Chapter 7: Taking Back the Narrative

My voice was steady, but my hands shook. I wasn’t going to let him see my fear.

“Hehehehe…”

A laugh, raspy and low. “Alyssa, I knew you couldn’t forget me! You’re the one who ruined my stream, aren’t you? What, you already cost me five years, now you want to ruin me forever? You’re so cruel! I’ve got nothing left—want me to starve? If you push me too far, I’ll make you take care of me!”

He sounded unhinged, desperate. But I knew better than to show weakness.

This mutt threatened me without shame.

“If you want to go back to prison, try me.”

I put steel in my voice, hoping he’d hear it.

“Hehehe, I’m so scared.”

He was just pretending. “Go ahead! My record follows me for life. My life’s over, no future! Alyssa, it’s all your fault! Want me back in prison? Fine, I’ll treat it like going home! But let me tell you, I learned a lot of tricks inside! Unless you get me the death penalty, I’ll haunt you forever!”

He was ranting, spitting venom. I pictured him pacing, wild-eyed, clutching the phone like a lifeline.

“I’ve regretted it all these years—regretted letting you go too easy! Should’ve locked you up, kept you in a basement. After a few kids, you’d be too busy to ruin my life!”

“Alyssa! You cost me five years! Now that I’m out, I can’t get a real job. You want me to wait tables, wash dishes, be a nobody? Was my education for nothing? All my hard work wasted! I’m not willing! I’m not convinced! I made it out, I don’t want to go back!”

Even through the phone, I could picture his face twisted with rage.

He never took responsibility, never once. Everything was someone else’s fault—usually mine.

“I finally found a way to make money. Don’t ruin it! Or you know, when I snap, I don’t care about anything!”

“Barefoot people aren’t afraid of those with shoes. If I go down, I’m taking you with me!”

Eric’s words were hateful, full of blame.

It was like he’d memorized every excuse in the book. He was the victim, I was the villain. It would be laughable if it weren’t so cruel.

How ridiculous. He committed the crime, but blamed me for the consequences.

He ruined his own future—was that my fault?

Yes, when he assaulted me, he never thought he’d go to jail. He never imagined that to put him there, I’d pay such a steep price.

That Thanksgiving night.

I remember the cold, the rain, the feeling of being utterly alone. I remember thinking, "This can’t be happening. Not to me."

In the middle of the night, the drugs wore off. I got out of bed, got dressed. He was asleep, but woke up as I moved, grabbing me. “Where are you going?”

His grip was tight, possessive. I yanked my arm free.

“To the police.”

My voice was flat, dead. I didn’t care what happened next.

“Alyssa, are you crazy? I’m your man now! You’re gonna report me? If I go to jail, you’ll be a widow!”

He actually smirked, like he’d won something. I wanted to vomit.

Eric looked shocked, clutching the sheets, his face smug and filthy. “I thought you’d been with your boyfriend, but turns out you were saving yourself for me, huh? You do love me!”

He said it with pride, like it was a prize. I realized then how twisted his mind was.

I thought college guys would be less backward. I was wrong. Eric’s head was full of rot.

In his mind, a woman’s only value is her virginity. Without it, she’s worthless. She must submit to the first man who takes her, even if he’s a monster.

I bit my lip, not wasting another word on him.

No explanation would reach him. I was done trying.

Seeing my resolve, Eric panicked. He cried, begged, pleaded.

He went from angry to desperate in seconds, like a switch had flipped.

“Don’t let me go to jail!”

“Alyssa, I love you!”

“I only lost control because I love you!”

“Don’t make this a big deal, it’ll ruin both of us!”

He tried every tactic—guilt, pity, threats. None of it worked.

I looked at him with contempt.

I’d never felt so much disgust for another human being. He was pathetic.

Every woman who’s assaulted suffers twice. Once by the offender, once by public opinion, ignorant values, and the gossip of bystanders.

The world is quick to judge, slow to understand. I learned that the hard way.

Sadly, sexual offenders can be punished by law, but gossips and bystanders go unpunished. Words can cut deeper than knives.

Sometimes, the scars left by rumors are worse than the ones left by violence. They never really heal.

After I called the police, I fell into a storm of rumors. At the station, Eric claimed we were a couple, that it was just rough sex, not a crime—just a lover’s spat. He claimed I kept him as a side piece. That I was a bored city girl, wanted to try something wild. Now I was just tired of him. The school is a small society, and a sexual assault case drew all the attention. Sympathy, sarcasm, gossip, cruelty.

It was like being on trial twice—once in court, once in the court of public opinion.

“Weren’t they a couple?”

