I Was in an Abusive FICTOSEXUAL Relationship

“What did you want me to do? Your mother divorced me.” Mia blinked. Thirty years of birthdays vanished in a single sentence. She hadn’t expected much when she asked her father why he was so eager to throw a sweet sixteen for her son, Jackson, but never showed up for any of her birthdays. Still, that answer? It hit like a slap. She sat in the passenger side of her dad's car, her anger simmering as memories surged—She was nine years old, on the eighth floor of a Brooklyn apartment complex, staring out the window at the blur of cars through her tears. Hoping and praying that her dad would finally show up for her. She spent so many hours waiting for him. Shed so many tears. It was to the point she'd made a game out of her crying. Let the tears pool until the cars below became paint blobs, racing flowers, candy-colored streaks, or even low-flying spaceships. Maybe one of those spaceships would take her to B.Lucky World—the theme park of joy her father promised but never delivered. She cracked her gum. Seethed. The memories suddenly took hold of her. Every year, she dressed up. Every year, she waited. Every year, she spiraled into her own private theme park of pain. And now she knew: it wasn’t forgetfulness. It was punishment. Her suffering had been ammo in his war against her mother. Of course, her mother divorced him. He cheated. He admitted it. No shame, no remorse. Just stories about how her mother was “impossible”—how she would go to the beach with her friends instead of staying home, or order Chinese food instead of cooking sometimes. Clearly, he was the victim. Clearly, cheating and fathering a child with his mistress before Mia turned five was the lesser evil. This was the argument Mia had been fighting her whole life. No matter how true her stance, the battle never ended. She crossed her legs, trying to shake the memory. Her brown leather boots—thigh-high, sleek—felt like armor. Fashion boots, yes. But today, they were combat boots. She was in a war. The same one she was drafted into as a child. She looked at the men before her. This wasn’t just about birthdays or a little girl's broken heart. It was about survival. And that’s when she heard them—those faint Chinese bells, chiming in her ear like a wake-up call. Suddenly, she was in a podcast studio. The fight of her life was about to begin. Mia folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, ready for a hard battle. This one was for all the power in modern-day romantic relationships. The Red Pill Roundtable. Donelle Dinero, Luchini Charles, and Patrick Scar sat like kings of a crumbling empire. Viral podcasters. Self-appointed prophets of masculinity. And the architects of a song that had followed her like a mosquito in summer: “Bed warmer, bank teller, baby maker, b***h, a beauty with a big ol’ booty.” It wasn’t just a song. It was a sermon. A branding iron. A threat. Mia adjusted her mic, her boots crossed at the ankle, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t here to be civil. She was here to be clear. Dinero continued his argument. “Men cheat. It’s biology. We don’t even care about the women we cheat with.” Luchini nodded and added, “I hate all the women I sleep with. But I’m not married, so it’s not cheating.” Patrick shrugged, and his eyes bore into Mia's, looking at her like she was an insect. “You women get too emotional. That’s the problem. You take everything personal.” Mia blinked once. Twice. Then leaned in. “So let me get this straight. You cheat because you lack empathy. You sleep with women you hate. And you think that’s a strength? That's sociopathic behavior.” Dinero smirked. “It’s not about sociopathic behavior. It’s about options.” “Options?” Mia tilted her head. “You mean the kind that come with zero accountability?” Patrick chuckled. “See? This is why men don’t open up. Y’all twist everything.” Mia smiled. “I’m not twisting anything. I’m just holding up a mirror. If you don’t like the reflection, maybe stop posing.” Silence. She continued, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not married. Because I understand what marriage means, it’s not just vows—it’s fusion. What you do, I do. What you feel, I feel. So if you cheat, you’re not just betraying me. You’re dragging me into the betrayal. You make women feel like they betrayed themselves by loving someone who would do that to them.” She paused. “So if you bring another woman into our bed, don’t be surprised when I bring someone else into yours.” Luchini dropped his water bottle. Dinero blinked and sighed, exasperated. Patrick leaned back like he’d been slapped with scripture. Mia didn’t flinch. She’d been on enough podcasts to know the drill. They wanted her to c***k. To cry. To conform. Instead, she gave them clarity. "This one's gone, Dinero. Feminism has rotted her brain." Luchini said. “Don’t worry about her,” Dinero said with a smirk that could curdle milk. "I got a little present for her. We're gonna see if this feminist is really as hardcore as she's acting.” “We got a caller on the line,” he announced. “We got your baby daddy on the phone, Mia!” Mia blinked. What?