He Humiliated Me, I Unmasked My Fortune

Chapter 2: Agony for a Fake Illness

"He demanded my blood to cure her papercut, and I bled willingly, until the agony finally woke me from the delusion of his love."

The campus of Westbridge University operated on a rigid, unspoken caste system. At the very top were the football players and the cheerleaders—the royalty who walked the manicured quads like they owned the grass beneath their designer sneakers. At the bottom were the invisible gears that kept the machine running: the tutors, the janitors, and me.

Three days had passed since the victory party at the Alpha Delta house. Three days since I watched Archie bury his hands in Cassie’s blonde hair.

I hadn’t confronted him. I hadn’t screamed, cried, or demanded an explanation. Instead, I did something that scared him far more: I went completely numb. The desperate, anxious girl who used to hang on his every word was gone, replaced by a hollow shell that simply nodded, took notes, and cleaned up his messes without a single smile.

Archie hated it. He thrived on adoration. He wanted me to be jealous, to fight for him, to prove my devotion by begging him to choose me. My silence felt like a direct insult to his ego.

And so, he began to punish me.

"Blair!" Cassie's shrill, musical voice echoed across the indoor practice turf.

I paused, a heavy bag of deflated footballs slung over my shoulder. The massive indoor stadium was freezing, but sweat coated the back of my neck. My knee, which had been aching ever since the cold walk back from the frat house, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse.

I turned around slowly. Cassie was sitting on the edge of the bleachers, surrounded by three other cheerleaders. She was wearing her practice uniform—tight spandex shorts and a cropped top that showed off her perfectly tanned stomach. Archie was standing a few feet away, talking to his wide receivers, but I could feel his gaze cutting toward us.

"Yes, Cassie?" I asked, my voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"The cheer squad's water cooler is empty," she said, pouting her lower lip and pointing to a large orange jug resting on the turf. "Could you be a doll and refill it? The water fountain is all the way on the other side of the complex, and my legs are just so sore from our lift routines."

Technically, refilling the cheer squad's water wasn't my job. The cheerleaders had their own student manager. But Cassie knew exactly what she was doing. She was establishing dominance. She was showing the other girls—and Archie—that she could treat the star quarterback's girlfriend like a servant.

I looked at Archie. He paused his conversation with the receivers, watching the exchange. He didn't step in. He didn't tell Cassie to get her own water. He just watched, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting to see if I would submit or rebel.

Pick your battles, my father's stern voice echoed in the back of my mind. Never show your enemy where it hurts.

I didn't argue. I didn't sigh. I dropped the heavy bag of footballs, walked over to the orange jug, picked it up by the plastic handle, and began the long walk across the complex. The jug banged against my bad knee with every step, sending sharp jolts of pain shooting up my thigh.

When I finally returned, lugging the fifty-pound container of ice water, Cassie didn't even say thank you. She was busy taking a selfie with Archie.

"You're falling behind, Blair," Archie said coldly as I walked past him. He didn't look up from Cassie's phone screen. "Coach wants the tackling dummies moved to the outdoor field for the afternoon session."

"It's going to rain," I replied automatically, glancing up at the skylights. The sky outside had turned a dark, bruised purple, and the rumble of distant thunder shook the glass.

"Then they'll practice in the rain," Archie snapped, finally looking at me. His golden eyes were hard and uncompromising. "Move the dummies."

I gritted my teeth. I spent the next hour dragging heavy, waterlogged tackling pads out to the main field. By the time the team suited up for the afternoon practice, the sky had opened up. It wasn't just rain; it was a torrential, freezing downpour that turned the grass into a slick, muddy swamp.

I stood on the sidelines under a small, flimsy umbrella, holding a clipboard wrapped in a plastic bag, trying to record the play formations. The wind howled across the stadium, whipping the rain sideways, soaking right through my thin windbreaker.

The cheerleaders, who usually practiced outside with the team, had wisely retreated to the covered lounge attached to the locker rooms.

Suddenly, the heavy glass door of the lounge flew open. Cassie stumbled out, supported by two other cheerleaders. She looked pale, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead.

