Chapter 17 - The Mistress's Media Tour
The internet is a vicious,
unforgiving colosseum,
a place where private tragedies are ruthlessly consumed as public entertainment,
and Julianne Mercer was determined to be the reigning gladiator of this digital bloodbath.
It was a quiet,
rainy Tuesday afternoon,
and I was sitting at the polished granite kitchen island,
chopping fresh,
vibrant vegetables for Lily's favorite homemade chicken soup.
The house was peaceful,
filled with the soothing,
rhythmic sounds of the falling rain and the soft,
distant hum of the television in the living room.
Chloe walked through the back door,
shaking out her wet umbrella,
carrying a bottle of expensive red wine and a deeply troubled,
highly agitated expression on her face.
"You need to see this,"
Chloe announced abruptly,
not even bothering to take off her damp trench coat,
slamming her smartphone onto the kitchen counter.
"Julianne is doing a live podcast interview with one of those massive,
gossip-mongering internet personalities,
and she is completely,
ruthlessly throwing David under the proverbial bus."
I wiped my hands on a dish towel,
feeling a strange,
morbid curiosity bubbling up inside me,
unable to look away from the trainwreck that continued to unfold in the aftermath of my husband's catastrophic choices.
Chloe tapped the screen,
and the video immediately expanded,
revealing Julianne sitting in a brightly lit,
neon-drenched studio,
wearing a tight,
revealing dress and far too much makeup,
trying desperately to project an aura of innocent victimhood.
"I was completely manipulated,"
Julianne whined to the podcast host,
dabbling at fake,
nonexistent tears with a carefully manicured finger.
"He told me his marriage was completely over,
that his wife was this crazy,
controlling monster who wouldn't let him breathe."
I rolled my eyes,
scoffing loudly at the predictable,
cliché narrative that cheating men have used since the absolute dawn of time to justify their selfish,
destructive behavior.
"He lied to me about his finances,
too,"
Julianne continued,
her voice growing louder,
harsher,
revealing the true,
mercenary nature of her affections.
"He promised me this luxurious,
all-expenses-paid dream vacation in the Bahamas,
and then his cards got declined,
and I literally had to pay for my own flight home."
The host,
a loud,
obnoxious man with a slicked-back hairstyle,
leaned into the microphone,
his eyes wide with manufactured,
exaggerated shock.
"Wait,
so he left his kid in the hospital,
and then he made you pay the bills?"
he asked,
stoking the flames of the internet's insatiable outrage.
"Yes!"
Julianne shrieked,
nodding enthusiastically,
playing perfectly to the massive,
live audience tuning in.
"He is a broke,
lying,
narcissistic sociopath,
and he completely ruined my reputation by associating me with his disgusting,
deadbeat behavior."
I watched the live comment section scrolling rapidly up the side of the screen,
a relentless,
unforgiving barrage of hatred and mockery directed entirely at David.
People were tagging his former employer,
creating brutal,
humiliating memes out of his frozen bank accounts,
and demanding that he be publicly,
permanently canceled from polite society.
Julianne was attempting to save her own sinking ship,
painting herself as the naive,
gullible victim of an older,
manipulative executive,
and the internet was eagerly,
violently eating it up.
"He is currently living out of his car,"
Julianne revealed casually,
dropping a massive,
humiliating bombshell to thousands of listening viewers.
"Because his wife,
who honestly sounds like an absolute boss,
kicked him out and took absolutely everything."
Chloe paused the video,
looking at me with a mixture of shock and undeniable,
vindictive amusement.
"She just called you a boss,"
Chloe laughed,
pouring two large glasses of the rich,
ruby-red wine,
handing one to me across the counter.
"She is incredibly toxic,
completely selfish,
and utterly foolish,"
I noted,
taking a slow,
satisfying sip of the expensive vintage.
"But in this specific instance,
she is proving to be a highly effective,
unwitting weapon of mass destruction against his remaining shreds of dignity."
I looked out the kitchen window,
watching the rain wash over my beautiful,
secure,
heavily guarded home.
David was out there somewhere,
in the cold,
damp reality of his ruined life,
undoubtedly watching this exact same podcast on a cracked phone,
realizing that the woman he had sacrificed his family for was now actively,
publicly dancing on his grave.
He had traded a loyal,
loving wife and a beautiful,
innocent daughter for a cheap,
temporary thrill,
and the universe was ensuring that his punishment was as loud,
as public,
and as humiliating as possible.
I turned off the phone screen,
refusing to waste another second of my precious,
reclaimed life on their pathetic,
shallow drama,
and went back to chopping vegetables for my daughter.
The internet could have him,
the gossips could devour him,
and the mistress could destroy whatever was left of him.
May you like
I was completely,
blissfully done with David Miller.