“Alyssa flirts with everyone, then cries rape? Please.”

“She has a boyfriend, but hooked up with the new guy and got caught. Now she cries wolf.”

People love to speculate, to fill in the blanks with their own ugly stories. I learned to tune it out, but it still hurt.

I ignored the talk. I just wanted Eric to pay. But the law requires evidence. Assault between acquaintances is always the hardest to prove. A woman can hardly prove she didn’t consent just by her word. A man can say, even if she says no, she really means yes. It’s twisted logic. By that logic, there’d never be a female victim.

It was a nightmare. Every question felt like an accusation. I started to doubt myself, to wonder if I’d ever be believed.

What should be a legal issue turns into a debate about intent and semantics.

Suddenly, it wasn’t about what happened—it was about what I meant, what I wore, what I said. The burden was always on me.

Amid the chaos, the pressure mounted. Eric had good grades, and his teachers and classmates pleaded for him, hoping I wouldn’t “ruin a promising future” over a “misunderstanding.” His parents came from Kentucky, bringing homemade jam, begging me not to “ruin” their son. Their son was just a small-town kid, no match for a city woman.

They showed up at my apartment, crying, begging, telling me how hard life was back home. I felt sorry for them, but not for him.

Even my own parents looked at me with disappointment.

They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just let it go, why I had to make it public. They worried about their reputation, about what the neighbors would say.

“Alyssa, isn’t this shameful enough?”

“You brought this on yourself! You’ve embarrassed us!”

It hurt more than I can say. I thought they’d support me. Instead, they blamed me.

Why is it that victims get suspicion, not sympathy? Why did he target you? Did you lead him on? Were you dressed wrong? A scar from being hurt becomes a stain on your character.

It’s always the woman’s fault. Always.

During that time, only Ethan stood by me, kept me from falling apart.

He was my anchor. He listened, held me when I cried, told me I was brave. I don’t know if I would’ve made it without him.

Fortunately, I persisted. I called the police immediately. I went to the hospital. They found sedatives in my system. That was the evidence that convicted Eric. He got 7 years.

It was a small victory, but it mattered. I held onto it like a lifeline.

Looking back, it was a close call. If Eric had gotten me drunk instead of drugged, I might never have had the chance to clear my name.

It’s a terrifying thought. I got lucky—if you can call it that.

How low can a person go? Human nature isn’t a deep abyss—it’s bottomless.

I learned that the hard way. There’s always another level of cruelty, another way to twist the knife.

After last night, I never thought Eric would dare stream again. But looking at the monsters in his chat, I knew he wasn’t alone. He had a team—someone to manage comments, someone to buy fake fans. So even though many people condemned him, there were still plenty of idiots defending him.

There’s always an audience for a good story, even if it’s a lie.

—So what if he made mistakes? Are you perfect? He’s served his time, what more do you want? Kill him?

—Society needs forgiveness! Give people a second chance!

—Sexual assault? I don’t buy it. A guy that handsome? He was probably set up!

The excuses came fast and furious. People will believe anything if it fits their narrative.

Eric looked exhausted, or maybe he was faking. Unshaven, dark circles, looking haggard. He cried to the camera.

He put on a good show. The tears, the trembling voice—it was all calculated.

“Sorry, everyone! I messed up! I was young and stupid, hurt myself and others. I really regret it! Please give me a chance!”

He stood up and bowed to the camera.

It was pure theater. He knew exactly what he was doing.

—Eric is so inspiring! His family was dirt poor, getting into a top college was a miracle!

—He was the valedictorian of his county!

—Wow! A genius!

—Give him a chance!

—Go for it!

The chat was full of forgiveness. So much compassion! But what right do they have to forgive on my behalf? What right to forgive for me, the victim?

It made my blood boil. Strangers who knew nothing about me, about what I’d suffered, handing out absolution like Halloween candy.

—I’m the woman he assaulted! I do not forgive! I mentored him, helped him get to college! I never wanted anything in return, but look what he did to me!

—I do not forgive! Never!

This time, my comments didn’t get drowned out. The victim’s appearance made things explode. When they heard I’d mentored Eric, the chat turned on him—“wolf in sheep’s clothing,” “ungrateful,” “betrayer.”

It felt good, for a moment, to be heard. To have the truth out in the open.

Eric was ready. This time, he didn’t bow—he knelt in front of the camera.

He played the martyr, the penitent sinner. It was all for show.

“Alyssa, is that you? You finally showed up!”

“You don’t know how I’ve lived these years, I have so much to say!”

“I’m not human! I made mistakes! But I really liked you!”

