I Catfished a Billionaire Using My Bully’s Photo Chapter 10

I Catfished a Billionaire Using My Bully’s Photo Chapter 10

After that day, Ethan never came back to the branch office.

I spent days psyching myself up.

Finally, I gathered the courage to reach out.

I sent friend request after friend request.

Every single one went unanswered.

Like dropping stones into a void.

It seemed like he was done with me for good.

I stared at my phone, the screen dimming, then lighting up, then dimming again.

Just as I was trying to figure out what else I could possibly do, my mom called.

I pushed my laptop aside, grabbed my phone, and stepped into the stairwell.

“Hello? Mom? What’s going on?”

“Evie, nothing’s wrong. Mom just wanted to check in — how are things going with your coworkers?”

I went quiet.

The window at the end of the hall was open, a cold draft slipping through and settling against my neck.

I touched my skin, and — out of nowhere — I thought of Ethan.

A dull, aching weight pressed against my chest.

My mom must have sensed something was off, because her voice immediately tightened.

“Evie? What happened? Is someone giving you a hard time?

If someone’s bullying you, just take them out for a nice dinner.

You know what they say — once they’ve eaten your food, they can’t keep picking on you.

Right?

Isn’t that how it works?”

That again.

Always that.

My head was pounding.

My temples throbbed.

“Mom, I still have work. I have to go.”

I hung up before she could say another word.

The motion-sensor light clicked off.

I stood in the dark for a few seconds, then pushed the door open and walked back to my desk.

The air reeked of something sweet and cloying — coffee.

On my monitor, brown liquid was oozing down the screen, drip by drip, seeping into the keyboard.

The machine had already died.

The folders beside it were soaked through.

The file I’d spent days and nights writing — the one I hadn’t backed up yet — was gone.

Just like that.

Destroyed.

Talia was standing next to my desk, an empty cup still in her hand, her expression as innocent as a cat that had just knocked over a flowerpot.

“Oops, sorry, Evie! I accidentally spilled my coffee — it got all over your computer.

Oh, it’s not that bad, right?

I really didn’t mean it.”

I didn’t have time for her.

I grabbed a napkin and started wiping frantically, but it was useless.

Talia covered her mouth and laughed out loud.

“Oh, come on. Just write it again. It’s not like it was that hard, right?”

A chill shot down my spine.

I turned to look at her.

Something buried deep in the back of my brain — some old, locked-away memory — was clawing its way to the surface, dragged up by the sound of her gloating.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in the office anymore.

I was back in my senior year of high school.

Standing in the homeroom teacher’s office.

My fingers clenched around the hem of my uniform, knuckles white.

I’d gathered every ounce of courage I had.

Voice shaking, I listed every single thing Talia had done to me — every act of bullying, every cruelty.

And the whole time, I was whispering to myself inside my head: Don’t be scared, Evelyn.

You’re standing up for yourself.

There’s nothing to be afraid of.

You’re being brave.

Talia just leaned against the wall.

Picked at her ear.

Looked at me with eyes that said, clear as day: What are you gonna do about it?

And the truth was — nothing.

I couldn’t do a thing.

Because when my dad was called into the office, his first reaction wasn’t to ask if I was okay.

It was to shove me.

“Bullying?

Kids roughhouse.

That’s all it is.

Our Evelyn’s always been dramatic.

Ignore her.”

Talia hopped off the desk, smiling that sweet, innocent smile, and shook her head gently.

“Exactly, Evie.

Bullying?

Come on.

You’re just way too sensitive.

I was just playing around.

If your feelings are hurt, I’ll apologize, okay?

I’ll say I’m sorry…”

She drew out those last words, her eyes crinkling.

“Apologize for what?” My dad pushed me aside before I could even open my mouth and patted Talia on the shoulder.

“Talia, sweetheart, Uncle knows you’re a good kid.

You don’t need to apologize.

Evelyn! What are you standing there for?

Come here and shake Talia’s hand.

She just wanted to be your friend.

Why do you have to take everything so seriously?

Who’s gonna want to play with you if you act like this?”

I stood there, frozen, staring at my own father like he was a stranger.

Cold all the way through.

And Talia — Talia was behind the crowd, where no one could see, sticking her tongue out at me.

The picture of innocence.

Exactly the way she looked right now.

Forbearance.

Let it go.

Turn the other cheek.

That’s all my parents ever preached.

And what had it ever brought me?

I clenched the napkin in my fist, nails digging into my palm.

My breathing turned ragged.

All those years of swallowed anger and buried hurt — it felt like a mass of waterlogged cotton pressing down on my chest, heavier and heavier, until this moment, when it finally became too much to hold.

I felt something inside me rupture.

What had I ever done wrong?

Why did she get to keep tormenting me?

And why — why had I always been so spineless?

So pathetically accommodating?

Even the way I’d tried to get back at Talia — it was twisted.

Cowardly.

And I’d still managed to ruin everything.

I hated myself.

I hated myself so much.

Talia was still standing there, cooing in that nauseating, innocent voice — “I really, seriously didn’t mean it” — and she even had the audacity to reach out and pat my shoulder.

And then my body moved before my brain could stop it.

I lunged.

Grabbed her by the hair.

Smacked her across the face — left, right — so hard she stumbled.

She was right about one thing: I’d been running errands with my mom since I was a kid.

I was strong.

Talia shrieked.

She never — not in a million years — thought I’d actually fight back, let alone like this.

I dragged her to the ground; her knee cracked against the table leg.

She wailed, hysterical.

“You bitch! How dare you hit me!”

I clenched my jaw, kicked her hard in the backside — twice — then threw myself on top of her and slapped her over and over.

We were a tangle of limbs and fury.

Chairs toppled.

File folders went flying.

The supervisor burst in, took one look, and screamed, “What the hell are you all standing there for?! Pull them apart!”

A couple of male coworkers finally snapped out of it and grabbed my arms.

Someone pried Talia away from me — it was Secretary Davis, the same guy who’d shoved me that day.

I glared at him, swung my freed hand, and slapped him across the face so hard his glasses went flying.

In the end, they pinned me to a chair.

My hair was a wreck.

My sleeve was torn.

I still had a fistful of Talia’s hair in my hand.

She stood across from me, face swollen, glaring with pure hatred.

The supervisor’s face had gone purple.

He opened his mouth to start screaming — and then the doorway went dead silent.

Someone whispered, “Mr. Shaw is here.”