Chapter 2: Unraveling On Camera

That’s when the guy finally noticed something was off. He paused, frowning. “Wait, why is the car running?”

My girlfriend shrugged, lips still flushed. “My boyfriend’s got this remote start thing on his phone—lets him turn on the AC from anywhere. Figured you’d get hot, so I started it for you before coming down.” She grinned like it was nothing.

The guy blinked. “Wait, your boyfriend’s Escape does that? My Porsche can’t.”

She cradled his jaw in her hand, pressed a kiss to his lips, and purred, “So you’re screwing me in my boyfriend’s ‘cheap’ car.”

The guy’s eyes lit up, her words fueling his ego. He slipped her shirt further off her shoulder, whispering in her ear, “You’re so bad. He lets you drive his car, but you ride the subway with me, and send me those dirty texts.”

She moaned softly. “Yeah, I’m the worst. The more you talk like that, the hotter I get. He’s my simp, but I’m all yours.”

Then came the weirdest, most uncomfortable moment yet.

The guy started singing—singing, of all things—"I’d do anything for love, but I won’t do that…" His voice was off-key, but she just giggled and kissed his neck. “That’s right, baby, just like you sang.”

I honestly didn’t get it. Who bursts into Meat Loaf mid-hookup? Maybe it was an inside joke, or maybe dudes with Porsches really do think the world is their stage. Whatever it was, it just made everything feel even more surreal, especially with the livestream still rolling.

Panic finally snapped me out of my trance. This was my account. If this kept up, and something actually graphic went out on the stream, I could get banned, reported, or worse. My mind flashed to headlines—‘Local Man Accidentally Livestreams Girlfriend’s Affair.’ I couldn’t let it go any further.

I cleared my throat and coughed, loud and deliberate.

Instantly, the two of them on the back seat jumped like they’d been shot. My girlfriend’s face went pale as a ghost. Her eyes found me in the rearview mirror. She stammered, “Aren’t you at work?”

I sat up, bottle still in hand, and forced myself to speak. “Today’s your birthday. I took the afternoon off to surprise you.” My voice cracked on the last word. I’d spent weeks on this—juggling shifts, ordering flowers, even borrowing money for the ring.

I’d skipped meals to save for that ring. Stayed late at work, lied to my boss, all for her. And for what?

But the weirdest thing was, I didn’t even feel angry. Not the kind of wild, righteous fury you see in movies. No. Just an empty ache. Maybe I believed what my uncle always said: Until you’re married, you’re just holding someone else’s future wife’s hand.

There was no way I could propose now. In my mind, she was already someone else’s.

I glanced at the livestream again. The viewer count had skyrocketed—over a thousand. My throat went dry.

This was supposed to be a private room, password protected, only for our people. Four digits. My humiliation had gone viral.

And then the cherry on top: a group of people poured out of the elevator in the office parking garage. They weren’t heading for their cars—they were clustered together, phones raised, faces lit by the blue glow. They were watching us. Watching her. My girlfriend’s coworkers, maybe even her boss.

She caught sight of them and panicked, whispering urgently, “Don’t make a scene, not yet. My coworkers are out there. Don’t embarrass me.”

I stared at her, barely able to process. “Now you care about saving face?”

She squared her shoulders, voice icy. “Look, now that you know, there’s no use pretending. Let’s just break up. I deserve better.”

I searched her face. “How did I wrong you?”

She yanked her blouse back on, hair wild, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. She didn’t look at me as she said, “You’re sweet, but let’s be real—once you’ve had first class, you don’t go back to coach.”

The guy shuffled awkwardly, tugging his shirt straight. And that’s when I noticed—the glint of a wedding ring on his left hand. He was married. Married and still doing this. I pointed, voice trembling, “That’s what you call ‘better’?”

She glared back. “If you knew he gives me three grand a month, would you still say that?”

My jaw dropped. Three thousand a month? Online, that might sound like pocket change, but to me, it was massive—my whole salary barely topped two grand. My Escape was on a five-year loan. Her words stung worse than a slap.