Chapter 2 - REVENGE NUMBER NINETY-SIXRyan moved faster than I expected.
He slammed the laptop shut before I reached the table.
“Emma, we need to talk privately.”
I stared at his hand resting on the computer.
“Open it.”
“Not here.”
“Open the laptop.”
Evan stepped between us with both palms raised.
“Everybody’s emotional right now.”
I turned toward him.
“You called me and told me the man I loved might die.”
His face tightened.
“I know how it sounds.”
“How it sounds?”
I looked around the room.
There were seven men inside, all between their late twenties and early thirties. A minute earlier they had been laughing.
Now none of them wanted to meet my eyes.
“You recorded me believing my boyfriend was dying.”
Mason lowered his phone.
I pointed at it.
“And you filmed me donating blood.”
“That part was only from the hallway,” he said.
As though that made it better.
Ryan stepped close enough that I could smell his cologne.
The same cologne he wore on our first date.
The same one on my pillow.
“Emma, Chloe was devastated after what happened.”
“What happened?”
“You reported her.”
“She stole $18,000.”
“She borrowed money.”
“From a charity.”
“She was going to put it back.”
I stared at him.
Three months earlier, I had discovered irregular transfers while volunteering as treasurer for Haven House, a small nonprofit providing temporary housing for women escaping abusive relationships.
The money had disappeared in several withdrawals.
Chloe Bennett’s credentials were attached to every one.
I confronted her privately first.
She denied everything.
When the board investigated, they found security footage.
She was dismissed.
No criminal charges were filed because Ryan’s father quietly repaid the money.
Ryan had held me that night while I cried.
“You did what you had to do,” he’d whispered.
Now I understood exactly how much those words had been worth.
“So this entire relationship was revenge?”
Ryan looked away.
That hesitation hurt worse than any answer.
“Not the entire relationship.”
The room tilted slightly.
Whether from the blood donation or the shock, I couldn’t tell.
“How much?”
“Emma.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
Nobody spoke.
I looked at Evan.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
Ryan snapped, “Don’t.”
That gave me my answer.
“Tell me.”
Evan’s face changed.
Maybe guilt finally outweighed loyalty.
“Four months.”
I felt something crack inside me.
Four months.
During those four months, Ryan had met my mother.
He had spent Thanksgiving with my family.
He had talked about moving in together.
He had asked what kind of engagement ring I liked.
He had sat beside my grandmother’s hospital bed and promised her he would take care of me.
Four months.
“You started planning this before Chloe was fired?”
Ryan said nothing.
Evan corrected quietly, “After Emma first confronted her.”
I stared at Ryan.
“You knew she stole the money.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“You knew.”
“My sister was going through things.”
“And you decided I deserved punishment for discovering it?”
He exhaled.
“It got out of control.”
I glanced toward the whiteboard.
Ninety-six numbers.
“What are the other ninety-five?”
Nobody answered.
I walked toward the board.
Ryan grabbed my wrist.
It wasn’t hard.
But it was enough.
I looked down at his fingers.
“Take your hand off me.”
He released me immediately.
“Please don’t make this worse.”
I almost laughed.
“Worse for whom?”
Then the VIP door opened behind us.
A woman in navy scrubs stood there.
She appeared to be in her fifties, with gray threaded through her dark hair and a hospital ID clipped to her chest.
Her eyes moved over the drinks, phones, camera tripod, and whiteboard.
Then she saw the tape on my arm.
Her expression sharpened.
“What is going on?”
Ryan’s confidence vanished.
“Nothing, Dr. Patel.”
She looked directly at me.
“Were you a donor this morning?”
“Yes.”
“For him.”
I pointed at Ryan.
Dr. Patel’s eyes settled on Ryan.
“You were not admitted as a trauma patient.”
“No.”
“What were you told?”
“That he’d been in a serious car accident and needed blood.”
Silence.
Dr. Patel turned toward the others.
“Who told her that?”
Evan raised his hand halfway.
“I did.”
“You impersonated hospital staff?”
“No. I just said—”
“Did anyone employed by this hospital tell this woman her blood was specifically needed for Mr. Bennett?”
