Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 148

The post went up at 4:37 PM, twenty minutes before the committee meeting started.

I didn't see it immediately. I was too busy setting up voter outreach spreadsheets and pretending my life wasn't a dumpster fire documented for public consumption.

My phone buzzed. Jasmine's name. Text: Did you see what Amber posted?

My stomach dropped before I even opened Instagram. There it was. A photo. Grainy. Clearly taken through a window. The angle suggested she'd been standing outside looking in. You could barely make out the hospital room number. But you could definitely see the person in the bed.

Chase.

The caption read: Some bridges shouldn't be rebuilt. Prayers for clarity. 🙏💔

The comments were already rolling in.

"Wait, you visited him?" "That's so sweet of you to check on him." "Some friendships are forever."

My hands shook. Not with sadness. With rage so pure it felt radioactive.

She hadn't visited him. I knew because I'd been at that hospital every day. Because his mother kept a list of approved visitors and Amber's name wasn't on it. Because that photo was taken from outside the building, zoomed in through the third-floor window like some kind of stalker documentary.

I screenshotted it. Sent it to Chase with one word: Really?

Three dots appeared. Then: What the fuck.

The committee meeting happened in the community center conference room. Same beige walls. Same broken clock. Same people pretending we were all there for democracy instead of drama.

Chase arrived five minutes late. Arm still in a sling but healing. Face less bruised. He took his seat next to me without his usual greeting.

I could see his jaw working. That muscle that jumped when he was trying not to explode.

Marcus started the meeting. Droned on about petition signatures and council member outreach. Nobody was really listening. Everyone kept glancing at their phones. At Chase. At the empty chair where Amber usually sat.

Then the door opened—Amber walked in like she was arriving at the Met Gala. Hair perfect, outfit coordinated. That smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing and was enjoying every second.

She took her seat. Pulled out her laptop. Acted like she hadn't just committed a privacy violation for social media engagement.

Marcus continued talking. Something about voter turnout models. I stopped listening because I was watching Chase.

He was staring at Amber. Not blinking. Not moving. Just staring with an intensity that made the air feel dangerous.

Then he stood up.

The room went quiet. Marcus stopped mid-sentence.

Chase walked directly to Amber. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured.

She looked up. Blinked. That innocent expression she'd perfected. "Hey Chase, I didn't know you were—"

"Take it down."

His voice was quiet. Deadly.

"What?"

"The post. Take it down."

She glanced around the room. Looking for support. For witnesses. For someone to save her from the confrontation she'd engineered. "I was just—"

"I know exactly what you were doing." He leaned forward slightly. Not threatening. Just present. "You've spent ten years trying to rewrite history because you can't stand that no one chose you. Not Miles. Not me. Not anyone who actually knew you."

Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Stared at his laptop screen like it might open a portal to somewhere else.

Amber's composure cracked. Just slightly. A tremor in her perfect facade. "That's not—"

"You took a photo through a hospital window. Without permission. Posted it with some cryptic bullshit designed to make people think you're relevant to my life. You're not. You never were."

"We're friends—"

"We're not friends. We were classmates who tolerated each other because our social circles overlapped. That's not friendship. That's proximity."

The room was completely silent. Even Marcus had stopped pretending to take notes.

"Post about me again," Chase continued, voice dropping lower, "you'll hear from my lawyer. Stay away from Zoey. Stay away from me. This is done."

He turned—walked toward the door. I grabbed my bag. Didn't look at anyone or say goodbye. Didn't offer explanations. Just followed him out while the entire room sat in shocked silence.

Outside, the parking lot was empty except for our cars and the lake behind the community center. Small. Man-made. Probably polluted.

Perfect! I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram one last time. Scrolled through Amber's post. The comments had multiplied. People taking sides. Making assumptions. Turning our lives into entertainment.

I deleted the app. Watched the icon disappear from my home screen. Then I walked to the edge of the lake and held my phone over the water.

"You sure about that?" Chase asked behind me.

"Completely."

I dropped it. The splash was satisfying. Final. My phone sank into murky water that probably contained shopping carts and regrets.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Getting there."

He wrapped his good arm around my shoulders. We stood there watching ripples spread across the surface. My phone somewhere at the bottom with the fish and the trash and all the versions of myself I was done performing for people who didn't matter.

"You'll need a new phone," he said.

"I'll get one tomorrow."

"What if people need to reach you?"

"Then they'll have to try harder."

He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound felt like oxygen after holding my breath underwater.

"You're terrifying when you're decisive."

"Good. I'm tired of being palatable."

We walked back to his truck. My pockets felt lighter without the weight of constant connectivity. My chest felt less tight knowing I couldn't compulsively check what people were saying about me.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Anywhere that's not here."

"Specific."

"That's the point."

He drove. No destination. Just roads and music and the specific kind of freedom that came from burning bridges you never wanted to cross anyway.

My phone was at the bottom of a lake.

Amber's post was still up.

The committee probably thought we were both unhinged.

And for the first time in weeks, I genuinely didn't care.