"Archie!" one of the cheerleaders yelled over the sound of the rain. "Archie, we need help! Cassie's fainting!"

The shrill blast of Coach Henderson's whistle stopped the play. Archie ripped his helmet off and sprinted toward the sidelines, his cleats kicking up massive chunks of mud. He practically shoved the other girls aside, catching Cassie as her knees dramatically buckled.

"Cass! Hey, look at me," Archie said, his voice thick with a genuine panic he hadn't shown me in two years. He pulled her against his chest, shielding her from the rain. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I'm... I'm so dizzy," Cassie whimpered, her eyelashes fluttering weakly. "My anemia... my blood sugar is crashing. Everything is spinning."

"Get the trainer!" Archie yelled, looking wildly toward the bench.

"No, no trainer," Cassie gasped, clutching his jersey. "I have a special iron and glucose supplement I have to take when this happens. If I just take it, I'll be fine. If the trainer writes me up for a medical emergency, they might bench me for the playoffs."

"Okay, okay, where is it?" Archie asked, brushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes.

"It's a specific brand," Cassie breathed heavily. "They only sell it at the organic pharmacy on 4th Street. It's... it's a blue bottle."

My blood ran cold.

The pharmacy on 4th Street wasn't on campus. It was a solid two miles away, located in the commercial district of the town.

"I'll send one of the freshmen," Archie said, turning to look at the bench.

"They're all doing drills," Coach Henderson barked, marching over. "I'm not stopping practice for a cheerleader's stomach ache, Sinclair. Get back on the field, or I'm putting the backup QB in!"

Archie's jaw tightened. He couldn't leave practice. He couldn't lose his reps in front of the scouts who were rumored to be watching from the dry press boxes above.

His eyes locked onto me.

I was standing ten feet away, shivering under my umbrella, my lips already turning a pale shade of blue from the cold.

"Blair," Archie commanded. "Go get it."

I stared at him through the sheets of rain. "What?"

"Go to the pharmacy on 4th Street and get Cassie's supplement," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "A blue bottle. Go."

"Archie, it's pouring rain," I said, my voice barely audible over the storm. "And I don't have a car. You have my keys."

He had taken my old Honda civic two days ago because his Jeep was in the shop. He hadn't given the keys back.

"So run," Archie said, his eyes narrowing in irritation. "It's only two miles. If you jog, you'll be back in thirty minutes. She's sick, Blair. Stop being so goddamn useless and do something to help."

Useless.

I looked down at my right knee. It was already swollen beneath my jeans, a dull, throbbing knot of scar tissue and phantom pain. Running four miles on concrete in freezing rain wasn't just difficult; it was medically dangerous. My surgeon had explicitly told me that high-impact running could cause permanent, irreversible damage to the joint.

"Archie," I whispered, stepping closer to him, lowering my voice so the others wouldn't hear. "My knee. You know I can't run that far. Not on pavement. Please."

For a split second, I saw a flicker of memory in his eyes. He remembered the long nights he had held my hand after my physical therapy sessions. He remembered the ugly, jagged scars crisscrossing my kneecap.

But then Cassie let out a pitiful, shuddering gasp, pressing her face into his chest.

The memory vanished.

"It's a slight ache from a fall three years ago, Blair. Stop exaggerating," Archie sneered, his voice loud enough for the entire sideline to hear. "If you cared about this team, you'd be halfway there by now. Go. Now."

He turned his back on me, lifting Cassie into his arms and carrying her toward the warmth of the indoor lounge.

I stood alone in the rain. My umbrella had blown inside out, the wire spokes snapping under the force of the wind. The cold water soaked through my clothes, chilling me straight to my bones.

I could have walked away. I could have called my father, demanded a car, and left this miserable school behind forever. But the psychological chains of abuse are difficult to break. I was still trapped in the delusion that if I just endured enough, if I just proved my loyalty one more time, he would realize my worth.

I dropped my clipboard into the mud. I turned toward the stadium gates, and I started to run.

The first half-mile wasn't terrible. But as I hit the concrete sidewalks of the town, the jarring impact began to take its toll. Every time my right foot struck the pavement, a shockwave of white-hot agony shot up my femur and into my hip. It felt like someone was driving a rusted nail into my kneecap with a hammer.

