PART 1
“If you truly love me, you won’t ask how much blood they need, so you’ll donate without another word,” was the last thing Brendan said to me before a nurse stuck the needle deep into my arm.
Forty minutes later, I left the blood bank of a private clinic in La Jolla with weak legs, a cotton ball taped to my arm, and the absurd certainty that I had just done something heroic for the man I loved.
Brendan, according to his friends, had suffered a catastrophic car crash while testing a sports car on a private track near Bakersfield. They had called me in the middle of the night, pleading desperately that they urgently needed a compatible blood unit to save his life.
I didn’t ask a single question because Brendan had been my boyfriend for three years, and I would have walked through fire for him.
While searching for the elevator, I noticed a woman in scrubs pushing a small medical cooler, and I immediately recognized the handwritten label taped to the side.
My name was written right there in bold marker: Chloe Bennett.
I followed her instinctively down the quiet corridor as she slipped through a side door. To my absolute bewilderment, she pulled my blood bag out of the cooler and tossed it directly into a red biohazard waste container.
I stood completely frozen, convinced for a moment that lightheadedness was making me hallucinate.
Then I heard bursts of laughter coming from a VIP suite whose door was standing slightly ajar.
“I honestly can’t believe Chloe fell for it again,” a voice mocked, causing my heart to stop dead in its chest.
I crept closer to the door and peeked inside to see Brendan lying peacefully on the bed with immaculate hair, no oxygen tube, no injuries, and not a single bandage anywhere on his body.
He was casually scrolling on his phone while surrounding him were Mason, Wyatt, and his other fraternity buddies who had cried so hysterically on the phone just hours ago.
“Which prank are we checking off with this one?” Mason asked while howling with laughter.
Wyatt held up his fingers and counted out loud, “That makes ninety-six.”
Everyone in the room erupted into loud laughter while the floor seemed to completely disappear beneath my feet.
“The one with the silver bracelet was peak entertainment,” someone recalled with a grin. “We told her Brendan dropped his anniversary gift in the park, so Chloe spent half the night searching through a torrential rainstorm.”
“She ended up collapsing with a high fever the next day,” Wyatt added.
“And yet she still showed up at his apartment asking if the bracelet had been found,” Brendan’s friend chuckled.
Another wave of roaring laughter echoed through the room, making me feel deeply nauseous.
They continued reminiscing about the time they convinced me Brendan was comatose after emergency surgery, which led to me spending an entire night praying on my knees in a local chapel.
Then they brought up the false plagiarism charge leveled against me during my final semester at university.
I had spent endless frantic hours searching for evidence to clear my name, which ultimately caused me to miss my own graduation ceremony.
I had always assumed those awful events were tragic coincidences or simple bad luck, especially since Brendan always told me I was far too sensitive whenever I cried.
Then I heard a phrase that instantly shattered my reality.
“Only three more to go,” Mason declared triumphantly. “Ninety-nine acts of revenge and our deal is officially fulfilled.”
“And what happens right after that?” Wyatt inquired.
“Brendan breaks up with Chloe for good and gets back together with Scarlett,” Mason explained smoothly.
Scarlett.
I felt a physical blow directly to my chest at the mention of her name.
Scarlett Montgomery had been the overwhelming favorite to win the regional contemporary dance championship four years ago. She came from an influential family with private coaches and endless sponsors, so everyone assumed her victory was guaranteed.
Yet I was the one who won the trophy.
I was Chloe Bennett, the daughter of an accountant from San Bernardino and an elementary school teacher.
I vividly remembered that unforgettable night, filled with roaring applause while my mother cried in the front row and my father recorded everything on his old cell phone.
I never imagined that behind the curtains, Scarlett was weeping hysterically in front of Brendan.
“Chloe stole that championship title right out of Scarlett’s hands,” one of the guys commented.
“That’s exactly why Brendan started dating her in the first place,” another replied instantly. “First he had to make her fall madly in love, and then he was going to make her pay every single day.”
I felt all the oxygen drain from my lungs as I realized the brutal truth.
For three whole years, I had exhausted myself trying to be enough for him. For three years, I swallowed his cold silences and subtle humiliations because I genuinely believed he just struggled with showing affection.
Then Brendan finally spoke up in a casual tone, “Don’t make such a massive deal out of it, guys. Chloe chooses to get overly involved in everything, so nobody actually forces her.”
There was no guilt in his voice, only complete indifference.
I backed away from the door before anyone could spot me, staggering out of the clinic until I collapsed onto a concrete bench outside, sobbing with my face buried in my hands.
My phone suddenly buzzed with an incoming call from my mother.
“Chloe, your father just finalized the lease for the house in Tucson,” she said warmly. “We’re moving next week, and there’s still plenty of room if you want to come along.”
For months I had stubbornly refused their offer all because of Brendan.
I looked down at the dark purple bruise on my arm, thought about my blood rotting in the trash, and remembered ninety-six cruel humiliations turned into private jokes.
“Mom, please save a room for me,” I whispered through my tears.
I hung up the phone, but a second later a new text popped up from Brendan: “Come over tomorrow morning. We still have three things to resolve.”
I didn’t realize yet that those three final things held the power to destroy something far larger than our broken relationship.
PART 2
That very night I returned to my apartment in Pasadena, locked the deadbolt, and pulled a large suitcase from the closet.
For the first time in three years, I wasn’t obsessing over how to fix things with Brendan. I was only focusing on how to completely erase myself from his life.
I packed my clothes, important documents, and a few family photographs.
When my hands touched the silver dance shoes I wore during that fateful championship, I stared at them in silence.
For years I had felt an odd sense of guilt whenever I looked at them, but now I finally understood why. Brendan had meticulously twisted my proudest achievement into the supposed origin of my punishment.
At two in the morning, a sharp knock rattled my front door.
“Chloe, open the door right now,” Brendan called out from the hallway.
My heart pounded frantically, but I walked up to the door without unlocking it.
“Go away, Brendan,” I said firmly.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he asked, sounding mildly annoyed.
I let out a bitter laugh and replied, “I heard everything at the clinic today.”
A heavy silence lingered in the hallway before he finally spoke.
“Who told you?” he asked coldly.
He didn’t ask if I was alright, nor did he ask what I had heard. He only cared about who had betrayed his secret game.
