My roommate Brielle complained that her online boyfriend, Ares, was a control freak and an old pervert.
She decided to dump him, and even tossed the "old man's" contact info my way.
"A sheltered little thing like you," she said, her lip curling with disdain, "is bound to fall for a control freak who likes to play 'daddy.'"
But in the comments flashing before my eyes, I saw something else entirely: my ticket to a top-tier university.
I stared at the chat window and tentatively typed out a sentence: "I want to break up."
He replied instantly: "Why?"
I replied according to my deepest desire: "I want to drop out of college, retake the SAT, and go to a good university."
The next second, a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer request popped up on my phone screen.
From that day on, he hired elite private tutors for me, rented a penthouse apartment for me in the city center, and paved my way to an Ivy League university.
I learned to call him Daddy in the sweetest voice I could manage, and his reply was always a possessive, "Good girl."
Two months later, just when I thought I'd gotten away with it, Brielle appeared at a luxury sports car dealership with her new boyfriend, pointing at the man beside me and screaming, "Are you Ares? I'm Kiki! She stole my account!"
I froze on the spot. But his voice, low and deliberate, cut through the tension—
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1
My roommate Brielle complained that her online boyfriend, Ares, was so controlling that she was dumping him. And by dumping him, she meant pawning him off on me. "He doesn't just want me to share my location 24/7, he even tells me what color underwear to wear. The internet says guys like that are possessive freaks who end up forcing you into something seriously messed up."
"Then it's your lucky day," she said, her lip curling in a sneer. "A naive little girl with daddy issues like you will probably fall head over heels for a control freak who loves to play the part."
My thumb hovered over the delete button when a string of comments suddenly flashed across my vision.
[Girl, are you crazy? This man is handsome, rich, and has more stamina than a college boy. You just have to bat your eyes, and he'll give you the world!]
[Ares is into that whole 'control' thing—the kind that 'forces' you to wear designer clothes, eat at Michelin-starred restaurants, live in a penthouse, and get catapulted from a community college straight into the Ivy League.]
[Don't worry, this Brielle is just a washed-up gold digger. Once Ares finds out he's been deceived, he'll dump her and go back to Sloane.]
Sloane is me. I am the Sloane in the comments. And the comments? Only I can see them. It's my secret—ever since I was a child, I could see real-time comments about my life floating across my vision, like a livestream no one else knew about.
Most of the time I ignored them, but now my eyes were glued to the second comment. Designer clothes, Michelin restaurants, a penthouse, and an Ivy League degree?
I slowly lowered my hand and took the phone from Brielle. Her online boyfriend's username was Ares, and hers was Kiki.
I scrolled through their chat history. Ares was clearly generous—he had bought Brielle a designer bag. But Brielle wanted more; she wanted the latest model sports car, and he refused. That's when Brielle threw a fit and decided to dump him.
Taking a deep breath, I opened our chat and typed: [Are you there?]
Less than five seconds later, a reply came: [Yes.]
I nearly dropped the phone. The comments said he was handsome and rich, but they didn't mention how fast he replied. It was as if he had been waiting by the phone.
[I want to break up,] I typed tentatively.
Another instant reply: [Why?]
I thought for a moment and decided to just be blunt: [I'm not happy at community college. I want to drop out, retake the SAT, and get into a real university.]
Ares didn't reply for a long time. The comments went wild.
[It's over, she's gone off-script! Brielle never talked about studying!]
[Calm down, this is the part where the overbearing CEO falls for her because she's different.]
[Being different pays off. She'll probably get a penthouse and a tutor out of this.]
Then Ares's reply came: [How much money do you need?]
He sent a transfer request—fifty thousand dollars.
My jaw almost hit the floor. This was beyond generous! I didn't accept the transfer and replied: [I don't want money.]
[What do you want, then?]
I stared at his words, my heart pounding in my chest. [I just... I feel like my life is going nowhere. I can't stay here.]
