My Rockstar Boyfriend Ruined My Future for His Other Girl

The November wind cut through the glass canyons of Midtown, but inside my tailored navy suit, my palms were sweating.

Eight months.

Eight months of five a.m. alarms, endless financial modeling drills, and grueling case studies had all led to this single glass tower on Park Avenue. The final round for the summer analyst class at one of Manhattan’s top investment banks.

I stood outside the revolving doors, clutching my leather portfolio tightly against my ribs. Check-in began in an hour, and I wanted to be first in line.

Then my phone vibrated in my hand.

The caller ID showed Chase—my boyfriend of four years, whose face had been plastered across billboards nationwide ever since his pop career exploded last spring.

I answered right away. "Chase? I'm standing right outside the building—"

"Is this Evelyn?" a frantic male voice shouted through the speaker.

Static crackled over the line, followed by the blare of sirens and rushed shouting.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Ma'am, there was a terrible crash on the expressway," the man said, breathing hard. "The tour van flipped. Mr. Ward took the brunt of the impact. We're rushing him into the emergency room right now, and he's in critical condition. He's bleeding out."

The color drained from my face. The noise of the city seemed to drop away entirely.

"What?" I gripped the phone with white knuckles. "Which hospital? Tell me where he is!"

"St. Jude Trauma Center. Get here now."

The call cut off.

I stared at the black screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Wait! Hello?"

I redialed his number. It rang out and went to voicemail. I called again. Still nothing.

In front of me, the line of suited applicants had begun shuffling forward toward the security stanchions. The guard was checking badges.

I didn't hesitate. I couldn't.

I turned around, broke away from the queue, and ran into the street, waving frantically at an oncoming yellow cab.

"St. Jude's," I told the driver, throwing myself into the back seat. "Please, step on it. My boyfriend is in the ER."

The car surged forward into traffic. I kept redialing Chase’s number, pressing the phone to my ear until my fingers went numb.

My mind raced back to our freshman year of college. I had fallen victim to a fake scholarship scam that wiped out every cent of my living expenses for the semester. I had sat on the floor of my dorm room, sobbing until I could barely breathe. Chase hadn't been famous back then—he was just a broke college kid playing open-mic nights in dive bars. But he had emptied his tip jar, handed me every dollar he made that month, and pulled me into his arms.

*The world is full of liars,* he had told me that night. *But you'll always have me.*

I had built four years of trust on those words. Whatever happened, Chase was the one person who would never deceive me.

Forty minutes later, the cab pulled up near the medical center.

I threw cash at the driver and bolted through the freezing slush toward the main entrance, out of breath and trembling.

Then, across the street, a familiar figure through the plate-glass window of a bakery caught my eye.

A dark baseball cap. A designer shearling jacket.

Chase.

He wasn't in surgery. He wasn't hooked up to life support.

He was sitting comfortably in a corner booth, laughing so hard he leaned back against the leather cushions. Sitting across from him was Madison, holding up her phone, practically doubled over the table with laughter.

"I told you she'd fall for it!" Madison gasped, her voice slicing through the air as I pushed open the bakery door. "One phone call, and she ditched the biggest interview of her life!"

Chase smiled, scooping up a bite of strawberry cake with his fork and feeding it to Madison. "Alright, you win. I lost the bet. I'll take you to that private theme park next weekend."

My hands went limp.

The portfolio slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor with a flat smack.

The sound broke through their laughter.

Madison looked up, her grin freezing before she quickly covered her mouth with manicured fingers. "Oh my God, Evelyn! You actually came?"

Chase turned his head. There was no guilt in his eyes, no flicker of remorse. He simply looked amused.

He stood up from the booth, plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser, and walked over to me. Raising a hand, he gently wiped the sweat from my forehead.

"Look at you, babe. Running all this way," Chase said, his tone smooth and light. "Consider this your first lesson in surviving out there. You can't just believe every random phone call you get. You need to be sharper."

My voice shook with disbelief. "A phone call? You had someone tell me you were dying."

"It was just a harmless bet," Madison said from the table, stirring her iced drink. "I told Chase you were way too naive to make it on Wall Street. Seems like I was right."

"A harmless bet?" The fury rose in my throat, choking me. "Today was my final interview! I woke up at five every morning for eight months. I studied until my back gave out. That was my career, Chase!"

Chase sighed, glancing down at his watch. "It's just an interview. There will be others."

"There are no others!" I shouted, drawing stares from the entire cafe. "They recruit once a year. If you miss your window, you're done!"

He clicked his tongue, mildly annoyed. "Fine. If you're going to make a scene, I'll drive you back. Come on."

Madison slid directly into the front passenger seat of his SUV, leaving me to scramble into the back.

"Don't be so dramatic, Evelyn," Madison said, adjusting the rearview mirror to check her lip gloss. "I was only trying to prove a point. You trust people way too easily."

I clenched my fists in my lap, staring at the digital clock on the dashboard. Eight forty-eight.

"Drive faster, Chase," I urged. "Check-in closes at nine sharp."

"I'm driving, relax," he replied casually. He reached over the console and picked up my folder from the seat. "Let me straighten this out for you. You dropped your papers all over the floor."

"Just give it back," I muttered, snatching the leather binder from his hands once he finished zipping it shut.

At eight fifty-nine, his car pulled up in front of the Park Avenue skyscraper.

I burst out of the SUV and sprinted through the revolving doors, my heels slamming against the marble floor.

"Evelyn Ross," I panted, bracing both hands on the security counter. "Summer analyst final round. I'm checking in."

The security guard looked up from his computer. "I need your government-issued photo ID and your printed registration packet."

"Yes, right here."

My fingers shook as I pulled the zipper open.

My passport was gone.

The glossy presentation deck I had prepared was gone.

My backup flash drive was gone.

In their place was a single square of pink cardstock. On it, drawn in bright marker, was a cartoon pig with crossed-out eyes. Beneath it was a short note:

*Lesson Two: Never trust anyone with your future.*

*Love, Chase & Madison.*

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

Chase had cleared it out in the car.

"Miss? I need your ID," the guard repeated.

"My passport was in here," I pleaded, desperately shaking the empty pockets of the folder. "Someone took it. I have digital copies on my phone—"

"Physical ID only for high-security floors," the guard said, glancing up at the wall clock.

The display flipped to 9:00 AM.

A chime sounded from his terminal, and a red banner flashed across the screen: *REGISTRATION CLOSED.*

"System is locked," the guard said, waving a hand toward the exit. "You missed the window. You'll have to leave the lobby."

"Please," I begged, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. "Please, just let me go upstairs. I worked eight months for this!"

"Step back, miss, or I'll have security remove you."

I stood alone in the cavernous lobby, clutching the pink pig card against my chest while other candidates boarded the elevators.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

A message from Chase:

*See? You still have so much to learn.*

I stared at the words, my hands trembling, and for the first time in four years, I didn't send a response.

A second later, a notification from his private fan community app popped up on my lock screen.

A new video had just been uploaded by his official account.

The title read: *My girlfriend failed another trust test.*

I tapped it.

The screen showed a split video. On the left were Chase and Madison laughing at the bakery. On the right was dashcam footage from the taxi I had taken—capturing my pale, tear-streaked face as I begged the driver to hurry before my boyfriend died.

Below the clip, thousands of comments and laughing reactions were already rolling in.