Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 134

The screenshots arrived on Monday morning at 9:47 AM.

I didn't see them. Didn't know they existed. I was sitting at my hotel desk with cold coffee and a deadline, typing up voter outreach data like my life wasn't actively imploding in multiple directions.

My phone rang at 10:15—work number. My supervisor Linda, who usually just sent emails because she hated phone calls as much as I did.

"Zoey, hi. Do you have a minute?"

Her tone was wrong and too careful. The kind of voice people used when they were about to ask uncomfortable questions.

"Sure. What's up?"

"I received some concerning screenshots this morning. Anonymous email, no context." She paused. "They appear to show some... erratic online behavior."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of screenshots?"

"Social media posts. Comments. Things that, taken together, paint a picture of someone who might be struggling personally."

"Can you send them to me?"

"Already did."

I pulled up my email while she was still on the line. Seven screenshots. Carefully curated moments from the past three weeks that looked absolutely unhinged when arranged in sequence.

A comment I made on a campaign post at 2 AM about feeling exhausted. A response to someone asking how I was doing where I joked about surviving on spite and caffeine. A photo someone tagged me in where I looked tired and disheveled at a volunteer event.

Nothing damning on its own. But together? It looked like a breakdown in progress.

"These are taken completely out of context," I said.

"I'm sure they are. But I need to ask—is everything okay personally?"

The question made my skin crawl. Not because she was wrong to ask. Because suddenly my personal life was professional business.

"Everything's fine. Someone's just trying to make me look unstable."

"Who would do that?"

"Someone from high school with too much time and not enough therapy."

Linda was quiet for a moment. "Look, I'm not questioning your work. Your output has been excellent. But if there's anything going on that might affect your ability to complete this project, I need to know now."

Translation: Are you going to finish this job or should I start looking for your replacement?

"I'll finish the project. I'm fine."

"Okay. Keep me updated."

She hung up. I sat there staring at the screenshots, hands shaking with rage so pure it felt like electricity.

Amber didn't just attack my reputation—she went after my livelihood. I was still processing when my phone exploded with notifications: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. All at once like someone detonated a social media bomb with my name on it.

I opened Facebook first. Mistake. There it was. The photo. The gym floor. Red spray paint. DANIEL LIED in huge letters across polished wood.

The caption read: "This is who's trying to save our school—someone who vandalized it five years ago. Meet Zoey Hale, campaign volunteer and property destroyer."

Posted in every local group. Shared forty-three times in the first hour. The comments were exactly what you'd expect.

"This is who's knocking on our doors asking for our vote?"

"Absolutely unhinged behavior."

"And people wonder why we don't trust outsiders."

"Someone should tell the campaign coordinator about this."

My chest felt tight. Couldn't breathe right. The room was spinning or maybe I was spinning or maybe the entire world just tilted sideways.

I scrolled through more comments. Each one worse than the last.

"My daughter goes to that school. This is disgusting."

"Hypocrite."

"Attention-seeking mess."

"This is what happens when you never grow up."

My phone rang again. Mom. I let it go to voicemail. Then it rang again. And again.

On the fourth call, I answered.

"Did you see it?" Her voice was shaking. Not with sadness. With fury.

"Yeah."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"It happened five years ago. It's not exactly dinner conversation."

"I defended you!" She was yelling now. Full volume. The kind of anger that had been building for weeks and finally found an outlet. "I told everyone you'd matured! That you'd learned from your mistakes! And you're out there destroying property like a teenager!"

"It was one night. One stupid decision when I was—"

"When you were what? Heartbroken? Rebellious? Because that's not an excuse, Zoey. That's just more proof that you make reckless decisions when things get hard."

"I was twenty-three."

"You're twenty-eight now and you're still making the same mistakes!"

The accusation landed like a punch. Because maybe she was right. Maybe I was still that girl who spray-painted floors and kissed boys who hurt her and ran when things got complicated.

"Everyone is talking about this. Everyone. Do you understand what you've done to your reputation? To mine?"

"This isn't about you, Mom."

"It is when people are calling me asking if my daughter is having a breakdown! When teachers I've known for years are asking if you need help!"

My throat felt raw. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't undo the damage."

She hung up before I could respond. Just disconnected like she couldn't stand to hear my voice for one more second.

I sat there with my phone in my hand and my chest caving in and absolutely no idea how to fix any of this.

The next committee meeting was Thursday at six PM. I knew because it had been on my calendar for two weeks. I stared at the reminder notification like it was written in a language I used to speak but forgot.

I didn't go.

Just stayed in bed with my laptop open, scrolling through Facebook comments until the words blurred together into one long accusation.

Hypocrite.

Mess.

Cautionary tale.

Someone who peaked in high school and never recovered. Someone who destroyed things and called it growth. Someone who made the same mistakes over and over while pretending each time was different.

My phone buzzed with texts I didn't open. Jasmine asking if I was okay. Marcus asking if I was coming to the meeting. Chase not asking anything at all.

I turned it face down on the nightstand and pulled the covers over my head.

The room was dark. Quiet. The only sound was my own breathing and the distant hum of the mini fridge that never quite shut off.

This was rock bottom, I thought. But the thing about rock bottom was you didn't always know when you'd hit it. Sometimes you just kept falling.