By the time I reached the pharmacy, I was limping heavily, gasping for air, tears of pure pain mixing with the rain on my face. I stumbled through the automatic doors, dripping water all over the clean linoleum floor.

I found the blue bottle in the supplement aisle. It cost forty dollars—almost half of what I had left in my checking account. I paid with trembling hands, clutching the plastic bag to my chest, and stepped back out into the storm.

The run back was a descent into hell.

My knee gave out completely at the mile marker. I collapsed onto the wet concrete, scraping the palms of my hands raw. The physical pain triggered a violent flashback. Suddenly, I wasn't on a sidewalk in Westbridge; I was on the ice in Beijing. I could hear the sickening c***k of my bone breaking. I could hear the collective gasp of the crowd. I could see my father's face in the stands, rigid with disappointment.

Get up, a voice whispered in my head. Not Archie's voice. My own. The voice of a girl who had survived thousands of brutal falls on the ice. Get up.

I forced myself up. I couldn't run anymore, but I dragged my right leg forward, limping at a torturous, agonizing pace. The rain blinded me. The wind pushed against me like a physical wall.

When I finally reached the athletic complex, the practice field was empty. The team had already gone inside.

I dragged myself through the heavy glass doors of the lounge, leaving a trail of muddy water on the pristine carpet. My chest heaved, every breath burning my throat. My hands shook violently as I clutched the plastic bag containing the blue bottle.

The lounge was warm, smelling of coffee and expensive cologne.

I looked toward the back couches, expecting to see a frantic medical scene. Expecting to see Cassie pale and gasping for air.

Instead, I saw Archie.

He was sitting on a plush leather sofa, freshly showered, wearing dry sweatpants and a gray hoodie. He was leaning back, relaxed, laughing at something playing on the flat-screen TV.

Cassie was straddling his lap.

She wasn't pale. She wasn't fainting. The "anemic episode" was entirely gone. She was giggling, tracing the line of Archie's jaw with her finger, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate in her other hand.

I stood there, frozen. I looked at the mud caking my jeans. I looked at my hands, bleeding from where I had fallen. I felt the agonizing, radiating pain in my knee—a pain that might have just ruined my leg permanently.

And they were laughing.

Archie glanced over and saw me standing in the doorway. His laughter died. He didn't push Cassie off his lap, but he did sit up slightly.

"Oh. You're back," he said casually, as if I had just returned from picking up a pizza.

I slowly walked forward. My right leg dragged uselessly behind me, leaving a muddy smear across the carpet. I stopped in front of the coffee table.

"I got the supplement," I rasped, my voice sounding like broken glass. I pulled the blue bottle out of the bag and set it on the glass table.

Cassie looked at the bottle, then looked up at me, her eyes wide with a perfectly practiced, innocent surprise.

"Oh, Blair, you look terrible!" Cassie gasped, covering her mouth. "You didn't actually run all the way there, did you? I told Archie to just call an Uber for you. I feel so much better now. I just needed some hot cocoa."

She smiled—a tiny, wicked, victorious little smirk that only I could see.

I looked at Archie. I waited for him to see the blood on my hands. I waited for him to realize the agonizing limp that I couldn't hide. I waited for a single ounce of guilt.

"Put some towels down, Blair, you're ruining the carpet," Archie said, waving a hand dismissively toward the floor. "And just throw the bottle in her locker. She doesn't need it right now."

He turned his attention back to the TV.

I looked at the blue bottle sitting on the table. Forty dollars. Four miles of excruciating agony. The potential destruction of my knee.

Throw it in her locker.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I reached out, grabbed the blue bottle, and slowly turned around. I limped toward the trash can in the corner of the room. I held the bottle over the rim, letting it slip from my bruised fingers.

It hit the bottom with a hollow, pathetic thud.

I walked out of the lounge, leaving them to their laughter. Archie thought forcing me to run on a crippled leg was just a way to flex his power. He didn't realize that every drop of blood I shed on that pavement was a nail in the coffin of his NFL career. And the burial was coming sooner than he thought.