“I know I’m poor! I’m not worthy of you! I don’t blame you for giving me hope, then crushing it!”

“If a poor boy falls for a rich, beautiful girl, even if he does nothing, it’s a crime! It’s overstepping! It’s unrealistic! It offends the upper class! He deserves to be destroyed!”

“No matter what you do, I won’t hate you!”

“You mentored me, and even if it was nothing to you, I’ll always be grateful! I shouldn’t have hoped for more! I shouldn’t have gotten in so deep…”

He sobbed harder.

He was stirring up class resentment.

He knew how to play the crowd—turning my story into a battle of rich vs. poor, city vs. country. It was manipulative, and it worked.

What was originally a crime between two people became, thanks to him, a class war. Eric was a pro at this. Just like in college, when I rejected him, he spread rumors that the student government VP stole his girl. He was a master at playing the “underdog” card to claim the moral high ground.

He’d learned that if you can’t win on the facts, win on emotion. Make it about something bigger, and people will forget the details.

I’m poor, so I’m right! I’m weak, so I’m right! It’s all your fault for being privileged!

His apologies were just self-justifications, accusations against me. It was all my fault. I played with his feelings. My kindness dragged him in too deep.

And the internet is fickle.

—See? No one is born bad. Society forced him!

—A genius with a bright future—would he really choose to be a criminal? There must be more to the story!

—City women just use country boys and throw them away!

I watched the comments roll in, feeling numb. There was no winning. No matter what I said, someone would twist it against me.

Watching the chaos, I logged out and called the platform’s customer service to report him. I wanted his account banned. But the complaint line was a dead end, an endless loop of options.

I spent an hour on hold, listening to elevator music and prerecorded apologies. Nothing changed.

And Eric’s streams continued.

He was back the next day, as if nothing had happened. The show must go on.

Someone posted about my attempt to get him banned. I got bombarded by his fans, called petty, told to stop stirring trouble, mocked as a drama queen.

It was open season. People sent me hate mail, DMs full of threats and insults. I blocked as many as I could, but they just kept coming.

—He’s out, wants to start over. Why can’t you let go? You’re a bad woman!

—Be kind!

—You’re not that special!

—What are you, royalty?

They made me out to be the villain, the bitter ex who couldn’t move on. It was exhausting.

And riding the drama, Eric started selling women’s hygiene pads and safety underwear on his streams. Claiming society is dangerous, girls must protect themselves. Anyone can say that. A sexual predator cannot. It’s like a wolf teaching sheep about safety.

The hypocrisy was staggering. He sold "protection" as if he were some kind of advocate for women. It made me want to scream.

Yet Eric spun it so his worst crime became his biggest selling point.

He was shameless. He used my pain, my story, to sell his brand.

—Because I hurt women before, I feel deep guilt! So I want to protect all women! Recommend the safest, most reliable products!

—Because I’ve been rained on, I want to give others an umbrella!

—I hope to be a friend women can trust!

—I’ll donate part of my income to charity!

He said all the right things, pushed all the right buttons. People ate it up.

The world is absurd. And people buy it.

Sometimes I wonder if the world’s always been this upside down, or if it’s just louder now.

“Alyssa! Alyssa?”

My coworker snapped me out of my daze. Oh no. I looked up, and sure enough, saw Principal Carter giving me his signature icy stare.

He was standing at the front of the faculty lounge, arms crossed, tapping a pen against his clipboard. The whole room went silent. I felt my cheeks flush.

The school where I worked was a private middle school—expensive, strict. The real power was in the board, and Principal Carter was the only resident director, basically the king.

He ruled with an iron fist, but he was fair. People respected him, even when they grumbled behind his back.

He was young, but no one dared underestimate him. Even teachers with decades of experience.

He had a doctorate in education from Harvard, spoke four languages, and had a law degree. A true all-rounder.

He was the kind of guy who made you want to double-check your lesson plans. He always seemed to know what you were up to.

Principal Carter was strict. After he started, he set up a complex evaluation system and implemented a last-place elimination rule. If you ranked last two quarters in a row, you had to leave. He also banned teachers from tutoring for extra cash or slacking off.

He didn’t believe in "good enough." You were either excellent, or you were out. It kept everyone on their toes.

I’d been criticized by him—not for being unprofessional, but for being too professional. I gave students extra lessons during free periods. Carter saw this and docked my score. At first, I was annoyed. I was working overtime for free—shouldn’t that be praised?

But Carter’s logic was sound: overtime is a sign of low efficiency. True professionalism is finishing your work on time. I didn’t like it, but I got it.

“What was I just talking about?” Carter looked at me.

