Every Bet They Made, Every Line They Crossed Chapter 06

Every Bet They Made, Every Line They Crossed Chapter 06

Philip’s comment appeared: [Fine, people make bets. But why bet on getting married? What the hell were you thinking? You were supposed to be her best friend. That was the date Bella and I had set. Why did you have to make it that specific bet? Why act like we were a couple in front of our coworkers?]

This was the first time Philip had publicly called Selena out.

Selena hesitated for a few seconds before replying: [You agreed to the bet yourself. Don’t blame me because you lost.]

Philip shot back: [I agreed to make a bet, not flirt with you nonstop at work. I never told you to hang all over me and call me hubby in front of everyone. Bella was my fiancée. You knew that perfectly well.]

Selena let out a cold laugh.

[Of course I knew. I also know you threw every bet against me on purpose. You know exactly why you kept losing! Even if I crossed the line, you let me. So what if Bella’s your fiancée? Did you ever treat her right?]

She lost all self–control, forgetting this was a public comment section, and dumped every grievance in rapid succession.

[That mountain hike wager. You knew Bella sprained her ankle, yet you followed through on the bet and carried me down the trail, leaving her stranded alone halfway up the trail.]

[The anniversary bet. You dragged me all the way to Iceland and made her trailing behind us, hauling luggage. One night you brought barbecue to my room, leaving Bella running a 102 fever. Did you check on her even once?]

[The proposal bet. You let me put the ring on first, only taking it off for photos before giving it to her. The photo you posted on Instagram was me wearing that ring, and you never swapped it out.]

[Her parents waited at home for you to visit, but you flew back just to have dinner with me. Her mom was hospitalized, and you didn’t even know which hospital she was in.]

[You married your girlfriend’s best friend, and instead of comforting Bella, you took my side and badmouthed her. You even turned her tears into another bet between us. How much could you possibly love her?]

[Quit pretending, Philip. Even if I wronged her, you hurt her far worse. You saw how thoroughly she’d given up on you, yet you threatened to leak her private photos. You knew she was gentle and an easy target, didn’t you?]

Philip never replied again. But screenshots of Selena’s rant went viral instantly.

Public opinion shifted entirely. People who’d previously attacked Selena turned their anger toward Philip: [They’re both terrible, but the man’s far more repulsive.]

Staring at my screen, a sharp ache pierced my chest.

Two years of hurt. Seeing Selena spell it all out so bluntly finally made me realize exactly how much I’d

endured. Yet I couldn’t even cry.

That evening, Philip posted to Instagram: [Bella, I’m sorry.]

I ignored it.

When he returned to the apartment and pushed open the door, every corner was saturated with Selena’s

presence.

Only now did he truly see how the gaming console Selena loved dominated the living room. The office had

been fully converted into a gaming den. Matching couple toothbrushes sat side–by–side in the bathroom, and the refrigerator was only stocked with Selena’s favorite drinks.

Deep inside a kitchen cabinet, he found an expired pack of painkillers. He’d bought them the previous year, when menstrual cramps left me curled up on the floor in agony.

After he brought them home, he’d gotten wrapped up gaming with Selena and tossed them aside, leaving me barely able to get out of bed.

Inside the bedroom closet, the silk nightgown he’d bought Selena hung neatly on its hanger. My own pajamas lay crumpled in the corner–faded from endless washes, collars stretched thin.

In the desk drawer, he found a stack of hospital paperwork. Records from my ER visit that night. I’d endured an entire night of IV drips alone.

Where was he? He’d been helping Selena move into her new place that day.

He sank onto the empty living room couch, Selena’s words looping endlessly in his head.

He pictured me staring at him with tear–filled eyes, forcing out a quiet “I’m fine” despite the pain. He saw the moment I tumbled down the stairwell, while he stood frozen and did nothing.

He’d dismissed it all as me being oversensitive, fragile, a sore loser.

He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.