He Used Our Sex Tape To Blackmail Me Out Of Harvard Chapter 05
After ten years together, he was everything I depended on, everything I believed in. I loved him too much. There was no way I’d really give him up.
Having convinced himself, Preston tightened his arm around Chelsea and settled comfortably back into his seat.
No one saw Chelsea toss the crescent-moon necklace carelessly into the trash.
Early the next morning, still deep in sleep, I was jolted awake by the crash of my bedroom door slamming open.
Before I could get my bearings, a rough hand yanked me out of bed.
When I looked up, I met the naked fury blazing in Preston’s face.
“I already told you—Chelsea and I were just playing around. Why would you do this?!”
“Are you satisfied now? You practically drove her to suicide!”
I stared at him in shock, no idea what he was talking about—and then his phone came flying at me.
On the screen: explicit photos of Chelsea. Utterly indecent.
The private areas were pixelated, but the outline of her body was unmistakable.
Beneath the images, someone had posted her address, phone number, and Instagram handle.
The caption was crude and vicious—
“Broke gold-digger scholarship whore. Slept her way to Harvard by fucking her sponsor’s boyfriend. Free ride, first come first served.”
The Reddit post had already been pushed to the front page of r/all. On Twitter, the hashtag #ScholarshipSlut was trending. The comment sections had ballooned into tens of thousands of posts, thick with filth.
“Trailer trash is trailer trash. No amount of money keeps her legs shut.”
“Shameless slut. If she’ll do this, any guy can hit that.”
“Got her address. Anyone want to road-trip?”
“…”
Preston’s face was ashen. “Chelsea slit her wrists over what you did. She nearly didn’t make it.”
“I’ve already called the press. You’re going to the hospital, you’re going to get on your knees and apologize, and you’re going to make a public statement admitting you were the one who photoshopped those pictures out of jealousy.”
I stared at him like he was a stranger.
“I didn’t do this. I’m not going!”
Chelsea had slipped into the room from somewhere, in a hospital gown, cutting a pitifully frail figure, sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath.
“Preston, forget it. Don’t make things harder on Luna because of me. It’s my fault—I’m the shameless one for falling for you. Luna has every right to hate me. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me, for not being able to control my feelings.”
Preston looked at her—that frail, swaying frame—and pulled her into his arms as though his heart were breaking.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Why would I blame you?”
He raised his head. Whatever warmth had lingered in his eyes was gone, replaced by frost.
“My little moon. I’m giving you one last chance. Post the statement, now. Clear this up online. Apologize to Chelsea publicly.”
Suddenly Chelsea broke out of his arms, grabbed my hand, and dragged it up to strike her own face.
“Luna, I just got my Harvard offer. I can’t let it be ruined. Hit me. Please. If you’re angry, hit me. You can beat me to death, I don’t care.”
She was strong. She yanked me forward so hard I stumbled into the sharp corner of the coffee table. The pain flashed white behind my eyes.
Then, out of nowhere, she let out a shrill scream and threw herself backwards. “Ah—Luna, don’t kick me—”
Preston caught her, fire practically leaping from his eyes. “Luna Sinclair. Have you lost your mind? You’d attack her right in front of me? Is there anything you wouldn’t do?”
He inhaled sharply, pulled out his phone, and tapped a few times.
When the familiar obscene sounds began to play, my body went rigid, plunged into ice.
“You promised me. You promised the moment I signed the withdrawal, you’d delete the video. You lied?”
I screamed at him through red-rimmed eyes, every inch of my heart crushed as though under a stone.
Preston felt no guilt. His stare was cold, cruel. “I gave you a chance. What I’m doing is fair.”
His thumb hovered over the “send” button, threatening to press down.
“No!” I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears of humiliation splashed onto the floor. “I’ll apologize. I’ll clear it up.”
I opened Instagram and posted a long statement, then a video apology. I confessed to a crime I hadn’t committed—claiming I had photoshopped the pictures out of jealousy—and publicly begged Chelsea’s forgiveness.
Within two minutes, the tide of the internet turned.
The filth that had been pouring onto Chelsea pivoted, en masse, toward me.
Preston smiled, satisfied. “We’ll let it slide this time. Consider it a lesson learned. You’re going to be my wife one day. I don’t want to marry a mean girl.”
He turned to look at me—sitting on the floor, my eyes glazed, unmoving—and something in his chest tightened, as though he were about to lose his grip on something precious.
A little sheepishly, he said, “I’ll delete the video now.”
But just as he moved to do it, Chelsea slumped against him, her face pale. “Preston… I’m dizzy. I don’t feel well…”
So he lifted her into his arms instead, throwing a last remark over his shoulder as he left: “You sit here and think about what you’ve done. Let me get Chelsea to the ER. I’ll be back to check on you later.”
The door opened. The door closed. Silence.
Ten minutes later, my phone suddenly lit up.
Across town, Preston had gotten Chelsea admitted, sat through a full workup, and confirmed she was fine. Only then did he pull out his phone to call me.
But the moment the screen came alive, he froze as if struck by lightning.
Reddit. Twitter. TikTok. Instagram. Every platform, blowing up with the same thing—the video from his phone. Uncensored. Crystal clear.
Beneath it, a comment—
“That two-faced slut just tried to run. Netizens tracked her down, cornered her, and she drove her car straight into the Charles River. Current’s a beast this time of year—she’s fish food by now. Serves her right.”
—