I scrambled to remember. My mind was still stuck in the past, in Eric’s shadow.

“You were saying…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can you finish my sentence?”

“Sorry, sir. I was distracted.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I snapped back to attention.

He moved on, but I could feel his eyes on me. I tried to focus, to push Eric out of my mind.

Carter was talking about the school’s reputation. Lately, some schools had scandals—reminding us to be careful with our words and actions. “Private schools pay well, but it’s not a guaranteed job.”

He was right. One wrong move, and you’re out. I couldn’t afford any more drama.

I felt nervous. With all the trouble Eric was causing online, I almost thought about giving up. Let him do what he wants, just to avoid trouble affecting my job.

But I quickly found my resolve. I did nothing wrong. Eric hurt me, and I can’t just let it go.

“Something on your mind?” Ethan asked as he drove me home.

He always knew when something was bothering me. He was quiet, but he paid attention.

After graduation, Ethan’s career went smoothly. With his student government background, he landed a job in the county clerk’s office, then switched to a multinational company. Now he was working on immigration paperwork.

He wore a suit every day, always looked put together. People liked him. He was going places.

We’d been together seven years. People say long relationships are risky, but we’d made it. Ethan said we should marry after he emigrated, so I’d get citizenship too. But I didn’t want to move. I didn’t know what I’d do abroad. Ethan said he could support me.

We talked about it a lot. He wanted to chase the American Dream somewhere else. I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore.

“Eric Morales is out.”

He glanced at me, surprised. “Yeah.”

“He’s an internet celebrity now.”

He frowned. “Huh?”

Ethan pulled the car over. He looked at me. “Are you in touch with him? That’s all in the past.”

I shook my head. “He’s selling my pain, rubbing salt in my wounds. I can’t let it go.”

I told him about the online mess. Ethan sighed. “Alyssa, to put it nicely, it’s like oil and water. To put it bluntly, it’s like stepping in dog crap with new shoes. Don’t let this guy ruin your life, okay?”

He always had a way with words. Sometimes blunt, sometimes gentle, always trying to protect me.

He made sense. But I couldn’t just let it go. Because the hardest thing is to truly put yourself in someone else’s shoes.

I knew he was worried about his own reputation, his own future. But I couldn’t pretend nothing had happened.

Seeing my tight lips, Ethan knew he couldn’t change my mind. He sighed again. “Alyssa, before you do anything, think it through. What makes us human is that we’re part of society. No one is alone; everyone’s caught up in relationships. You can be yourself, but not so much that you drag others down.”

He was worried the scandal would affect him. I clenched my fists.

“It’s not like before. Now, everyone’s got a camera. Once you’re online, you’re transparent. No privacy.” Ethan added.

He was right. One slip, and your whole life is on display for the world to judge.

“But I’m still me.”

He drove on.

“You’re not the same as before.”

He said nothing more.

Back in college, Ethan was supportive. I don’t know if I should blame him for changing, or myself for not changing.

Maybe we’d both changed, in ways we couldn’t admit.

Ethan was right about one thing. I was doxxed. At first, I commented online using an alias. But soon, my real info was exposed. Everything—my background, my family, my workplace.

It happened fast. One day I was anonymous, the next I was trending for all the wrong reasons.

What followed was a flood of rumors. Not just Eric, but a media circus. A simple assault case isn’t clickbait. Add some drama, hype, and you get traffic. They all chose the “hate the rich” angle, building on Eric’s lies, making up even wilder stories. Saying I used charity to prey on small-town boys. That I lived a wild life. That I set Eric up. Eric’s crime became a desperate act by a heartbroken simp. He was turned from predator into tragic hero.

It was like watching my life become a tabloid headline. I stopped reading the comments. I stopped answering the phone.

What I couldn’t stand was that people took it offline. At the school gate, reporters gathered, filming everyone coming and going.

They camped out like paparazzi, shoving microphones in faces, hoping for a soundbite.

“Is Alyssa a teacher here?”

“Is she a bad influence?”

“How many boyfriends does she have?”

All leading questions, fishing for dirt. Luckily, I had good relationships at school, so they got nothing. But that didn’t stop them. They could edit, dub, splice, distort. They could turn any interview into anything they wanted.

They twisted words, cut footage, made me out to be something I wasn’t. It was a nightmare.

Many short videos about me went viral. I was infamous. Clearly a victim, but now facing public shaming.

I became a meme, a cautionary tale. People love to watch a fall from grace.

My parents called, furious. I’d caused a scandal. Because of me, their reputation suffered, and it even affected my brother’s marriage. I never realized my educated parents were so old-fashioned.

They blamed me for everything. I stopped answering their calls.

