Graduation Kiss Betrayal

The constant buzzing of my phone had become a form of torture. I sat cross-legged on Sarah's couch, staring at the screen as another message from Maverick lit up the display.

"You abandoned me after three years? Who does that?"

I flinched, my finger hovering over the delete button. But before I could press it, another message appeared.

"Fine. Delete me. See how that works out for you."

Sarah looked up from her laptop, concern etched across her face. "Still him?"

I nodded, unable to speak as my chest tightened. My hand moved instinctively to my heart—a gesture I'd developed since childhood whenever anxiety gripped me.

"He's not going to stop, is he?" Sarah asked, closing her laptop.

"Not until he gets what he wants," I whispered, scrolling through the barrage of messages that had flooded my phone since yesterday.

The messages oscillated between anger and false contrition with dizzying speed. One moment he was accusing me of betrayal, the next he was apologizing for "getting carried away."

"Come on, Bridge. We can talk this through like adults. I got carried away with Keily. It meant nothing."

My stomach twisted. Nothing? The way he'd kissed her, touched her—it had been anything but meaningless.

"I need those apartment keys back immediately. That's MY place."

Followed by: "Baby, please. I miss you. Let's just talk."

Sarah moved beside me, peering at the screen. "Has he always been this...?"

"Controlling?" I supplied. "I never noticed it before. Or maybe I didn't want to."

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from an unknown number.

"Hey Bridget, it's Keily. Thought you might want to see something."

Attached was a video. My finger trembled as I pressed play.

The footage showed Maverick and Keily tangled together in what I instantly recognized as our bedroom—no, his bedroom now. The same bed where we'd spent countless nights together.

Keily's face turned toward the camera, her lips curved in a deliberate smirk as she whispered, "He was never really yours."

The camera angle shifted, capturing Maverick's back as he moved against her. His voice, husky with desire, carried through the recording.

"She was so boring, K. Always worrying about her heart condition. Like I'm supposed to care about that."

Keily's laughter cut through me like glass. "Poor Bridget. Thanks for keeping him warmed up for me."

I tried to save the video, to have some evidence of what they'd done, but before I could even process what I was seeing, the message disappeared.

"Message has been deleted," my phone informed me coldly.

"Did you see that?" I turned to Sarah, my voice shaking. "Did you see what she did?"

Sarah's eyes were wide with horror. "Oh my God, Bridget—"

But I couldn't hear her anymore. The room was spinning, colors blurring together as pain radiated through my chest. My lungs refused to fill with air no matter how desperately I tried to breathe.

"I can't—" I gasped, clutching at my shirt. "I can't breathe."

The familiar pressure built in my chest—the same sensation I'd experienced during my last heart attack two years ago. The one Maverick had promised to help me prevent by managing my stress.

"Bridget!" Sarah's voice sounded distant as she caught me when I collapsed. "What's happening?"

"Heart," I managed to whisper, my lips tingling with numbness. "My heart—"

I watched in detached fascination as Sarah scrambled for her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.

"911," she shouted into the phone. "Please hurry! My friend is having a heart attack!"

The room tilted sideways as I slid from the couch onto Sarah's hardwood floor. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening like a theater before the final act.

"I need to call Maverick," Sarah said, her voice breaking as she tried his number. "He needs to know what's happening."

I wanted to stop her—to spare myself the humiliation of him not caring—but I couldn't form the words. My consciousness flickered as paramedics burst through the door, their voices urgent and professional.

"BP's dropping," one called out. "We need to move now."

As they lifted me onto a stretcher, I heard Sarah's desperate voice in the background.

"Maverick, please pick up! It's Bridget—she's in the ambulance!"

But there was only silence on the other end of the line.

"Voicemail's full," Sarah whispered, her face streaked with tears as she climbed into the ambulance beside me. "He's not answering."

The last thing I saw before the ambulance doors closed was my phone lighting up with another message from Maverick.

"Where are you? We need to talk."