As I Sank Into the Pacific, He Took Bets Onshore

The man who dragged me onto the beach was Adrian Cole.

He rolled me onto my side and pressed my abdomen until I coughed up seawater in violent heaves. My face was buried in wet sand, tears, snot, and seawater running together. My chest felt as if it had been ripped open, and every breath tasted of blood.

Less than thirty feet away, Nolan hadn't taken a single step closer.

He snapped his fingers at Leah's camera, grinning like he'd just wrapped a flawless segment. "See that, everyone? I told you she wouldn't die. I'd call today's fear challenge half a success."

Leah gave him a playful shove. "You have zero showmanship. That was your perfect chance to play the hero. How could you let some stranger steal it?"

Nolan reached over and pinched her cheek. "I don't have to get in the water. They're still watching me. Besides, having someone else pull her out makes for better drama, doesn't it?"

The two of them laughed together in front of eight million viewers, looking every bit like a couple with effortless chemistry.

And I was on my knees in the sand, barely dragged back from the edge of death.

Leah finally swung the camera toward me. The ring light seared my eyes. She crouched down and wrinkled her nose. "Ivy, you threw up everywhere. The footage looks terrible. Can you at least wipe your face? We still need to reshoot the ending."

Her excitement returned almost instantly. "Actually, how about this: you go back in the water, Nolan swims over and holds you, and the title is 'Coach Boyfriend Heals Girlfriend's Childhood Trauma.' It'll go viral."

Nolan nodded, as if I were a prop that simply needed repositioning. "You've had ten minutes to rest. Get up. The sun's about to set, and we can't waste the light."

I looked up at him.

Three years ago, Nolan used to drive two hours just to bring me a slice of lemon pie I'd once mentioned liking. When I worked late, he'd wait downstairs with a hot coffee. Back then, I believed he was the person heaven had sent me to lean on after my brother died.

But now, all he saw were real-time viewer counts, sponsorship offers, and the next viral clip.

Adrian suddenly reached out and pushed Leah's camera down. He pulled off his black windbreaker and wrapped it around me from shoulders to knees, then fixed Nolan with a cold stare.

"Her lips are turning blue. She needs first aid and a doctor, not a reshoot."

Nolan's face darkened on the spot. Being called out by a stranger on a livestream clearly wounded his pride more than my near-drowning had.

"This is between me and my girlfriend." He stepped closer with a sneer. "Ivy, are you seriously pulling a stunt like this just to force me to go public about our relationship?"

I used every ounce of strength I had to shout, "I almost died out there."

Nolan only frowned, like he was listening to an exaggerated complaint.

Adrian didn't argue with him further. He bent down, lifted me into his arms, and walked straight to the ambulance that had arrived at the shore. Through the window, I watched Nolan pick up Leah's phone and restart the livestream, explaining that what had happened was just a minor mishap that got out of hand.

My life and death weren't even worth pausing a stream over.

At the hospital, the doctor diagnosed an aspiration-related lung injury and mild hypothermia and ordered me to remain under observation. I didn't have my wallet, so I borrowed a tablet at the nurses' station to log in to my payment account.

When the screen lit up, a group chat called "Greyhound Odds" suddenly popped into view.

Nolan had used the same tablet during a hospital publicity event a few days earlier and had never signed out of his messaging account.

I tapped in. The first thing I saw was a screenshot of myself struggling in the ocean.

Below the image was a row of odds.

"Will Ivy start crying and beg Nolan to save her within eight minutes?"

"Will she lose bladder control?"

"How many minutes after Ivy goes under will Nolan jump in?"

The group watched the livestream and sent in bets in real time. Nolan himself had even sent a voice message: "Relax. She trained in freediving as a kid. She won't die that easily. Let the numbers climb a little longer."

My hands were too cold to grip the tablet.

I kept scrolling up.

It turned out that for the past three years, every humiliating moment of mine had been clipped into short videos, GIFs, and memes. Once, I'd scraped my knee on a supermarket step, and Nolan, standing two paces away, deliberately filmed for a full minute, waiting for the bets to settle before helping me up. Another time, I'd choked on seawater at the beach. Nolan held me and said, "Don't be scared," but just ten seconds earlier, he'd opened another betting pool in the group on whether I'd dare go back into the water that day.

I'd mistaken his indifference for carelessness and told myself his cold detachment was just his coaching style.

Now the whole truth was right in front of me.

The newest voice message in the chat was one Nolan had just sent.

"She's just embarrassed about today. I'm betting she doesn't even make it through the night here. She'll rip out the IV and come back to the hotel to make me a late-night snack. Ten to one. If you feel like handing me your money, get your bets in now."

The chat exploded with cheers.

I sat on the hospital bed and quietly exported the chat logs, payment records, and voice messages, then saved the full replay of the livestream.

This time, I didn't cry.

A relationship rotten to the core wasn't worth my tears.