“Then just pretend you never had a daughter!”

It hurt, but it was a relief too. I was tired of carrying their shame.

The day after breaking with my parents, I broke up with Ethan too. First, Ethan’s mom found me. We’d gotten along before. She was an elegant woman, well-spoken. But when she asked me to meet at a coffee shop, I saw disgust in her face.

She barely looked at me. She stirred her coffee, lips pressed tight.

“I saw what’s online. It’s disgraceful!”

“Aunt Linda, those things aren’t true. You should know my character.”

“We know you’re not that kind of woman, or Ethan wouldn’t have dated you. But you were assaulted? How can you be worthy of Ethan now?”

She kept her poise, but let her prejudice show.

Is chastity a woman’s life? Should a woman who loses it just disappear?

If even a refined woman like Ethan’s mother is this shallow, what about everyone else? It’s true: women are hardest on women. They’ve been shackled by old morals so long, they don’t even realize it.

“Does Ethan know you said this to me?”

“He’s busy.” She stirred her coffee. “Some things shouldn’t be said, but I have to. You know Ethan always had other women. Before, I thought he was just playing, but would marry you in the end. But you let me down.”

Wives hate cheating husbands, mothers are proud of cheating sons. Women are so divided.

Did Ethan cheat? I’d never noticed. He was busy, gone on business trips, and I never checked his phone. I thought that was respect. But I forgot, some people don’t deserve respect.

Now his mom told me, clearly wanting me and Ethan to break up. But she didn’t know, breakups are never forced. Unblessed love just gets tighter under pressure. But fortresses fall from within.

“Can we talk?”

For the first time, I went to Ethan’s office unannounced. Sure enough, I saw him holding another woman as they got into his car. Most men cheat in secret. Ethan did it openly. If I’d paid attention, I’d have noticed. My tolerance made him bolder.

The woman tried to hide her face, but it was pointless. I knew who she was. Ethan’s mistress was Natalie—my college classmate and roommate. We were just friends in college, but got closer after graduation. When I was in trouble, Natalie comforted me. She wanted to stay in the city, asked for help, and I got Ethan to find her a job.

Betrayed by people I trusted, again and again—how ironic.

Ethan wasn’t even flustered. He got out. “Alyssa, we’re adults. Let’s keep it civil.”

Is that the excuse for cheating? Kids get punished for mistakes, adults don’t?

“If you don’t love me, just say so. I won’t cling.”

“You’re my marriage partner. That hasn’t changed.”

“Ethan, you’re great. Maybe I won’t find someone as good after this. But I’d rather be alone than share a man.”

I glanced at Natalie, still hiding. “Stop hiding, he’s yours now.”

I left. Ethan didn’t chase me. I wasn’t surprised. He never chased, only liked being chased.

“Alyssa, wait!” Natalie ran after me. “What do you mean? Trying to look generous? I don’t need your charity! I don’t need your leftovers!”

“I liked Ethan since college! So don’t say I’m the third wheel—maybe you were!”

“If you hadn’t made trouble, you think you could’ve kept Ethan? You used guilt to tie him down!”

“You knew Ethan wanted to be student government president! When you got into trouble, he couldn’t break up with you. He had to comfort you! It was a test of his leadership!”

“Stop playing the victim! Stop acting pure!”

I listened to Natalie’s rant. I could ignore most of it. But after my assault, Ethan always comforted me—was it just for appearances? Was it just for a resume boost? Did he fake affection just for a title?

The thought made me sick. Maybe I’d never really known him at all.

“Is what she said true?”

I looked at Ethan.

“Alyssa, stop making a scene!”

Stop making a scene! I was assaulted, wanted justice, and I’m making a scene. The man who assaulted me became a celebrity, and I don’t want my shame exploited, but I’m making a scene. Now my boyfriend cheated, and I’m making a scene.

If I weren’t the victim, even I’d think I was being dramatic. But I’m not.

Natalie sneered. “Alyssa! Some things Ethan won’t say, to protect your dignity! If you insist, you’re asking for humiliation!”

“Why is Ethan with me? Because I’m clean!”

“I’m not like you! You have a stain!”

“Ethan is a neat freak! He’s always tolerated you, you know? He rarely touched you, didn’t you notice?”

Natalie wanted to say more—

“Enough!” Ethan snapped. His face was ugly, as if she’d hit a nerve. Natalie fell silent.

Ethan looked at me. “Alyssa, don’t be impulsive. I really like you. Now we’re even, okay? I hope you calm down and still go abroad with me.”

Ha! So in Ethan’s mind, my assault was a stain on us. So he could cheat with a clear conscience. One passive, one active—are they the same?

