Fifty Dollar Bet, Million Dollar Revenge

For fifty dollars, I sold a piece of my dignity to the school's golden boy. I was eighteen, starving, and desperate enough to take his bet.

That single photo destroyed my life. I became "Fifty-Dollar Ella," the school slut, haunted by whispers and scorn.

My stepmother and stepsister reveled in my public humiliation, ensuring my life was a living hell.

I spent the next decade clawing my way to the top of Wall Street, but I died alone, filled with the bitter regret of a stolen youth.

Until the end, I never understood why they all hated me so much.

Then, I opened my eyes. I was eighteen again, back in that classroom, moments before the bet that ruined me. A shadow fell over my desk. It was him.

"Meet me after school," Javier Mack whispered, a smug look on his face.

But this time, the scared, hungry girl was gone. In her place was a shark. And I was ready to play.

Chapter 1

Ella Walker POV:

I woke up because I was starving.

It was a gnawing, hollow ache in my stomach that twisted itself into a tight knot. It was a familiar feeling, one that had been a constant companion in my eighteenth year. My head was pillowed on my crossed arms, my cheek pressed against the rough, pilled fabric of my school uniform's sleeve. The scent of chalk dust and cheap disinfectant filled my nose.

I didn't move. I kept my eyes closed, letting my other senses take over.

The low hum of the classroom fluorescent lights.

The scratchy sound of a pencil against paper a few desks away.

And the whispers.

"Look at her. Sleeps all the time. Must be exhausted from… you know."

A snicker. "For fifty bucks, I'd be exhausted too."

The voices were young, laced with the casual cruelty of teenage boys who thought they were men. I recognized them. In another life, a life that ended just hours ago in a plush, soundproofed Manhattan penthouse, these voices were a faint, pathetic echo from a past I had buried under a mountain of stock portfolios and six-figure bonuses.

Now, they were right behind me. Fresh. Real.

"Is he really going to do it? Mack?" another voice asked, lower, a little more hesitant.

"Of course, he is. It's Javier Mack. And she's Ella Walker. She's pretty, but she's poor as dirt. She'd do anything for money."

That was the bet. The one that had shattered my youth. The fifty-dollar bet for Javier Mack, the school's golden boy quarterback, to get a compromising photo of me. In the life I remembered, I took that bet. Desperation and hunger were a powerful combination.

"He's going over," someone hissed.

I tensed, but my breathing remained even, my body still. I was a statue of a sleeping girl, a perfect picture of vulnerability. But behind my closed eyelids, my mind was a razor-sharp machine, whirring with ten years of Wall Street ruthlessness. This wasn't a nightmare. This was a second chance.

A shadow fell over my desk. I felt the warmth of a body standing close. I waited. Years of high-stakes negotiations had taught me the power of silence. Let them make the first move. Always.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A finger on my desk. Light, hesitant.

I stirred, a perfect imitation of a groggy teenager being woken from a much-needed nap. I lifted my head slowly, blinking my eyes as if they were heavy with sleep. I ran a hand through my messy hair and looked up.

Javier Mack.

He stood there, all handsome, wealthy, popular arrogance wrapped in a varsity jacket. His hair was perfectly tousled, his smile was a practiced, charming thing, but his eyes… his eyes held a flicker of something else. Unease. He wasn't as confident as his friends thought he was.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low drawl.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice raspy, just as a girl who'd been sleeping would sound.

He leaned in, propping a hand on my desk. He smelled of expensive cologne and something uniquely his, something that for a decade had been synonymous with humiliation.

"Meet me after school," he said, not a question, but a command. "Behind the bleachers."

I stared at him. I saw the faint blush on his neck, the way his thumb nervously rubbed against his index finger. He was putting on a show for his friends. A predator pretending to be nonchalant as he cornered his prey.

But the prey wasn't a scared, hungry girl anymore. The prey was a 28-year-old shark in a teenager's body.

I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Okay."

He seemed surprised by my easy agreement. He'd probably expected a fight, some pleading, some negotiation.

"Just… wait for me there," he said, straightening up. He shot a smug, victorious look over his shoulder at his friends.

He turned and sauntered away, a king in his high school kingdom.

I heard the snickers behind me turn into low, appreciative chuckles. They thought he'd won. They thought I was easy.

I slowly lowered my head back onto my arms, the rough fabric of my sleeve a grounding reality. The gnawing hunger was still there, a cold, hard reminder of why I had fallen into his trap the first time.

God, or whoever was in charge of this cruel cosmic joke, had sent me back. Back to the starting line of my own personal hell.

But they had made a fatal mistake. They sent me back with my memories.

And this time, the game was mine.