Page 141 of What Goes Around

The lifestyle she sold was aspiration wrapped in relatability. Rich, but not too rich. Perfect, but still “just like you.” She talked about discipline. About burnout. About stress. Manifestation. Hustle.

Occasionally, I nudged the internet in small ways. Anonymous tips to tea channels. Anonymous payments to boost those posts. Screenshots resurfaced. Old tweets. Liked posts she’d assumed were buried. Racist jokes. Cruel commentary. Mean girl behavior.

Apple responded with the standard apology video. Pale clothing. White background. Soft voice. Tears that never quite fell.

“I’ve grown.”

“I’ve learned.”

“That doesn’t reflect who I am anymore.”

Her follower count rose every time.

It turned out the saying was true. There really was no such thing as bad publicity.

She began to change physically too. Subtle work. Never acknowledged. A fuller chest. Wider hips. A smaller waist. More emphasis on fitness content. Workout plans she sold to her audience as discipline, as empowerment.

When I saw her newest photos on a luxury yacht in Dubai, I visibly cringed.

Years later, everyone would know what those yachts really meant. What those parties cost. What some girls were expected to trade for access, for money, for illusion.

Not everything that shines is gold.

And Apple had always loved things that glittered.

For four years I focused on school, brutal and rewarding in equal measure. I rarely went out, just studied, went home, and studied again. Parties and bars felt pointless, nothing but noise. Social interaction drained me faster than calculus ever could, so I kept my circle small.

I liked it that way. Silence was easier. Predictable.

During my second year, Amy had a blowup with her roommate. Screaming in the hallway. Accusations about stolen food. Snooping through messages. The usual dorm chaos that turned small annoyances into full-scale wars. I told her to move in with me instead.

My apartment had three bedrooms, solid security, controlled access, cameras in the common areas of the building. I converted the spare room into hers and bought her new computers, multiple monitors, and proper equipment. Her setup ended up looking like a small command center.

If she was going to dig, I wanted her to be comfortable. And fast.

After my rebirth, every year that passed brought me closer to the catalyst I remembered. And with each year, my paranoia grew.

I took security seriously. I never went running alone and avoided walking outside at night by myself. I planned my routes in advance, checked exits without thinking, memorized faces. Doors were locked twice, windows checked. Always.

With the lottery money, I invested and donated. Ten million went into women’s shelters and recovery programs. Anonymously.

I helped fund initiatives designed to pull trafficked women back into real life. Not just rescue, but repair. Job placement. Therapy. Legal aid. Housing assistance. Systems that stayed long enough for survival to turn into stability.

And with Amy’s help, I started searching.

The men who took me in my last life.

I told her they were traffickers I’d learned about through one of the shelters I supported. That during volunteer work, a survivor had trusted me with details she wasn’t ready to give the police yet, names, habits, fragments.

Amy leaned back in her chair and cracked her neck.

“So,” she said slowly, “we’re looking for men who operated across state lines, preferred girls under eighteen, used first names that were probably fake, and escalated over time.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to stop them before they hurt anyone else,” she said, watching me closely.

“If possible,” I replied.