I had a lot to say, but nothing hurts more than a dead heart. This man, golden on the outside, rotten inside, just made me sick.

“Ethan, I never thought I was dirty.”

I took a deep breath. “But your heart is. I’m a neat freak too, so remember, I’m the one dumping you.”

I left. I walked away, still hearing Natalie’s voice behind me. She must’ve waited for this showdown. She just wanted to force me and Ethan to break up, so she could take over. But it was wishful thinking. Ethan might sleep with her, but he’d never marry her. He looked down on her background.

The people behind Eric came to me. It was a social media marketing company. They specialized in creating viral personalities. Now, they’d found a new angle: find good-looking ex-cons and create “inspirational ex-con influencers.”

Eric was their new star, managed by Mr. Jacobs. With all the drama, good or bad, as long as there’s attention, it’s a win. They wanted me to play along, to keep the hype going. Specifically, to follow their script: Eric would “admit his mistakes,” I’d “forgive him,” and we’d “bury the hatchet.” Play out a “quarreling couple” story for the internet.

It was like being asked to act in a reality show about my own trauma. I wanted to scream.

“Ms. Brooks, you know people online love drama. Based on our data, you and Eric as a pair get the most buzz,” Mr. Jacobs smiled.

He looked at me like I was a product, not a person. I wanted to slap the smirk off his face.

Seeing my disgust, he added, “It’s all business. Nothing personal.”

“Get lost.”

He left. Eric came. Even though I refused, he still followed the script.

He always did. He never listened, never cared what I wanted.

That morning, during the busy school drop-off, Eric knelt at the school gate.

He made a scene, right in front of the kids, the parents, the cameras. It was humiliating.

“Alyssa! All the fault is mine! I’m here to admit my mistakes!”

“You can hit me, yell at me, whatever you want!”

“As long as you get it out of your system, I won’t blink if you want me dead!”

“Because I really like you!”

“I hurt you, and it hurts me even more! I’ll spend my life making it up!”

He turned an apology into a love confession. Eric was surrounded by hired hecklers and media. All their cameras aimed at my face, hoping to catch every reaction.

I could feel the heat of the spotlight, the weight of a thousand eyes. I stood my ground.

It was the first time in years I’d seen Eric in person. He looked at me with pleading, cunning, and smug eyes—as if he was sure he’d win.

He always thought he could talk his way out of anything. Not this time.

“I will never forgive!” I said, clear and loud.

My voice echoed. For once, I didn’t care who heard me.

Eric pulled out a shiny knife.

The crowd gasped. Parents pulled their kids close. My heart raced.

“Will you only be satisfied if I die?”

As the crowd gasped, he slashed his arm, blood spurting. “Alyssa, is this sincere enough?”

It was a show, nothing more. He wanted to make me look like the villain.

A chorus of people urged me to be magnanimous. I stood firm, looking at his twisted face. “You’re not dead yet? How about this—if you kill yourself right here, I’ll forgive you.”

I didn’t blink. I meant every word.

Of course, Eric wouldn’t die. His tone changed. “Alyssa, do you have to be so cruel?”

He looked to the crowd for sympathy, but I saw through him.

Things stalled. Eric panicked, looking to the crowd for help. Mr. Jacobs signaled. A middle-aged woman suddenly rushed out, shrieking, “Slut! How dare you seduce my son!”

She was loud, dramatic, perfect for TV. I recognized her—Tyler’s mom. She’d always been trouble.

The woman was the mother of one of my students, Tyler. His dad liked to gamble, his mom liked to party, neither cared about his grades. I’d talked to them many times, but they always said, “We pay this much for private school, teachers should handle everything.”

She’d never cared about Tyler before. Now, she was out for blood, probably for a price.

Recently, Tyler had been withdrawn. I’d heard his family’s business was in trouble. But now, his mom accused me of seducing her son—proof, she claimed, of my immorality.

It was a smear job, plain and simple. I felt sick.

I understood instantly. She’d been paid off by Mr. Jacobs to smear me.

They wanted to destroy me, to make me the villain in my own story.

A thief’s bite is deep. I was already at the center of gossip, and her shouting made it worse.

The crowd ate it up. Some people love a good witch hunt.

“What? Seducing students? Shameful!”

“Exactly! Claims to be a victim, but she’s dirty herself!”

“Takes two to tango!”

The noise swelled. The mob called for me to be fired.

I could feel the walls closing in. I wanted to run, but I stood my ground.

With the handlers’ prompting, the scene was one-sided. Eric, clutching his bleeding arm, sat on the ground, looking pitiful but secretly delighted.

