Episode 12
1176 Words
SCANDAL AND SECOND CHANCES
Ava didn’t expect the email to go viral.
All she did was write a blog post.
A raw, unfiltered entry titled “The First Time He Made Me Feel Crazy.” She posted it at 2:13 a.m. with trembling fingers and zero expectations. Just her words, her story, her voice.
By morning, her inbox had exploded.
13,000 shares. 5,000 comments. Three podcast invites. One TV producer reaching out.
But the one message she hadn’t expected to see?
Delilah.
The subject line: “Can I talk to you?”
The message was short. Almost shy.
“I read your blog. I didn’t know how to say this before, but I’m sorry. For everything. You didn’t imagine what happened between me and Cole. And you weren’t crazy. I was. For believing he’d ever love anyone the way he loves himself. If you want to talk… I’m here.”
Ava stared at the screen.
A thousand memories bubbled up. Cold silences. Passive digs. The time Cole “accidentally” showed her a text from Delilah, grinning like it was a joke. And the way he insisted, “She’s just dramatic, don’t be like that.”
She’d believed him. Because that’s what Ava used to do—bend until she broke.
But now?
Now, she typed back:
“I’d love to talk. Let’s meet.”
They met at a quiet café tucked between an indie bookstore and a nail bar called Claws and Coffee. Ava wore soft denim, no makeup, no armor. Delilah looked the same—real, raw, and smaller than Ava remembered.
They ordered tea.
And sat in silence for a moment before Delilah spoke.
“He told me you hated me.”
Ava gave a half-laugh. “He told me you hated me.”
They both smiled. Warily. Like two soldiers meeting after a war they never realized they were fighting on the same side.
“I found your blog,” Delilah said, voice quiet. “It made me cry.”
Ava sipped her tea. “It made me cry to write it.”
Delilah reached into her bag and pulled out a flash drive. She placed it on the table between them like a peace offering—or a bomb.
“What’s this?”
“Screenshots. Voice recordings. Messages. Stuff I saved. Stuff I never thought I’d use.”
Ava blinked. “Why give it to me?”
Delilah looked her dead in the eyes. “Because I watched you survive. And maybe if you shine a light on him, it’ll keep someone else from going through what we did.”
Ava swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Thank you.”
Delilah nodded. “This isn’t for revenge.”
“I know.”
They sat in quiet solidarity, sipping tea, surrounded by the hum of espresso machines and second chances.
Back at her apartment, Ava plugged in the flash drive.
And what she found made her breath catch.
A recorded call.
Cole’s voice, arrogant, familiar: “She’ll never leave. Ava lives for my approval. Honestly, I think she’s addicted to feeling like a disappointment.”
Another recording: “Delilah, you’re not like other girls. Ava’s too emotional. She cries for attention.”
And texts. Dozens.
Gaslighting. Manipulating. Grooming.
Ava felt her fingers tremble.
Not from rage. But from clarity.
This wasn’t about her.
Cole was a pattern. A predator. A master of illusion.
But the illusion was shattered now.
And Ava wasn’t done yet.
Luca read everything with her.
His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed soft when they met hers. “What do you want to do?”
“I want people to see the man behind the mask.”
“You sure you’re ready for that?”
Ava nodded. “I think the world’s ready too.”
She wrote another blog post. Title: “When Love Is a Weapon.”
This time, she attached evidence. Anonymous voices. Screenshots with names redacted. A note at the bottom:
“This isn’t about cancel culture. This is about accountability. This is about survival. This is about the people who can’t speak yet—and the people who still believe it’s their fault. It’s not. It never was.”
She clicked post.
And braced herself.
The internet exploded.
Thousands of shares in hours. Ava’s inbox overflowed. Her DMs flooded with stories. Survivors. Supporters. Journalists. Even therapists asking to use her story as a resource.
But it wasn’t all praise.
The trolls came, too.
“Attention seeker.”
“Lying slut.”
“You probably deserved it.”
Ava didn’t flinch.
Because for every hater, ten more stood behind her.
And Ava wasn’t the same girl who used to cry quietly and apologize for taking up space.
She was a woman now.
A fire-breathing phoenix in lipstick and paint.
And she had more to say.
One week later, her gallery hosted a panel called “Glow Up After Gaslight.”
The room was packed.
Women. Men. Nonbinary folks. Survivors. Advocates. Artists. Strangers who had found strength in her story.
Luca sat in the front row, eyes filled with pride.
Delilah sat beside Natalie. They held hands.
Ava stepped up to the mic.
She wasn’t nervous.
She was ready.
She talked about patterns. Shame. Silence. Self-abandonment. The kind of emotional manipulation that doesn’t leave bruises—but bleeds anyway.
She ended with this:
“I used to think healing was this straight line. That one day, I’d wake up and everything would be okay again. But healing isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s lonely. And it’s worth it. I am not the girl he broke. I am the woman who rebuilt herself. Glitter, scars, and all.”
The standing ovation shook the walls.
That night, Ava stood on her rooftop with Luca.
The city buzzed below.
The stars blinked above.
He held her hand and kissed her knuckles.
“You amaze me,” he whispered.
She looked up at him.
And felt something unfamiliar.
Safety. Desire. Belonging. All at once.
“Do you want to come inside?” she asked, voice soft but sure.
He blinked. “Are you sure?”
Ava nodded.
“I’m not afraid anymore.”
Inside, things were slow. Careful. Sacred.
They kissed like they’d done it in dreams.
He worshipped every scar like a masterpiece.
And when they finally lay tangled in each other, hearts synced, breath warm, Ava smiled.
Not because it was perfect.
But because it was real.
The next morning, her phone rang.
Blocked number.
She almost ignored it.
But something told her to answer.
A gruff voice: “Ms. Sinclair? This is Detective Peters. I’m with the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. I believe you’ve come into possession of information involving a man named Cole Westbrook?”
Ava sat up.
“Yes.”
“We’d like to meet with you. Some additional complaints have come in… and your evidence could help us build a case.”
Her heart stopped.
And then it soared.
“Send me the details,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
- Writer
