Episode 10
705 Words
PRETTY GIRLS DON'T PLAY NICE
Ava’s inbox was on fire.
Since the university lecture had gone semi-viral—thanks to a student’s sneaky t****k clip of her mic-drop closing line—her DMs were flooded. Messages from women who saw themselves in her story. Invitations to speak, collaborate, create. Even a producer from a docuseries wanted to chat.
But one email stood out.
Subject: Re: A Woman’s Warning
From: anonymousartgirl99@protonmail.com
Body:
He did it to me too. I have proof. I thought I was crazy until I heard your story. If you're ready to expose him, I am too.
Ava stared at it for a long moment, her stomach a cocktail of dread and clarity.
This was bigger than a breakup.
This was a pattern.
She brought it to Sasha and Ember first.
They sat around Ava’s kitchen island like it was a war table—wine glasses in hand, laptop open, every ounce of their badass energy focused.
“He’s got skeletons,” Sasha said, eyes narrowed. “And they’re getting noisy.”
“We could go full FBI,” Ember added, already typing. “IP trace, reverse image search, cross-check socials—”
“Or,” Ava interrupted, “we just… ask her.”
They sent a reply. Kept it calm, cautious, open.
The woman responded instantly.
Her name was Natalie. She’d dated Cole two years before Ava. It started hot, got messy fast, ended worse. Same tactics—gaslighting, love bombing, ghosting. But hers had escalated. Manipulated finances. Intimidation. Threats disguised as concern.
“I thought no one would believe me,” Natalie wrote. “He’s so charming. I didn’t think I had a voice until I saw you.”
Attached was a Google Drive folder.
Screenshots. Voice memos. One short video—him yelling, her crying, and his voice in the background saying: You’ll never survive without me.
Ava’s blood went cold.
Not just for herself, but for all the versions of Natalie. Of Ava. Of every woman who’d been told they were “too sensitive” or “imagining things.”
Cole didn’t just break hearts. He broke people.
Not anymore.
The plan was clear: they were going to tell the truth.
Not through gossip. Not through vengeance.
Through art.
Ava launched the campaign quietly.
No names. Just a digital gallery—Refractions: Stories From the Shattered.
Each piece was inspired by a survivor. Painted with raw color, captioned with redacted quotes. The response was immediate and visceral. People cried in the comments. Shared their own experiences. It spread like wildfire.
One week in, it had 2.5 million views.
That’s when the news caught on.
Podcasts called. Journalists emailed. Survivors poured into Ava’s inbox.
And Cole?
He posted another cryptic story:
“Everyone wants to be a victim until the truth comes out.”
“You think he’ll retaliate?” Luca asked one night, his thumb tracing circles on her bare shoulder.
Ava leaned into him, breath steady. “He already tried. This time, I’m louder.”
Luca nodded. “Then let’s get loud.”
The gallery exhibit opened two weeks later.
Real-world. In-person. Packed wall to wall.
People flew in. Reporters hovered. Cameras clicked.
Ava wore black velvet and a quiet smile. Luca stood beside her in a suit that made her knees weak, holding her hand like he was anchoring her soul.
And then she saw her.
Natalie.
Nervous, unsure, but there.
Ava walked over. They hugged without a word. Just two survivors, reclaiming the narrative. Together.
But the night wasn’t over.
As Ava stepped outside for air, she saw him.
Cole.
Standing across the street.
Watching.
He looked like a shadow of himself. Jaw tight. Eyes unreadable. Hands clenched in his coat pockets.
Ava didn’t flinch.
She simply lifted her chin, turned to Sasha—who clocked him immediately—and said, “Ready to leave?”
Sasha grinned. “Always.”
They walked past him like he was invisible.
Because to Ava, he finally was.
Later that night, curled against Luca, she whispered, “It’s starting to feel real.”
“What is?”
“That I’m free.”
He kissed her temple. “You were always free, Ava. You just stopped asking for permission.”
- Writer