He was loving every minute. The cameras loved him, and he knew it.

The drama king was pleased, and jumped up to act again. “No! Don’t treat Alyssa like this! It’s all my fault! I hurt her, so she became bitter and vengeful! Blame me!”

He made himself the martyr, the misunderstood hero. It was sickening.

As things descended into chaos, a cold voice cut through:

“Is this a street show?”

Principal Carter arrived. He frowned, face dark. Nearly a thousand people had gathered, disrupting order.

His presence was electric. The crowd parted. Even Eric went silent.

“Ms. Brooks, sorry! My personal issues affected the school. I’ll handle it.”

I tried to take responsibility, to shield the school from the fallout.

“Can you? If you could, would things be like this?” Carter was blunt.

He didn’t sugarcoat anything. That was his way.

I blushed. “Sorry, sir—”

He cut me off. “You don’t owe me. You affect all the students!”

He was right. My problems had spilled over, hurt the people I cared about.

My eyes stung. But I had no right to complain. “I didn’t want my private matters—”

He interrupted again. “Ms. Brooks, you still don’t get it. This isn’t just your business. It’s the school’s! I’m disappointed in you. You don’t know what it means to be a teacher!”

His words hit hard. I felt small, ashamed.

In that moment, I felt tiny and alone.

I wanted to cry, but held it in. I wouldn’t be seen as weak. No one would sympathize with me.

“I resign! I promise not to trouble the school!”

It felt like the only way to salvage my dignity. Better to leave than be pushed out.

At this point, quitting was better than being fired. I had to keep my dignity.

Hearing that, Carter looked at me, disappointed.

“Alyssa!”

It was the first time he used my name, not "Ms. Brooks."

“I don’t know if I should praise your innocence or scold your stupidity. I said this isn’t just your issue—it’s about your reputation and the school’s! Who let you fight alone? Are you Wonder Woman? Who told you to go it alone?”

His voice was sharp, but there was something kind in it too. Like he was trying to protect me, in his own way.

For the first time, being scolded felt wonderful—like someone opening a door for you in a blizzard, with a candle, a fireplace, hot soup inside.

The tears finally came. Carter searched for a tissue, found none, and tore off his tie. “Use this.”

It was ridiculous, but it made me laugh. I wiped my eyes, grateful.

Then he walked up to Tyler’s mom.

“You say Ms. Brooks seduced your son. Do you have proof?”

He stared her down. She wilted under his gaze.

Some people, like Carter, are born with presence. Tyler’s mom was nervous, but tried to stand her ground. “Yes… She sent my son dirty texts… and pictures!”

“Really? Where are the photos? The messages?”

She stammered, eyes darting. “Deleted! Can’t keep that kind of thing!”

Carter ignored her, pulled out his phone. “Hello? Police? I’d like to report someone for slander. Yes, please investigate.”

The crowd murmured. Tyler’s mom turned pale.

After calling, Carter looked at her. “Whether those things exist, the police will find out.”

She panicked, blaming Mr. Jacobs. “He told me to!”

Mr. Jacobs, used to trouble, stayed calm. “What do you mean ‘told you’? We’re media! We want the truth! That’s our right! We represent thousands of viewers!”

The other reporters chimed in.

They tried to play the victim, but Carter wasn’t having it.

Carter smiled. “Fine! Media, right? Truth, right? In an hour, in the school auditorium, Ms. Brooks will give you a statement. We’ll livestream it, too!”

The vultures looked pleased. As long as they could stir things up, their goal was met. They went to prepare.

I felt a surge of panic. Was I really going to let the whole world watch me defend myself?

“What are you waiting for? Go prepare.” Carter urged me.

I didn’t move. “Sir? Don’t you think things are wild enough? Why livestream? Do you think I’m just a spectacle? The innocent are always innocent! I have nothing to say!”

I wasn’t being petty, but Carter’s actions made me doubt him. I thought he was principled. Now, he seemed just as petty.

Carter sighed, raised his finger as if to tap my forehead, but held back. I stepped back, wary. “Sir, mind your boundaries.”

He smiled, just a little. “Alyssa, I asked if you know what it means to be a teacher, because you really don’t. Do you know why I’m letting them in? To join their circus? No! I want to teach them a lesson!”

He looked at me, eyes fierce. “We’re not just fighting rumors. People say rumors die with wise people, but most people aren’t wise. We have to help them see the truth. Teachers teach knowledge and morals! That’s your job!”

He stepped closer. “Later, I want you to stand on stage and give them, the students, and everyone watching, a public lesson! Tell them what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s innocent, what’s shameful!”

