I spent three days collecting evidence.
I didn't sleep much. I sat at my laptop in a coffee shop six blocks from the penthouse and I screenshotted everything. The Instagram posts. The Twitter threads. The TikTok videos with my face blurred out just enough to avoid a lawsuit but not enough to hide who they meant.
Melina's followers were good at this. They knew how to make it look organic. A post here about "women who trap men with gratitude." A thread there about "scholarship students who forget their place." A video essay on "gold-diggers in tech spaces." My name was never mentioned. My face was always just visible enough.
The comments were worse.
*Charity case can't handle losing her meal ticket.*
*Imagine being this desperate.*
*She probably faked those patents too. Bet his family paid for those.*
I saved it all. Every post. Every comment. Every coordinated wave of harassment that hit at exactly the same time across four platforms. I logged the timestamps. I tracked the accounts back to their connections with Melina. I built a file the way I'd build a research report. Clean. Thorough. Undeniable.
On the third night, I printed it. Forty-seven pages. I put them in a folder. Navy blue, the kind you'd use for a business presentation. I held it in both hands and looked at my reflection in the coffee shop window.
I looked tired.
I went home.
Troy was in the kitchen when I walked in. He was making coffee. The machine hissed and gurgled. He didn't look up.
Melina was on the couch. She had her phone out. She was smiling at the screen. When she saw me, the smile didn't change. She lifted her hand in a small wave.
I set my bag down. I walked to the kitchen. I put the folder on the counter in front of Troy.
He glanced at it. "What's this?"
"Evidence," I said.
He frowned. He opened the folder. His eyes moved across the first page. Then the second. He flipped through a few more. Then he closed it.
"Lara," he said. His voice was flat. "What am I looking at?"
"A coordinated harassment campaign," I said. "Melina's followers have been posting about me for three days. Look at the timestamps. Look at the accounts. They're all connected to her."
He stared at me. "You think Melina did this?"
"I don't think. I know."
He picked up his phone. Unlocked it. Scrolled for a second. Then he set it down. "She wouldn't do this."
"Troy, it's right there. The evidence is right there."
"Evidence of what?" He pushed the folder toward me. "Some people posted things online. That's not a conspiracy. That's the internet."
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the counter. "They posted the same talking points at the same time. They used screenshots that were edited. They tagged each other. This was organized."
"Or," he said slowly, "people just don't like how you've been acting."
I felt something crack in my chest.
"How I've been acting," I repeated.
"Yeah." He crossed his arms. "You've been paranoid. Jealous. You accused Melina of stealing your robe. Now you're accusing her of orchestrating some... what, social media attack? Do you hear yourself?"
Behind him, Melina was still on the couch. She wasn't looking at us. But her shoulders were shaking. She was laughing. Silently. Into her phone.
I looked at Troy. "I brought you proof."
"You brought me screenshots," he said. "That's not proof. That's you spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling."
"You are." His voice was hard now. Cold. "You're embarrassing yourself. And you're embarrassing me."
I couldn't breathe.
He sighed. He rubbed his face. "Look," he said. "Maybe you should stay somewhere else for a while."
I blinked. "What?"
"Just until you get your head right. Go stay with a friend. Take some time. Clear your head."
He said it like he was suggesting a spa weekend.
I stared at him. "You're kicking me out."
"I'm not kicking you out. I'm saying you need space. We both do."
"This is my home," I said quietly.
"It's my apartment," he said. Then he paused. "I mean, it's ours. But right now, it's not healthy for you to be here. You're making Melina uncomfortable. You're making me uncomfortable. Just... go stay somewhere else for a few days."
Melina's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Smiled.
I picked up the folder. My hands weren't shaking anymore. They were steady.
"Okay," I said.
Troy blinked. "Okay?"
"Yeah." I picked up my bag. "I'll go."
He looked relieved. "Good. That's good. I think that's the right call."
I walked to the door. I didn't look at Melina. I didn't look back.
I stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind me.
I stood there. The folder was still in my hand. Forty-seven pages of evidence he didn't even read.
I walked to the elevator. I pressed the button. The doors opened.
I stepped inside.
And I finally understood.
He wasn't going to believe me. He was never going to believe me. Because believing me would mean admitting what he'd done. What he'd let happen. What he'd chosen.
It was easier to call me crazy.
The elevator descended. I watched the numbers drop. My reflection stared back at me from the steel doors.
I didn't look tired anymore.
I looked awake.
