mind reeling. My work. My research. My words. Stolen and twisted into this nightmare. \"I didn't copy either,\" I said, my voice barely a whisper. My own throat felt tight, as if a hand was squeezing it shut.

Professor Albright rubbed his temples, a vein throbbing there. \"Then provide me with proof. Drafts. Notes. Anything.\"

\"I have a witness,\" Kennedy said quickly, her eyes darting toward the door.

As if on cue, the office door opened again.

Branson Ayers walked in.

He didn't even look at me. It was as if I was a piece of furniture, an insignificant object in the room. His cool, grey eyes went straight to Professor Albright.

\"Professor,\" he said, his voice calm and authoritative. \"I can vouch for Kennedy. I was with her throughout the entire writing process. I saw her write every single draft.\" He paused, then his gaze finally, briefly, flickered to me, devoid of any warmth. \"As for how the papers ended up so similar... I believe you' ll have to ask Miss Gomez that.\"

The implication was clear. Devastatingly clear.

And just like that, the scales of justice, already so heavily weighted by the Ayers and Kaufman family names, tipped completely. Professor Albright looked at Branson, the business school prodigy, the heir to a global empire, and then he looked at me, the disgraced scholarship girl from the porn video. The verdict was instantaneous.

\"Ally Gomez!\" he roared, his face turning a blotchy red. \"I am beyond disappointed. I took you under my wing! I believed in you! And you repay that faith with plagiarism? With this... this filth?\"

I stared at Branson, my entire being screaming in silent protest. Why? I wanted to shriek. You already took my scholarship. You took my dignity. You took my heart and let your brother use my body. Why this too?

I knew why. It was to protect Kennedy. To erase any possible stain on her record, to ensure her path was flawless. And I was just collateral damage. The final loose end to be snipped away.

Any explanation I could offer would be useless. It was my word against the golden boy and his princess. I was already condemned. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, it felt like my ribs were cracking.

\"Branson, Kennedy, you may leave,\" Professor Albright said, his voice calmer now, but laced with icy finality. \"I will handle this.\"

He waited until the door clicked shut behind them before turning his full fury back on me. He lectured me for what felt like an eternity, his words about integrity and honor washing over me in a meaningless drone. The only words that registered were the final ones.

\"Your thesis is void. A mark for academic misconduct will be permanently placed on your record.\"

I walked out of his office like a zombie, my soul scraped raw.

And there he was. Leaning against the corridor wall, waiting for me. Branson.

I stopped, my feet rooted to the spot. \"Why?\" The word was a dry, ragged tear in the silence. \"Why would you do that?\"

He pushed himself off the wall, his expression as impassive as ever. \"Kennedy got a little too... inspired by the draft of your thesis she saw on my laptop,\" he said, as if discussing the weather. \"It was an honest mistake.\"

An honest mistake. My blood, sweat, and tears, the culmination of a year's work, reduced to an \"honest mistake.\"

\"Her thesis is very important for her graduate school applications,\" he continued, his voice still holding that infuriating, cold logic. \"And you... well. You' re already dealing with this video scandal. What' s one more mark against your name? It doesn't really matter anymore, does it?\"

It doesn't really matter anymore.

The casual cruelty of it, the absolute disregard for me as a human being, finally shattered the last of my composure. A sound tore from my throat, a raw, wounded cry of pure agony and rage.

\"You are monsters! All of you! Do you have any idea what you've done to me?\" Tears streamed down my face, hot and useless.

For the first time, a flicker of something unsettled crossed Branson' s perfect features. A slight frown creased his brow. He was used to my quiet compliance, my soft-spoken admiration. He wasn't used to this. This primal scream of a broken woman.

\"Ally, calm down,\" he said, reaching for my arm. \"It' s a small thing. I' ll take you out for dinner tonight to make up for it.\"

I recoiled as if his hand were a hot poker, slapping it away with a choked sob.

\"Make up for it?\" I shrieked, my voice cracking. \"You think dinner can fix this? I am not that pathetic! I am not that cheap!\"

I turned and ran, my vision blurred by tears, my lungs burning. I had to get away from him, from this place that had become my personal hell.

I left him standing there in the hallway, a look of mild annoyance and confusion on his handsome, merciless face. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking I was overreacting. He was thinking I was being difficult. After all, in his world, people like me were disposable. We were props, meant to be used and then discarded without a fuss.

He probably thought I' d cry it out and be fine by morning.

He had no idea that he had just pulverized the last remaining atom of the girl who had ever loved him.