He Used Our Sex Tape To Blackmail Me Out Of Harvard Chapter 08
Some indeterminate stretch of time passed before Preston, still sitting on the ground, slowly wiped the tears from his face.
When he stood, all that was left in his eyes was a cold, murderous stillness.
By the time he returned to the hospital, Chelsea was on speakerphone, a bag of imported Lay’s open beside her, her fingers greasy from the chips.
Her clear, tinkling laugh was thick with barely suppressed glee.
“Yes, she really did drive straight into the Charles River! Thank god for that troll farm I hired—posing as outraged netizens, cornering her, running her off. Just like that, Luna Sinclair is *gone.*”
“You paid someone to photoshop those nudes to frame Luna, and then you stole Preston’s phone and posted the sex tape online—does Preston even know that was you? They’ve got ten years of history. The Ashfords aren’t nobodies on the East Coast. You’re not scared he’ll figure it out and come after you?”
“Oh, please.”
Chelsea licked the salt from her fingers, scornful.
“Ten years, my ass. If their love was really that deep, where would I have fit in?”
“You wanna bet? Even if Preston finds out it was all me, all I have to do is cry two tears and he’ll be on his knees drying them for me.”
“Men are such trash. They never appreciate what they have—only what they’ve lost.”
“I’m not like Luna Sinclair. That idiot only knew how to play at love. I seduced Preston on *purpose*. I wanted to be a trophy wife. Now that Luna’s dead, all I have to do is keep Preston happy in bed, and I’ve got Ashford money for the rest of my life.”
“The Harvard spot, the crescent-moon necklace—I didn’t even want any of it. I only took them to twist the knife in Luna.”
“Not my fault she was born old money, with a better family, better looks—she deserved a bad end. Tee hee.”
The moment those words left her mouth, Chelsea’s smile froze on her face.
Preston had pushed the door open. He stood there, expressionless, and only God knew how long he had been listening.
Chips scattered across the floor. Chelsea half-fell, half-scrambled off the bed.
“Preston, let me explain, it’s not what you think, I was just joking with a friend, none of it’s true—”
Preston slowly crouched down. His face was so calm it was terrifying.
“I told you. If anything happened to my little moon, I would take your life for hers.”
Cold sweat broke out over Chelsea’s skin. Every last drop of color drained from her face.
Then, suddenly, she flung her arms around his leg, letting the hospital gown slide off one shoulder—falling back on the same old routine, pitiful and seductive all at once.
“Preston, I didn’t mean it, I just loved you too much. Please forgive me, please?”
When he didn’t respond, she inched closer, her voice fawning. “If you forgive me, I’ll do anything. Any position you want.”
Preston laughed once.
Just as Chelsea thought she’d gotten away with it—just as she started to breathe out—he pried her fingers loose from his leg, one by one.
Wanton. Shameless.
The kind of woman who would let anyone use her, as long as the price was right.
A woman this repulsive to the bone—not fit to lace his little moon’s shoes—and he had treated her like she meant something.
He had forced his little moon to give up her Harvard spot for her.
He had let her take the token he had made with his own two hands.
Regret and self-loathing clung to his bones like rot, eating him hollow from within, until the pain gnawed down to the marrow.
He stood up. He looked down at her the way he might look at something scraped off the sidewalk.
“Save the positions for your cellmates.”
The words had barely left his mouth when two Boston PD officers pushed through the door.
Preston handed one of them a voice recorder.
“I have one request. No plea deal. Maximum sentence.”
At that, Chelsea finally panicked.
She screamed. She threw a tantrum. She begged. She played the victim.
But before an even-handed law, none of it mattered.
As she was dragged out, her face slick with tears and snot, she shrieked a curse over her shoulder. “Preston Ashford! You killed Luna too! You’ll pay for this—you’ll rot!”
The room fell quiet.
Preston slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.
He knew.
The reckoning was already here.
The next day, Preston went live on Instagram.
He confessed to the world. He owned every failure.
The internet dissected him alive.
My name was cleared—only “posthumously,” which was the most useless kind of vindication.
The rescue team pulled a few more items from the Charles River. All of them were handed to my father.
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