When My Boyfriend Turned Me into a Game for His Friends

I arrived at Hayes's apartment twenty minutes early, balancing his favorite Thai takeout in one hand and my keys in the other. The doorman nodded at me with familiar recognition as I stepped into the elevator. Five years of dating had made me practically a resident here.

"Surprise," I whispered to myself, checking my reflection in the polished elevator doors. I'd taken extra care with my appearance today—Hayes had been distant lately, and I wanted to remind him why he'd fallen for me in the first place.

The apartment was quiet when I entered. "Hayes?" I called out, setting the food on the kitchen counter. No response.

"He must be running late," I murmured, noticing his iPad on the coffee table. A notification lit up the screen: "The Game: New Message."

I shouldn't look. It's private.

But something made me pause. The group chat name seemed odd—formal, almost clinical. Before I could stop myself, I tapped the notification.

The chat opened to reveal a message thread that made my blood run cold.

"Seduction Wager: Aurora Davis ($50,000)"

My fingers trembled as I scrolled up. There it was—pinned to the top of the chat—a photo of me in my bikini at last summer's lake house getaway. Below it, my yoga schedule, favorite coffee shop, even my usual jogging route.

"Intel gathering complete," Hayes had written. "She's completely oblivious. Whoever nails her first gets the pot."

Marcus Chen: "Dude, you're betting on your own girlfriend?"

Hayes: "She's too naive to suspect anything. Besides, I need the money more than I need her."

My chest tightened as I read comment after comment from his friends, analyzing my body, my habits, my weaknesses. They discussed me like I was a game to be won, not a person they'd met at countless dinners and parties.

"Her tits are legit," someone named Tyler had commented on a photo Hayes had taken of me sleeping. "Worth at least twenty grand of the pot."

I felt sick. Five years. Five years of believing in us, of planning our future together, and he'd turned me into entertainment for his frat-boy friends.

A sound in the hallway jolted me back to reality. Hayes's key in the lock.

I quickly closed the app and placed the iPad exactly as I'd found it, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Rory?" Hayes called out, his voice carrying that casual arrogance I once found charming. "You're early."

"In the living room," I managed, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

He appeared in the doorway, already pulling out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. He barely glanced at me.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Had to handle some business."

I watched him texting—probably back to his precious group chat—and felt something inside me harden.

"I actually just realized I have a splitting headache," I said, standing up. "I should go."

"What? But I haven't eaten yet." He looked up briefly, irritation flashing across his face.

"I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you tomorrow." I kissed him quickly on the cheek, careful not to let him see my eyes.

---

Isabella was folding laundry when I burst through our apartment door. One look at my face told her everything she needed to know.

"Aurora? What happened?" She dropped the t-shirt she was folding and rushed to my side.

I couldn't speak immediately, just handed her my phone with the screenshots I'd managed to take before leaving Hayes's apartment.

"Oh my god," she whispered, scrolling through the evidence. "That absolute bastard."

I expected tears to come, but instead, a strange calm settled over me. "I'm not going to cry over him."

"Good," Isabella said firmly. "What are you going to do?"

I paced the length of our living room, my mind racing. "He thinks I'm naive and oblivious. Let's use that."

"Use it how?"

I opened my laptop and began creating a new Instagram account. "They want to play games? I'll show them how it's done."

"Nemesis," I typed as the username, adding a profile picture that was just vague enough to be intriguing—a silhouette against city lights that could be anyone.

"Are you sure about this?" Isabella asked, watching over my shoulder.

"They turned me into a bet," I said, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I curated a mysterious but compelling feed. "Now I'm going to turn their game against them."

I followed each member of the group chat, studying their profiles, their likes, their weaknesses. Then I paused at Nikolai Walker's profile.

Unlike the others, he hadn't commented on any of my photos. His profile was minimalist but elegant—black and white photos of architecture, books, and a single landscape of mountains.

"He's different," I murmured.

"The landlord?" Isabella asked. "Isn't he Hayes's friend too?"

"He is," I said slowly. "But he's also the only one who didn't treat me like a piece of meat in that chat."

I hovered over the follow button, then pressed it. A second later, my phone pinged.

Nikolai Walker had accepted my request.

I stared at the screen in disbelief. "He accepted. Immediately."