Chapter 3: Auntie’s Warnings and Mitchell’s Lies

She’d said it gently, but I heard the warning in her voice. I brushed her off, thinking I knew better.

Looking back, Auntie was right about everything.

If I’d listened, I could’ve saved myself so much pain. But I had to learn the hard way.

My mom died giving birth to me. Before I was six months old, my dad ran off and never came back.

I grew up with a hole in my heart, always looking for someone to fill it. Aunt Carol did her best, but I still felt the ache.

Auntie was basically my real mom.

She packed my lunches, cheered at my games, taught me how to drive. She was there for every scraped knee and broken heart.

And I actually fought with her over a guy like that?

I wanted to go back in time and hug her, tell her I was sorry. Tell her she was right.

I drove straight to Auntie Carol’s house. The city felt different, somehow.

She was in the kitchen, hands dusted with flour, making my favorite mac and cheese.

The smell hit me as soon as I walked in. Warm, buttery, cheesy. It was comfort in a casserole dish. I almost cried.

I didn’t care—I hugged her tight and wouldn’t let go.

She grumbled, but hugged me back. Her arms were strong, steady. I felt safe for the first time in months. A flash of childhood—her hugging me after my first lost soccer game—came to mind.

Auntie grumbled, "If you don’t listen to your elders, you’ll learn the hard way."

She tried to sound stern, but her voice was soft. I buried my face in her shoulder.

"I watched you jump into that mess."

She sighed, shaking her head. "It’s not easy making money—how could you just hand it over?"

She was right, of course. She always was.

Auntie thought I’d already signed.

She looked at me, waiting for me to confess. I let her talk, knowing she needed to get it out.

I waited for her to finish, then grinned, "So how about I give my money to you to manage?"

I tried to lighten the mood, but she just rolled her eyes and nudged me aside. "No way," Auntie said. "Manage your own money. I’m too old for that."

She wiped her hands on her apron, pretending to be annoyed. But I saw the relief in her eyes.

Then she realized, surprised: "You didn’t sign?"

She stopped mid-stir, spoon in the air. I grinned, dropping pasta into the pot. This felt right.

"Nope," I said, dropping a handful of elbow pasta into the boiling pot. "And I dumped him today."

The words felt good—like a weight off my chest. Aunt Carol’s eyes widened.

Auntie’s eyes widened. "Really?"

She dropped the spoon, grabbed my face, and looked me up and down. Like she was checking for injuries. "No matter how much I tried to talk sense into you, you never listened. Little girl, did you finally wise up? What changed your mind?"

I said, "I had a dream. Would you believe it? Because I stayed with him, I accidentally got pregnant, lost my fans, and when I hit rock bottom, he took all my money and ran. I couldn’t take it and ended it all."

I watched her face, wondering if she’d believe me. She snorted, shaking her head.

Auntie knocked on wood.

She crossed herself, muttering about superstitions. I smiled, feeling lighter.

I said, "I finally believe what everyone said. I can see it now—he never really cared about me, he just wanted my money."

The words tasted bitter, but true. Aunt Carol nodded, her eyes softening.

Auntie looked at me with relief. "Don’t let this make you doubt yourself. Our Nora is so lovely—there’ll be guys who love you."

She tucked a stray hair behind my ear, her voice gentle. I blushed, looking away. Still a kid, I guess.

I blushed—love or not, who cares?

Right now, I just wanted to feel whole again. Aunt Carol squeezed my hand.

But Auntie was worried. "He didn’t get what he wanted, and he’s got a temper. Will he do anything crazy?"

Her eyes narrowed. She’d seen enough Lifetime movies to know how these things go.

Auntie’s worry soon came true.

That day, Mitchell did a paid livestream targeting my fans. He went live and charged fans to watch.

He couldn’t let go, couldn’t stand losing control. I saw the notification pop up and my stomach dropped.

It shot up the trending page.

Within minutes, my phone blew up. DMs, texts, even my old high school friends were asking what was going on.

In my last life, he did a paid stream just like this. The topic? How we got together.

I remembered every smug smile, every carefully crafted story. He loved being the center of attention.

Every word, every sentence, he was so smug.

He acted like he was the hero, the victim, the star of the show. I wanted to throw my phone across the room. Unbelievable.

The gist: I chased him.

He made it sound like I’d begged him for a date, like I couldn’t live without him. The comments were brutal.

I’m a sports blogger.

People followed me for my takes on basketball, my trick shots, my sideline interviews. Not for this soap opera.

I met Mitchell at a local pool hall. I was filming, and he wandered over to watch.

He leaned against the jukebox, watching me sink shot after shot. He acted like he knew everyone there, like he owned the place.

After I finished, he pointed out my mistakes and taught me a few tricks.

He showed me how to angle the cue, how to follow through. I thought he was charming, worldly. I was wrong.

I filmed again, and the results were better.

I was grateful. I thought maybe he saw something in me that no one else did.

Out of gratitude, I offered to treat him to dinner.

We went to a burger joint down the street. He ordered for both of us, told stories about his glory days. I listened, laughing at all the right moments.

After that, he started pursuing me—always showing concern, always checking in on my growth.

He’d send flowers, leave notes, show up at my shoots with coffee. It felt like a movie, until it didn’t.

I caught feelings. It was like I was under a spell.

I ignored the red flags. I let myself believe he was different. I wanted to believe.

After the breakup, I saw a therapist.

I sat on that couch, picking at a loose thread, telling my story over and over. The therapist nodded, scribbled notes, asked about my childhood.