KISS OF HIS BETRAYAL
Urgent.
With the call still on speaker, I tapped open W******p.
The screen lit up— text after text, image after image, flooding in from an unknown number.
No name. No context. Just a stream of messages, each one more unsettling than the last.
The images were more graphic than ever. Some were real— me in the shower, unaware, water cascading down my back, my silhouette visible through the frosted glass.
Others were AI-generated nightmares— me with men I’d never met, women I didn’t know, in poses too vulgar to describe. My body twisted, contorted, displayed like a product.
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