She catches a break... for now

Chapter 8: A Little Fortuity

Natalie stepped away from the mirror, letting her gaze drift over her body. Naked now, she traced her fingers lightly along the bruises, along the welts and scratches that marred her skin. The thought made her shiver, an odd, guilty twinge stirring in her lower stomach. She couldn’t explain it—how something that had left her beaten, humiliated, and broken could also make her pulse faster in that strange, unwelcome way. She pressed her palms against her hips, staring down at herself. “Why… why does this turn me on?” she whispered, almost to the reflection that didn’t answer.

Her mind whirled. She wasn’t crying anymore—not really. The tears had come and gone; now there was only the ache, the burn, and the shame—mixed with something dangerously thrilling. Her body remembered the night in ways her mind struggled to admit. The humiliation, the pain, the exposure—all of it had etched itself into her nerves. And she realized she wanted more than just **** or restoration—she wanted attention, desire, someone to see her like this, to touch her, to dominate her… or maybe let her dominate them, but in a controlled, intoxicating way.

Shivering, she turned back to her closet, scanning her clothes. Her fingers brushed over skirts and tops, but none of it felt right—not for what she wanted. Finally, she pulled out the tightest, shortest dress she owned, the one that left little to the imagination, the deep plunging neckline daring the world to look. She slid into it, adjusting the straps, tugging the hem to sit just right over her hips. High heels went on, making her legs look longer, the bruises just visible enough to hint at last night’s story.

Natalie caught her reflection again, this time fully dressed, fully dolled up, and it was… unsettling. Her face was flawed slightly under the layers of makeup, but her body told more of the truth. The bruises, the scratches, the faint redness on her shoulders—they made her look alive, dangerous, tempting in a way she hadn’t expected. She didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel fragile. She felt… exposed. Wanting. Hungering for someone to notice her, to touch her, to acknowledge both her beauty and the vulnerability she carried so openly.

Her hands went to her hair, brushing it back from her face, letting the curls spill around her shoulders. She stepped closer to the mirror, tilting her head, letting her eyes meet her own. “What now?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Desire, shame, power—they all tangled together, a mess she wasn’t sure how to untangle.

Natalie sank onto her bed, the heels clicking softly against the floor as she propped her phone on her knees. Her fingers swiped to unlock it, the battery thankfully charged from her earlier plug-in.

At first, panic shot through her again—the notifications were relentless. Hundreds of missed messages, tags, and comments—but as she scrolled, her panic began to shift into confusion. The videos. They were disappearing. The clips from last night’s fight—the ones showing her battered, crawling, exposed—were gone from Instagram, Barstool, even the blurriest of reposted stories.

Her jaw went slack as she realized she couldn’t find them anywhere. Not just removed—they were scrubbed. Blurred accounts, deleted posts, vanished clips. Reddit threads that had started mocking her? Now they were defending her. Users were calling the guys who poured beer and spat on her out for ****, some even posting screenshots of messages demanding they be held accountable. Comments like “This woman was assaulted, not humiliated for sport. The real villains are those men!” ran across threads she never expected to find herself in.

Natalie kept scrolling, her eyes catching a small news clip embedded in one of the Reddit threads. One of the guys from the bar—the one who had poured the beer on her head—had been arrested. The mugshot showed him looking sheepish, handcuffed and flanked by officers. The caption read: “Local man arrested for **** after viral bar fight. Posted videos of victim online.”

She read on. Apparently, he had been bailed out quickly, his Instagram and LinkedIn accounts exposed in the reporting. People were digging into his online footprint, leaving traces of him exposed across social media for everyone to see. Yet, strangely, every clip of Natalie herself—the ones she had feared would ruin her—was gone. Blurred, deleted, scrubbed from every account, every repost, even the tiniest clip that someone had shared on Twitter.

Her brow furrowed. She understood the cleanup of his presence—the legal action, the outrage—but how had her videos vanished so fast? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t just Reddit or Instagram—Barstool, obscure reposts, were disappearing or being deleted.

She scrolled, half in disbelief, half in awe, trying to trace a pattern. Her mind kept circling the same impossible thought: Who—or what—was orchestrating this? It was almost as if some unseen **** had stepped in, selectively removing every trace of her humiliation while leaving the others exposed.

Her heartbeat picked up, part fear, part curiosity. Was it luck? Karma? Or… someone watching, making sure she survived the chaos she had fallen into?