16. Lydia
SIXTEEN
LYDIA
T wo months in, Patrick has become part of my routine.
He knows how I take my coffee, which vape flavor calms me down when I’m overstimulated, and when to stay silent during ranked matches.
Hell, my daughter even meets him. I don’t let her meet any of the guys I’m with for at least a year. But this feels right.
He’s charming, composed, and so fucking pretty in photos. He smiles into my camera like he belongs there when he lets me post him. My followers think we’re perfect, streaming couple goals, gamer girl, and her hot private security boyfriend.
But perfection is a knife with a pearl handle.
The sharper it gets, the easier it is to miss when you’re bleeding.
The event is my first fan meet-up since going semi-viral. I haven’t done anything in-person since before the pandemic, but one of my sponsors put together a pop-up gaming event, and they begged me to show.
The crowd is buzzing, with neon lights, music, and folding tables stacked with stickers and posters. Girls with their eyeliner sharp enough to kill, guys in tactical hoodies trying not to stare too hard at my tits.
I wear what I always wear when I want to feel powerful. A cropped black tee with my username in rhinestones across the chest, high-waisted cargo pants, boots, and my signature red-and-blonde hair styled into effortless chaos. My nails are sharp. My makeup is fire. I look untouchable.
Patrick stands beside me in all black. He doesn’t wear a badge or a smile. Just that controlling calm, the same one he uses when my chat gets too rowdy, or I mention Trip in passing.
“Security boyfriend,” someone whispers behind a booth.
“God, he’s hot.”
“I think I follow him, he’s that guy on TikTok with the arms.”
He loves it.
I watch his ego inflate with every passing compliment. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, tucks his shades onto his head, and stays close enough to look like he belongs, but far enough that he doesn’t seem possessive.
At least not to them.
The moment happens quickly.
A female streamer I vaguely remember from Discord comes up to say “hi.” Raye . Pretty. Big following. The kind of girl who looks good in brand deals and better in gaming chairs.
“LydieLIVE,” she says, too loudly, pulling me into a hug. “God, I haven’t seen you since,” she trails off trying to remember the last meeting we had, forever ago.
I fake a smile. “Hey, yeah! Nice to see you again.”
Patrick steps closer.
Raye’s eyes flick over him like she’s scanning a menu.
“You brought backup?” she asks, smirking.
Patrick gives her one of those slow, devastating once-overs and holds out his hand. “Patrick.”
They shake. Her hand lingers.
“So this is the man everyone’s thirsting over,” she purrs.
Patrick doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at me. Just smiles like he’s enjoying being recognized.
Like he wants to be seen.
I reach for his arm, and he pulls away, leaning into Raye.
“Hug?” He asks.
She jumps up and down, clapping. “Yes, please!” She squeals.
I sit there, my eyes bulging out.
“Ummm. I’m going to go over there,” I say, pointing to the back of my area.
I need to get away from people right now.
I walk off, seeing him hug her in my peripheral as I turn, the hug lasts so long, his hands trail so low. I’m not the jealous type. I’m really not. But that just feels wrong.
I hear his footsteps running up behind me before I feel his hand grip my shoulder, spinning me around to him.
“Oh, come on,” Patrick says, an annoyed look on his face. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’d never leave you for someone I just met,” he says, still smiling at Raye. “Especially in front of you.”
My stomach twists.
The words are light. Teasing. But the undercurrent cuts like glass, and they come out of fucking nowhere. When did I say he was going to leave me for her?
Raye laughs in the distance, overhearing him, tossing her hair, and wandering off.
I don’t laugh.
I stand there, my jaw clenched, every bone in my body turning cold.
“I’m going to the car,” I say quietly.
Patrick blinks. “Babe…”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You’re overreacting.”
I turn and walk, pretending the tears in my eyes are just from the wind.
We fight in the car.
I told him I feel humiliated. Disrespected.
He told me I’m insecure. Dramatic.
“You’re reading into everything,” he says, gripping the steering wheel too tightly. “It was a fucking joke.”
“It didn’t feel like one.”
“You always do this. Turn nothing into an insult. You can dish it on stream but can’t take it in real life?”
I don’t respond. I just stare out the window, numb.
“You know what?” he adds. “Maybe you just need space. Cool off. Sleep.”
I don’t even wait to get upstairs before texting him.
[Lydia]: I can’t do this. I’m done.
He doesn’t answer.
Two days later, he posts a TikTok.
Him and Raye. Laughing. Matching hoodies.
Caption:
When you finally upgrade from the starter pack.
I sit on the floor of my bathroom, knees to my chest, phone in one hand, disbelief thick in my throat.
The comments are full of fire emojis and “finally” replies from his followers. People who had once posted heart eyes under photos of me and him now cheer for the new girl like I never existed.
I make a video.
Nothing serious, just a duet. Me staring blankly at the camera while his TikTok plays beside me. The caption reads:
He bought me flowers once, too. Then he used them for the next girl.
It gets a million views in an hour. I don’t do it as revenge, I did it out of hurt, I did it to show my pain. I did it because I’m real on my social media. I don’t just show the good. But men don’t care about that, do they? Men are pettier than women.
He retaliates by doxxing me.
The messages start small.
You deserve to be raped.
Found your address, slut.
Your daughter’s school is cute.
They find old photos. Screenshots from old streams. One guy uploads a blurred image of my home’s front door.
On day two, I sent my daughter to her grandparents on the other side of the country. I can’t risk her safety. Having to put her on an airplane because of some fucking man I brought into our lives is hell. I spend the whole day crying in bed.
I shut everything down for the time being.
Discord. Twitch. OnlyFans. TikTok.
I turn off my phone. Pull the blinds. Sleep on the floor with the lights on.
The anxiety comes in waves, hot flushes of panic followed by cold sweats and the inability to breathe. Every knock on the wall sends me into a spiral. Every engine outside makes me reach for a knife I’ve never used.
I don’t tell anyone.
I don’t want to be a victim.
Don’t want to admit I let someone inside my house, my body, my brand, and now he’s poisoning all three.
But Trip notices.
Because, of course, he does.
The messages roll in.
[TripsterGuy]: You okay, killstreak?
[TripsterGuy]: Say something. Anything.
[TripsterGuy]: Lydia.
[TripsterGuy]: I know what he did, little killer.
[TripsterGuy]: Please open the door if I knock.
And then…
[TripsterGuy]: I’ll stay outside all night if I have to. I’m not letting you go dark like this. Not alone.
I don’t respond.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I’m not sure which version of me he’d find when I open the door.
The girl who used to laugh into the mic, or the one curled up under a blanket, waiting for the next hit to land.