Warning The Boy Who Will Destroy Me

Donovan Hayes had been caught cheating for the ninth time. I’d finally snapped, burying a kitchen knife in his chest. He spent three days and three nights fighting for his life in the ICU. The first thing he did when he woke up was ask for a divorce. The day I signed the papers, he didn’t dare look me in the eye. I didn’t offer a single word of protest. After the divorce was finalized, I methodically destroyed everything tied to Donovan. I didn’t even spare the long-forgotten, joint social media archive we’d created back in high school. Staring at the grainy, naïve photo of us, him with his arm slung around me, I slowly typed out a message: [Donovan, you will never deserve happiness.] My phone immediately vibrated with a reply: [Who is this? How dare you say that?] [I swear I will give Ella happiness.] The message stopped my breath. I stood there, stunned, and in the sudden silence of my apartment, I couldn’t help but remember. The seventeen-year-old Donovan, who had once stood in front of me, shielding me from the world, had sworn he would give me happiness. … 1. I stood rooted to the spot for a long time. That joint social media archive—the one seventeen-year-old Donovan had proudly made public—was now scrolling with familiar, yet alien, messages. [Who’s messing with D’s girl?] [Yeah, everyone knows D loves Scarlett to death.] Reading that line, I felt a sharp, hollow emptiness in my chest. The phone rang again, the poorly timed call cutting through the silence. It was my lawyer. “Scarlett,” her voice was clipped, professional. “They presented crucial evidence in court. They’re claiming Mr. Hayes is not solely responsible for the adultery.” “Instead…” “They’re claiming it was mutual.” I froze. The lawyer cleared her throat, her voice dropping to an uncomfortable whisper. “Mr. Hayes is arguing that you both cheated. And that your partner… was Rick Song, your former stepfather.” “He’s submitted records detailing the communication between you two over the years. And… records of your past sexual assault.” “He says you were guilty of marital infidelity, and that your relationship with him was never ‘pure’ even back then.” The world tilted. A sudden, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Seventeen-year-old Donovan might have loved me to death. But thirty-two-year-old Donovan, because of one woman, was tearing me apart, hoping I would simply vanish. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, bit back a sob, and typed out my reply: [This man, the one you say loves Scarlett to death, will cheat on her, force her to abort her child, drag her into court, and swear to make her miserable for the rest of her life.] The contact immediately flashed with a friend-add request. [You’re lying. Who are you? I will only ever love Scarlett. I would never make her suffer!] I endured the ache in my throat, looked down at the court summons Donovan had sent, and took a short video. Whether this was a cruel prank or truly seventeen-year-old Donovan, I sent the clip anyway. [Seventeen-year-old Donovan. I am thirty-two-year-old Scarlett.] [The future you will fall madly, tragically in love with another woman.] [You will be caught cheating countless times, you will lose a child with her, and then you will force me to abort mine. When I finally stab you, you will take me to court and swear to put me in jail.] [So, if you truly want Scarlett to be happy…] […Please never love her.] The video lingered in the chat window. For a long time, no reply came. I switched off my phone and let out a long, shaky breath. My eyes fell on the court summons lying on the floor. I remembered the look in his eyes—pure contempt—as he’d held Ella, addressing me. Scarlett, even you, if you hurt Ella, I will make you pay the price. 2. This was the eighth year of Donovan’s betrayal. It was the third year of our court battle. Court summons were stacked around the house, every single one repeating the same message: “You must pay the price for hurting Ella.” But hadn’t he once held my hand and promised to protect me forever? My heart twisted in a sudden, sharp spasm. The familiar ringing in my head returned, and the old pain flooded my memory. On my seventeenth birthday, my stepfather first cornered me in the dark. I was trembling, gripping a knife, ready to trade my life for his. But that night, Donovan snatched the knife from my hand. His eyes were red-rimmed as he plunged it into the bastard. Blood stained his thin school uniform as the police led him away. Even then, he was desperately trying to reassure me: “Scarlett, don’t be scared. I’ll make that scum pay.” He went to prison for me for three years. The day he was released, he held me tight, his eyes still red. “Scarlett, if you don’t mind what I’ve done, will you marry me?” So, we had no diamond ring, no wedding. We just shared a bowl of bacon at a no-frills, old-school diner. He picked every piece of bacon out of his plate and put it in mine. We looked at each other, eyes wet. Twenty-one-year-old Donovan, just like his seventeen-year-old self, swore he would give me happiness. From then on, he buried himself in work. When he drank so much for a client he bled internally, he just squeezed my hand tighter. “Scarlett, I promise I will make you happy.” And he did make a lot of money. He