“Tell everyone, when a woman is assaulted, it’s a legal and social issue, not a moral one! That history is a scar, a pain, but never a shame!”

“We’re a middle school, with many girls. They need this lesson—to know how to protect themselves, and if hurt, to defend their rights like you did!”

“You’re a teacher, their role model!”

“That’s what being a teacher really means!”

“Do you understand?”

His words cut through the fog. For the first time, I saw a way forward.

“So, do you dare give this public lesson?”

It was like cold water over my head—suddenly clear.

“I do!” I said firmly.

Carter smiled. For the first time, I saw him really smile. “Ms. Brooks, I’m proud of you! The school is proud of you!”

The public lesson began. I stood on stage, facing thousands of students, especially the girls, and spoke about my journey after being assaulted. How I blamed myself, how I fell apart, how I chose to be strong. How I faced outsiders’ words, and kept going. What is the real meaning of chastity? What is a woman’s value? How girls can protect themselves. If harmed, how to protect themselves as much as possible.

I spoke from the heart. I saw tears in the eyes of some students, nods of understanding from parents. For the first time, I felt heard.

At the end, I said, I’m not harsh or paranoid. I don’t deny that people can change. But only if they don’t hurt others again. Only if they don’t profit from victims’ pain.

As for Eric? He never had any remorse. Giving people like him a second chance is a crime.

I spoke for over an hour. Afterward, I felt lighter than I had in years. For years, though I acted strong, that incident haunted me. It made me anxious. Now, having spoken, I knew I’d finally let go, and made peace with myself.

Carter led the applause—thunderous. My colleagues, students, and their parents all stood up. In the livestream, the chat was full of support and encouragement.

I cried. First, tears in my eyes. Then, streaming down my face. I cried without grace. But I didn’t care. I’d held back these tears for too long—I deserved to cry.

Carter still didn’t have tissues, so he tore a piece from his suit pocket for me to wipe my nose.

Then he pointed at the media and handlers. “You all signed in, right? Wait here. I’ll sue each of you for defamation. No one gets away.”

The reporters looked nervous. Carter meant business.

After the storm, the sky cleared. I finally turned things around. The rumors disappeared, the doubts became support. The internet is fickle—the same people who cursed me now supported me. But I no longer cared.

Carter wasn’t kidding about lawsuits—he meant it. And he volunteered to be my lawyer, for free, as a school benefit.

He took me straight to the headquarters of the biggest video platform to meet their legal director. Carter argued that letting ex-cons profit from their crimes violated public morals. Under his pressure, the platform caved. They banned Eric and similar streamers. The handler company dropped them. Eric was finished.

Desperate, he tried one last trick. He brought his frail mother from Kentucky to the city, had her kneel at the school gate, crying for my forgiveness. Or rather, for his career. Carter gave me time off, and I went abroad. I turned off my phone, ignored everything.

Until one night, Carter called. “Eric’s mother died.”

I dropped my glass. “What?”

“She hanged herself outside the school wall. Eric sat on the road holding her body, blaming you.”

I felt my heart seize. "How could this happen?"

I was panicked. My conscience was clear, but still…

I was exhausted. Would they never let me go?

“Recently, I added more cameras around the school, with audio and video. We recorded everything. She did take her own life, but not because of outsiders—because of her son. Eric told her if she didn’t die, he’d never have a shot at fame. The old lady hesitated, cried, then…”

Carter stopped.

I sat in silence. I didn’t know what to say. "That monster."

Eric was arrested again for inciting suicide.

Because of this, I became an internet celebrity too—a positive one. Many girls with similar experiences wrote to me, confiding in me. So I got certified as a counselor.

I started speaking at schools, at women’s centers, anywhere I was invited. I wanted to help others find their voice, to know they weren’t alone.

My parents came back to me, because my brother’s engagement fell through. It was really because of me—but not because the girl’s parents thought my case was shameful, but because they were disgusted by my family’s attitude.

They apologized, tried to make amends. I listened, but my heart wasn’t in it. Some things can’t be fixed.

Facing their smiles, I felt nothing. Blood ties can’t be erased, but feelings can.

Ethan came back too—he was having trouble emigrating. “Alyssa! You can do it! You’re a feminist hero now! If you apply for immigration, you’ll get fast-tracked! Then we’ll marry and be happy, okay?”

I smiled. “But I don’t have time for immigration now.”

He looked at me, confused. “What’s more important than that?”

“There is—like getting married.”

I handed him a wedding invitation with Carter’s name on it.

“You can skip the meal, but don’t forget the gift.”

And for the first time in years, I felt free. (The End)