MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The profile Kevin constructs for me is a masterpiece of digital camouflage, an identity both specific enough to be believable and generic enough to be invisible. Jessica Martin is a new user on several platforms, her interests curated to reflect a burgeoning interest in relationship advice and mental health resources. She is in her late twenties, works in retail, and has recently moved to Portland. She is, in essence, a ghost, a digital shell designed for a single purpose.

“This is how you will contact her,” Kevin says, his voice low as he shows me the real, public profile of Sarah Vance. “Louis’s girlfriend before you. They dated for fourteen months, and their breakup happened about two years ago, just a few months before you two met. Look at her posts from that time.”

I scroll through the digital archive of Sarah’s life. The beginning is a familiar, painful story, full of happy couple photos, inside jokes, and affectionate comments. Then, the tone begins to shift. There are fewer photos of them together, replaced by more solo shots with captions that hint at a deeper turmoil. The captions become vague, filled with references to “learning to trust myself again” and “understanding my own worth.” The relationship ends without an announcement, marked only by Louis’s sudden, complete absence from her feed. In the months that follow, she posts occasionally about healing and establishing healthy boundaries, using the careful, coded language of someone who is unable, or unwilling, to tell the full story.

“She went quiet about the breakup,” I observe, the pattern chillingly familiar.

“Because Louis controlled the narrative first, just as he did with you,” Kevin explains. “He told their mutual friends that she was becoming ‘intense’ and had ‘serious trust issues.’ He effectively poisoned the well, making her seem unreliable before she could ever share her side of the story. She chose silence over fighting a battle she knew she would lose.” Kevin pulls up more information, cross-referencing her current social media activity. “But look at her recent posts. She is in a healthy, stable relationship now. She talks about how therapy has helped her recognize the signs of gaslighting. She has recovered, which means she might finally be willing to talk.”

I send the first message as Jessica Martin. The words are carefully chosen, designed to sound sympathetic and relatable without being overly inquisitive. I present myself as another woman navigating the confusing aftermath of a difficult relationship, reaching out to someone whose posts about healing resonated with her. Sarah responds two days later. Our initial conversations are light, an exchange of pleasantries and generic advice. I wait a full week, building a fragile rapport, before casually mentioning that my ex was particularly adept at making me question my own memory of events.

The reply comes almost instantly. “Mine too,” Sarah writes. “It took months of therapy for me to realize that what I experienced was not normal.”

The conversation deepens gradually from there. I do not push or pry. Instead, I share carefully fabricated stories about my fake relationship, stories that mirror the specific manipulation tactics Louis used on me. Sarah recognizes them immediately. She begins to open up, her initial caution giving way to a flood of painful memories.

“The worst part was how he would twist everything,” she writes one evening, the messages coming in a rapid-fire sequence. “I would be upset about something real, something he had verifiably done, and by the end of the conversation, I would be the one apologizing to him. He made me feel completely crazy for having normal emotional reactions to his betrayals.”

“What kind of behavior?” I ask, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

There is a long pause before her next message appears. “Is this confidential? Truly?”

“Completely,” I lie, a pang of guilt piercing my resolve.

Sarah then tells me everything, her story filling in the missing gaps in Louis’s long pattern of abuse. The cheating was constant, she reveals, not just physical but emotional, a complex web of relationships he maintained simultaneously. He would gaslight her about it, showing her doctored screenshots of innocent conversations while hiding the more incriminating ones. When she found undeniable proof, he would break down in tears and promise to change, only to later blame her for not trusting him enough when she remained cautious. “He told everyone I was controlling and possessive,” Sarah writes, the pain still palpable in her words. “He made me sound like a jealous nightmare. I lost my entire social circle because he got to them first with his version of the story.”

“That must have been devastating,” I type, the words feeling inadequate.

“It was. But what truly crushed me was when he made a social media post about ‘escaping toxic relationships’ just days after we broke up. He built his entire internet persona on the lie that he had survived me.”

My heart races. “Are you talking about Louis Cole?”

The typing indicator on the screen appears and disappears several times before her reply comes through. “How did you know his name?”

I abandon the pretense, the weight of the deception suddenly too much to bear. “Because he did the exact same thing to me.”

There is another long pause, this one stretching for nearly a minute. “Nicky?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god,” her messages come in a rush of shocked recognition. “I saw what happened to you. I watched the whole thing unfold. I wanted to say something, to defend you, but I was terrified. He destroyed you so easily. I could not…”

“I understand,” I type, and I truly do. “I am not asking you to go public. I just needed to know that I was not alone, that what I experienced was real.”

“It was real. All of it.” Sarah sends a screenshot, then another, and another. “I kept some things, proof that I had not imagined everything. Emails where he admitted to lying, texts where he mocked me to his friends. I have never shown them to anyone.”

“Can I see them?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“Will this help take him down for good?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can have whatever you need. He does not get to do this to people and build an empire on their pain.” She sends everything. The evidence is damning, a clear and undeniable pattern of manipulation and calculated cruelty.

“Thank you,” I tell her, my heart aching for this stranger who shares my scars.

“No, thank you,” she responds. “For fighting back. For not staying silent like I did.”