gave me the wedding we missed and finally slipped the diamond ring we couldn’t afford onto my finger. I thought this man would be my forever. But he broke his promise. He fell for the perpetually smiling intern. From the first time he brought her home for dinner, to the ninth time I caught them in bed, Donovan always played it cool. “We’re just colleagues, don’t overthink it.” Don’t overthink it gradually became don’t interfere. He came home less and less. When I asked, he’d only say, “I’m too busy with work. Do you enjoy managing my life so much?” I kept lying to myself. The man who swore to give me happiness wouldn’t betray me. Until they used our own bed, right beneath our oversized wedding photo, for their latest tryst. All my self-deception shattered like glass, shards piercing my heart. I fought back the numbness and finally screamed my question: “Why? You swore you would make me happy!” Donovan didn’t answer. He just watched my hysterics, then said coldly, “I was never going to love anyone forever, Scarlett. Stop making a scene.” In that moment, I felt hollowed out. He seemed to have forgotten he was the one who had guaranteed my lifelong happiness. Later, he was caught cheating again and again. And when Ella accidentally miscarried, he cried until his eyes were raw. He looked at my growing belly, clutching my hand. Seventeen-year-old Donovan had dreamt of us having a baby. But twenty-seven-year-old Donovan, because his beloved Ella had lost her child, forced me to abort mine. “Ella lost our baby. You having yours will only make her sad.” The moment I lost my child, all the suppressed pain erupted. Finally, the ninth time I caught them, I took a knife to Donovan’s chest and then slowly slashed my own wrists. We were both rushed to the ICU. The first thing he did upon release was file for divorce. He was red-eyed when he signed the papers, afraid to look at me. But as he walked away, with Ella on his arm, he muttered something through gritted teeth. I was too numb to hear it clearly. It wasn’t until he demanded I leave with nothing and dragged me into court that his words echoed back to me. Scarlett, you must pay the price for the hurt Ella has suffered. The tears I’d been holding back spilled, splattering onto my phone screen. The screen lit up again. It was a flood of messages from seventeen-year-old Donovan: questions, anguish, and finally, a firm declaration: [I will prove it to you! I will give Scarlett happiness!] I smiled bitterly. Seventeen-year-old Donovan loved me far more than I had ever imagined. But thirty-two-year-old Donovan loved me far less than his younger self could ever conceive. 3. Looking at the blinking notification, I let out a long breath and switched off the phone. Over the next few days, our chat history became a record of his teenage romance. Knowing that we were destined to break up only made seventeen-year-old Donovan love me harder. He began documenting every small moment they shared. Today, it was the strawberry lollipop he’d smuggled into her pocket. Tomorrow, it was Scarlett concentrating on her math homework in the sunlight. And the perfectly recorded breakfast: a carton of strawberry milk and a hard-boiled egg he’d already peeled. The lens never lies when you’re in love. Just like now, Donovan was announcing his impending fatherhood with Ella to the entire world—hiring a publicist, getting custom announcements, and searching for the perfect name. In the photos, he held Ella’s stomach, looking blissfully happy. I believe in true love. But true love is momentary, and it changes. If seventeen-year-old Donovan met the present-day Ella, he would be equally smitten. She was younger, kinder, shared his career goals, and had all his interests. And I? I was left with only a broken, ugly promise. I spent the next few days working with my lawyer, collecting evidence. Meanwhile, the public outrage on social media exploded. [Seriously, how can someone fall for the person who assaulted them? That’s sick.] [I heard it was her stepfather. No wonder the husband divorced her. What kind of man could live with that?] When a reporter cornered Donovan for an interview, he gave a cold answer. Scarlett, this is what you owe Ella. Yet, the pop-up on my phone showed seventeen-year-old Donovan’s defiant commitment: [Scarlett, I swear I’ll give you happiness.] Seventeen-year-old Donovan would fight the world for me. Thirty-two-year-old Donovan gave me up for his world. That night, I lay silently in bed. The years of emotional destruction suddenly rushed back like a tidal wave. The next day, the media tracked down my home address. Facing the woman they labeled a “shameless whore” for my association with my stepfather, my house was besieged by reporters. “Slut,” “pervert,” and every other foul word imaginable rained down on me. My already ruined life just got a lot worse. Donovan gave another sweeping statement to the press: Scarlett, we are adults. We must take responsibility for our mistakes. Seventeen years ago, I went to prison for you once. Now, it’s time for you to take responsibility for your actions. But on my phone, seventeen-year-old Donovan messaged: [Scarlett, I told my girl that we’ll get married, and she didn’t believe me!] A sharp, painful jolt in my brain. Suddenly, a strange, disjointed memory filled my mind: a smug, seventeen-year-old Donovan telling me he had met my thirty-two-year-old self. I shot up in bed. I finally understood. The two timelines were connected. The past could alter the present. If I could stop seventeen-year-old Donovan from delivering that birthday gift, he might never have found out about my stepfather’s abuse. If he hadn’t found out… would Donovan and I have never gotten together in this timeline? My hands, gripping the phone, started to shake. I began to tentatively ask young Donovan to send me small, inconsequential things. Suddenly, a vase of dried-up preserved roses—objects I had meticulously destroyed—appeared in the dusty junk room. Lying in bed, I smiled, and then the tears started to flow. One week. I had one week before the court date. If I could just prevent seventeen-year-old Donovan from saving me, all this present misery could end. 4. So, for that last week, I frantically planned how to make Donovan miss my birthday. On my phone, he was happily sending pictures of the gifts he’d prepared: the preserved roses, a teddy bear, and Scarlett’s favorite strawberry lollipop. He grumbled: [Scarlett’s been acting weird lately. Does she think I forgot her birthday?] I didn’t tell him that seventeen-year-old Scarlett was suffering, soaking herself in a bathtub, letting her skin wrinkle and redden, unable to face the world. [She hates birthdays because her parents divorced on that day. Leave her alone.] He swore: [I will make sure she loves every birthday from now on.] I whispered a bitter, “Self-absorbed,” to myself. The day before my birthday, he messaged me drunk: [Thirty-two-year-old Scarlett, why did the seventeen-year-old you just try to break up with me?] I didn’t tell him that seventeen-year-old Scarlett had lost the will to live and felt she didn’t deserve a boy as good as Donovan. [You aren’t good enough for her. Stop bothering her.] He sobbed out a few replies: [You’re lying! We get married later!] [I swore I would make her happy!] My hand clenched around the phone, my body trembling with the effort to hold back my pain. He was more stubborn than I had anticipated. [Seventeen-year-old Donovan, if you want to be with Scarlett forever, go wait on the Brooklyn Bridge for a snowstorm on her birthday. She will accept your declaration, and you’ll be happily together forever.] I didn’t tell him it wasn’t going to snow that night. Messages popped up instantly: [Really?] [But you said we couldn’t be together?] Swallowing the sourness in my throat, my hands shook as I replied: [I didn’t lie. I was just testing you. You passed.] I closed the phone. The messages stopped. It turned out seventeen-year-old Donovan loved that silly girl much, much more than I thought. But there was no snow forecast for the Brooklyn Bridge. Just like there was no future for me and Donovan. I just wanted to give Donovan his life back. And to finally release myself. I felt a profound guilt for lying to the boy. That night, a sparse, chilling rain fell outside the window. I didn’t sleep. The next day, my lawyer accompanied me into the courtroom. Inside, Donovan was wearing his preferred white shirt, though it was now under a severe, dark charcoal suit. The memory of the teenage boy was entirely hidden. Three years hadn’t changed his face, but his hatred for me seemed to have been cemented. He saw me, his lips twitching rigidly, but his throat bobbed, and he didn’t say a word. My phone vibrated with a message from seventeen-year-old Donovan: [I’m at the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s not snowing yet. When are you coming?] [You promised me we would be very, very, very happy, right?] I looked at the brutal adultery evidence presented to the court, the tears pressed painfully behind my eyes, but I still managed to reply, my hands shaking. [Yes, you will be very happy.] [You will live in a beautiful house, own a cat, and have two adorable children.] But that person wouldn’t be me. I slowly closed my eyes, leaving the final words unsaid. I listened as Donovan, in painstaking detail, tore open all my old wounds for the court. “Scarlett, you must pay the price for hurting Ella.” “Now, everything has to end.” I stood paralyzed, the weight of all my past sorrows crashing down. Then, a flicker caught my eye. Outside the window, a few, fragile flakes of snow began to drift down. My phone immediately popped up with a new message: [Scarlett, tell me where you are!] [They said the police caught you. Don’t scare me, please!] In the courtroom, I felt dizzy. Blood seeped through my clothes, and I collapsed onto the floor, a pathetic, ruined heap. I saw the countless self-inflicted scars snaking up my arms, and in my peripheral vision, I saw Donovan staring tenderly at Ella. I knew it was over. Seventeen-year-old Donovan had ultimately failed to become Scarlett’s teenage hero. But looking down at my phone, the screen scrolling with frantic messages, the newest one, sent just a minute ago, read: [Thirty-two-year-old Scarlett, I finally found you.] [Why did you lie to me back then? Why did you make me miss Scarlett, so I could never see her again?] I looked up in terror, locking eyes with Donovan. His face was scarlet, hollowed out, as if his soul had been ripped away. “Scarlett,” he whispered, his eyes blazing, “Why did you lie to me back then?”