Fake Date; Real Billionaire

“7 days engaged to my forever 🥂✨ Grateful doesn’t cover it. Thank you for all the love, babes.” Comments poured in like champagne bubbles. @stylebyjada: “QUEEN DESERVES THIS!!!” @luxelivingng: “Couple goals frfr 😍” @makeupbymimi: “That ring is screaminggggg” (fire emojis ×20) Her follower count ticked past 287K. Notifications wouldn’t stop. Elena leaned back against her pillows, savoring the glow. As a small-scale celebrity and model, building her profile had been a grind—endless shoots, brand deals, and content creation. But moments like this made it worth it. The engagement post was her pinnacle, a testament to her careful life choices. No more fleeting flings; she'd curated her world for something real. Marcus had seemed like the perfect fit—ambitious, charming, and now, thanks to her, a rising star in photography and videography. She was scrolling through the praise when a new comment popped at the top—tagged from @marcus_hale himself. She tapped it, expecting more affection. The post he attached loaded first. A mirror selfie: Marcus shirtless in bed, sheets low on his hips, one arm around a blurry brunette whose face was cropped out. Her hand rested on his abs. The ring was gone from his finger. Caption: “7 days engaged and already 70 rounds in 7 positions 🔥 No cap, she said ‘no s*x till we’re official’ so I just used the couchie to pass time. Her choice tho. Now she’s getting what she wanted… pounded. Y’all stay mad.” But the "she" wasn't the brunette. The tags made it clear: @elena_vargas_model. It was about her. He'd gotten engaged to Elena first, waited until the ring was on her finger to start the s*x—her rule, her boundary—and then turned it into this. Seventy times in seven days. Her body, quantified, mocked. And now, without a breakup text or call, he was flaunting someone new, implying their entire "relationship" was never real, just a ploy for her body. The comment he left under Elena’s post was shorter: “Congrats to me ig 🤷🏾‍♂️” with a link to his new post. Her stomach dropped, twisting into nausea. The room spun slightly, the phone screen blurring as bile rose in her throat. Likes on his post were climbing—already 4.2K. Comments exploding. @kingdre: “Bro savage 😂😂” @tee_money: “70 in 7 days? Legend behavior” @chiomaa_x: “Elena girl… run” @gossipnaija: “This is diabolical 💀 tagging her too?” Someone screenshotted Marcus’s comment and posted it in her replies. @realgossiptea: “Elena just got curved on main. Sis we hurting for you” Her DMs flooded. Friends: “Babe are you seeing this???” Randoms: “You good queen?” Haters: “Told y’all influencers date clowns” @anonshade: “Models always get played. Thought you were smarter, Elena 😂” @beautybloggerpro: “This why I stay single. Men ain’t shit.” Elena stared at the numbers ticking up. 9K likes on his post now. Her own post—once glowing—now buried under laughing emojis and praying hands. The world was watching, judging, pitying. He'd broken her heart internationally, turning her vulnerability into viral entertainment. No private goodbye. They were never truly together; it was all a setup for this humiliation. Her carefully built image—strong, independent, aspirational—cracking in real time. Sponsors would see this. Followers would unfollow. Her brand, tainted. She tried to type a reply. Her fingers froze. Nothing came. What could she say? Deny it? That would make it worse, fuel the fire. Admit it? Expose herself further? Her thumb hovered over the block button, but even that felt pointless now. Blocking him wouldn't erase the screenshots spreading like wildfire across Twitter threads and t****k stitches. Instead, she opened his profile, masochistically scrolling. Pinned post: their first “couple” photo from three months ago. Still up, like a cruel joke. Him behind the camera, her posing in golden light. The caption she'd written: “Found my muse and my man 📸❤️” She laughed once—sharp, ugly—then the sound cracked into silence. No tears came. She wanted to sob, to rage, but her body betrayed her. A wave of sickness hit: her head throbbed, stomach churned, limbs went heavy. She dropped the phone, curling into a fetal position on the bed, the engagement ring digging into her palm like a brand. Sweat beaded on her forehead, chills racing down her spine. Was this a panic attack? Or actual illness from the shock? Her vision swam, the ceiling lights haloing like accusations. Used. That's all she was. For two years, she'd been so careful—no hookups, no situationships. Dating apps only if marriage was the goal. She'd told Marcus upfront: “I’m not here for games. If it’s not forever, don’t waste my time.” He'd nodded seriously. “I respect that. I want the same.” He'd waited until the engagement. Courted her publicly. Proposed on live for her followers to cheer. And then, after the ring, the intimacy she'd guarded so fiercely became his scorecard. Seventy times. Seven positions. Reduced to a meme. But it wasn't just her body. Regret crashed over her like a tidal wave, deepening the nausea. She'd invested everything in him. When they met, Marcus was a struggling photographer, scraping by with cheap gigs and outdated gear. Elena had seen potential—his eye for angles, his raw talent. She'd poured her savings into upgrading his equipment: a top-of-the-line Canon camera, professional lenses, editing software subscriptions. She'd connected him to her network—models, influencers, event planners. Featured him in her posts, tagging his handle in every story, shouting out his videography skills to her growing audience. “Support my boo’s work! 🔥” she'd caption. And it worked. His follower count exploded from 5K to over 100K. Bookings poured in: weddings, music videos, celebrity shoots. He was at the top now, a name in the industry, all because of her. She'd built him up, thinking they were building a future together. Shared dreams of a joint brand—her modeling, his visuals. Vacations planned, a house in the suburbs sketched on napkins. All illusions. He'd used her connections, her platform, her body—and now, her heartbreak—for more clout. “Why did I believe him?” she whispered, rocking slightly. Regret burned hotter than the fever. She regretted the late nights editing his portfolio with him, laughing over takeout. Regretted introducing him to her agent, who got him his first big contract. Regretted every vulnerable moment shared, every "I love you" typed in DMs. Most of all, she regretted letting her guard down, thinking this time was different. How many red flags had she ignored? His vague texts, the "business trips" that stretched too long. Now, it all clicked: he'd been playing her from day one. The sickness intensified—her throat tightened, a migraine pounding like judgment. She stumbled to the bathroom, retching into the sink, but nothing came up except dry heaves. Back in bed, she felt hollow, shattered. Sick to her core—feverish sweat breaking out, vision blurring. He hadn't just left; he'd exposed her, made her pain a spectacle. She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing tears that wouldn't fall. Her chest ached with the weight of it all. Broken. Utterly used and discarded—not just physically, but emotionally, financially, professionally. Everything she'd given, thrown back as trash. “I’m done,” she whispered to the dark bedroom, voice cracking. “I’m so done.” The phone buzzed relentlessly on the floor, notifications piercing the silence. The internet kept laughing, sharing, dissecting. Threads analyzing her "mistakes," polls voting on who was "savage." Her name trending worldwide. She didn't pick it up. Couldn't. Her world had crumbled in pixels, and she lay there, sick and numb, in the ruins. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.