I remembered the nurse’s hesitation.
“No.”
Dr. Patel looked relieved for exactly one second.
Then furious.
Ryan stepped forward.
“Doctor, this was a private joke. Emma donated through the normal blood program. Nothing illegal happened.”
Dr. Patel looked at him as if he had just crawled out from beneath a rock.
“You knowingly induced someone to undergo a medical procedure through deception.”
Ryan’s mouth opened.
She continued.
“You also appear to have recorded donor activity in an area where patient privacy rules apply.”
Mason quietly put his phone into his pocket.
Dr. Patel noticed.
“Do not delete anything.”
That was the first moment Ryan truly panicked.
“It’s my phone.”
“And if hospital security determines it contains unauthorized recordings from clinical spaces, deleting material after being told to preserve it would be extraordinarily unwise.”
She turned to me.
“Ms. Brooks, please sit down. You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“You donated blood less than an hour ago.”
“I need to leave.”
“You can leave. But first, I’d like someone to check your blood pressure.”
My knees suddenly felt weak.
Dr. Patel guided me into a chair outside the room.
Ryan followed.
She stopped him with one glance.
“Not you.”
For the next fifteen minutes, everything happened quickly.
A nurse brought water.
Security arrived.
Names were collected.
Phones were requested—not confiscated, because the hospital had no authority to seize private property, but everyone was warned that recordings taken inside restricted areas could trigger formal complaints.
Ryan kept trying to reach me.
“Emma, please.”
“Can we just talk?”
“You know I love you.”
That last sentence nearly broke me.
I looked up.
“Don’t ever say that to me again.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“You needed me hurt for the prank to work.”
He had no answer.
After my blood pressure stabilized, Dr. Patel walked me toward the elevators.
“I’m sorry this happened here.”
“It wasn’t the hospital’s fault.”
“We’ll still investigate how they obtained access to that room.”
I looked back toward VIP 301.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Was my blood actually usable?”
She nodded.
“Assuming your testing is clear, yes. It will enter the normal donor supply.”
Oddly, that helped.
At least somebody real might benefit from what had happened.
The elevator arrived.
Before the doors closed, Dr. Patel handed me a card.
“Hospital patient advocacy. Call them.”
I looked at it.
“Why?”
“Because humiliation can make people want to disappear.”
Her voice softened.
“Documentation makes sure what happened doesn’t disappear with you.”
The doors closed.
Outside, rain hammered the sidewalk.
I made it halfway to my car before my phone began exploding.
RYAN.
EVAN.
MASON.
CHLOE.
Unknown numbers.
Then my best friend, Natalie.
I answered hers.
“Emma?”
Her voice sounded strange.
“Where are you?”
“Hospital.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
A long silence.
“Emma… somebody posted a video.”
My stomach dropped.
“What video?”
“You donating blood.”
I closed my eyes.
“Is it from Ryan’s account?”
“No.”
That made me open them.
Natalie inhaled.
“It’s from an account called Ninety-Six Revenges.”
“How many views?”
“Emma…”
“How many?”
“Seventy-eight thousand.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“It’s been up eleven minutes.”
When I reached my car, I opened the account.
The caption read:
WHEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND DESTROYS YOUR SISTER’S LIFE, SO YOU MAKE HER THINK YOU’RE DYING.
The comments were pouring in.
Some people were laughing.
Some called me stupid.
Some praised Ryan.
Others were furious.
But one comment caught my attention.
It came from an account with no profile picture.
STOP LAUGHING. ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO REVENGE #41.
I clicked the account.
It had no posts.
No followers.
Nothing.
Thirty seconds later, the comment disappeared.
Then a private message appeared.
DON’T LET RYAN DELETE THE LIST.
NUMBER 41 ENDED UP IN THE HOSPITAL.
I stared at the screen.
A second message arrived.
AND NUMBER 73 NEVER CAME HOME.
Suddenly this wasn’t just about me.
May you like
And Ryan’s whiteboard no longer looked like a collection of jokes.
It looked like evidence.
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