So I Became His 'Dead' Ex to Destroy Him

For three whole years, I pretended to be Ethan Parker's girlfriend—only to realize, too late, that I'd actually fallen for him.

Just as I was working up the nerve to tell him I was pregnant, I overheard Brittany—the girl who'd always had it out for me—talking to him.

"Thanks for faking amnesia to help me get back at Olivia," she said. "One hundred pranks, and I'll go out with you."

My whole world came crashing down.

I was nothing more than a pawn in his twisted game to win over Brittany—his unrequited crush.

So I died in a staged plane crash.

Ethan searched the wreckage like a madman until he found a single ring, engraved with the words: "Prank 100: I bet you love me."

They say he cried until he passed out and woke up in the hospital consumed with rage toward everyone involved in the pranks.

Meanwhile, I stood in the French Alps, burning my fake death certificate, a faint smile touching my lips.

He faked amnesia to break my heart. I faked my death to break his.

Brittany's voice, sickly sweet, drifted through the wall. "Ethan, prank 96—success!"

Ethan's reply was cold, unfamiliar. "Having fun, Brittany?"

"Getting back at Olivia for stealing your scholarship and that game design award. Duh," one of his buddies chimed in.

"Just four more, Brittany, and Ethan's all yours!" another voice shouted.

My blood ran cold.

"Ethan's a genius. Who would've thought of faking amnesia just to mess with Olivia?"

"That time we made her search for her bracelet in the pouring rain… priceless! And then he gave it to Brittany!"

My mom's jade bracelet. The one she gave me on her deathbed. The one Ethan "lost" when he moved. I'd searched for seven hours in a downpour and ended up with a 104-degree fever.

"And remember her thesis defense? Ethan told her he got jumped at a bar."

They roared with laughter. "She ran to the bar, found nothing, and ended up begging her professor not to fail her! We got it all on video."

I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

I'd missed my thesis defense—a project I'd poured six months into—for nothing. I had to postpone graduation because of it.

Brittany giggled. "And that time he folded her game design—the one she'd slaved over for three nights straight—into a paper airplane. She was like a stray dog, picking up the pieces all night."

"So what's the plan for this one?" Ethan asked.

"Tell her you're in the hospital. Tell her to rush over. Then we all go party and leave her hanging!"

My phone buzzed. A message from Ethan: "City Hospital, ER. Come quickly."

I slipped away before anyone noticed.

Two minutes later, he retracted the message. A pang of guilt, maybe?

I played along like I'd never seen it.

I already knew the truth.

I'd stumbled upon a hidden folder on his phone labeled "Game Progress," filled with 96 videos—one for each cruel prank.

The password? Brittany's birthday: 12/24.

The same day he claimed he first met me.

The same Christmas Eve I waited for him in the snow for three hours while he was at Brittany's birthday party, placing a crown on her head.

That night, he'd wrapped a scarf around my neck—so tender, so caring.

A wave of nausea hit me. I opened his meticulously kept chat log with Brittany.

"Told her I was working late. Took you to Disneyland. She waited until 3 am."

"Told her her competition time was two hours later. She ran out in her pajamas. Hilarious!"

The last entry was from the night of our class reunion. Brittany had "accidentally" spilled scalding coffee on me. Ethan shielded me instantly.

But the chat log read: "Disgusted even to touch her. Used three bottles of sanitizer."

I called my dad. Told him I wanted to join him in Paris.

He'd moved there five years ago, after Mom died. He'd always wanted me to come, to study abroad. I'd refused. I stayed for Ethan.

I thought I could melt his icy heart. I forgot that melted ice leaves only bone-chilling cold.

"My sweet girl," Dad said, his voice full of relief. "You finally figured it out."

"Yeah," I choked out, tears welling.

"Dad," I said, "when I leave, I need you to stage a plane crash."

He didn't understand, but he agreed.

A plane crash. My final gift to Ethan Parker.

I deleted every photo of us. While packing, a leather-bound journal slipped out from Ethan's safe. Embossed on the cover was the phoenix logo from my game, Ashes of the Realm—the initial design I'd spent 36 sleepless nights perfecting.

Ethan had printed it. The book was filled with my design drafts, meticulously collected, with notes wishing me success.

Page seven held a photo of me, glasses perched on my nose, deep in code. A sticky note beside it read: "She called the developers 'frazzled cats' today. Her revised plan is ten times better. Such an adorable genius."

He'd been there those nights I pulled all-nighters—massaging my shoulders, cooking me ramen. He'd run out at 3 am for cake just because I'd mentioned craving it. He remembered my period, always ready with hot ginger tea and heating pads.

This "love prank"? He was falling for it, too.

The last page held a crumpled plane ticket stub from last Valentine's Day. His handwriting filled the margins: "If I had to choose again, I'd still pretend to lose this ticket, trick her into staying up all night with me to revise the proposal. Brittany wanted this. Prank 72."

Rain lashed against the window. All that love, built on a lie. He might have cared, but he cared more for Brittany. I was just a tool.

I scheduled an abortion.

That night, Ethan came home smelling like winter. I pretended to sleep.

He paused. I hadn't reacted to the prank. He must've lost face in front of Brittany and his friends. Why wasn't he pushing it?

The mattress dipped. Strong arms wrapped around me.

He nuzzled his face against my neck, his breath warm on my skin. "We're having a baby, Livvy Moon."

Livvy Moon. His nickname for me. Like the moon, shining only for him. Close to my real name, Olivia. But I knew he called me "pretentious" behind my back. Livvy Moon was a joke. Another way to make a fool of me.

I stayed silent. He didn't know about the abortion.

He pulled out my pregnancy test—three little hearts drawn on it in pen. My pen. The Montblanc I'd bought him with my first paycheck. The one he carried.

I didn't respond. He hugged me tighter, whispering sweet nothings. My heart stayed frozen.

"I'm tired. Let's sleep."

He went quiet, obedient. "Tomorrow, we're going to Brittany's birthday party," he murmured before drifting off.

I lay awake all night.

He built a game of amnesia; I gave him three years of my heart.

I'd stage a death, and he'd spend the rest of his life regretting it.

At the party, Ethan's friends surrounded me, shoving the biggest slice of cake in my face.

"Ethan says he loves watching you eat sweets."

Ethan looked away, feigning disinterest.

The cake tasted bitter. My stomach churned.

Brittany pushed the cake closer. "Olivia, don't be rude. It's my birthday! Unless… you're nauseated by me?"

A sharp pain ripped through my abdomen.

They laughed, reveling in my discomfort.

I stumbled to the bathroom, violently ill. Their laughter echoed through the door. Another successful prank.

"Still have that stomach bug?" Ethan offered me a glass of water with mint leaves—an old remedy he'd taught me when we first met.

I couldn't answer. The pain intensified—needles stabbing my insides.

I looked down. Blood. So much blood.

"Take me to the hospital," I whispered, clutching his arm.