When My Boyfriend Turned Me into a Game for His Friends

I arrived at Hayes's apartment twenty minutes early, balancing his favorite Thai takeout in one hand and my keys in the other. The doorman nodded at me with familiar recognition as I stepped into the elevator. Five years of dating had made me practically a resident here.

"Surprise," I whispered to myself, checking my reflection in the polished elevator doors. I'd taken extra care with my appearance today—Hayes had been distant lately, and I wanted to remind him why he'd fallen for me in the first place.

The apartment was quiet when I entered. "Hayes?" I called out, setting the food on the kitchen counter. No response.

"He must be running late," I murmured, noticing his iPad on the coffee table. A notification lit up the screen: "The Game: New Message."

I shouldn't look. It's private.

But something made me pause. The group chat name seemed odd—formal, almost clinical. Before I could stop myself, I tapped the notification.

The chat opened to reveal a message thread that made my blood run cold.

"Seduction Wager: Aurora Davis ($50,000)"

My fingers trembled as I scrolled up. There it was—pinned to the top of the chat—a photo of me in my bikini at last summer's lake house getaway. Below it, my yoga schedule, favorite coffee shop, even my usual jogging route.

"Intel gathering complete," Hayes had written. "She's completely oblivious. Whoever nails her first gets the pot."

Marcus Chen: "Dude, you're betting on your own girlfriend?"

Hayes: "She's too naive to suspect anything. Besides, I need the money more than I need her."

My chest tightened as I read comment after comment from his friends, analyzing my body, my habits, my weaknesses. They discussed me like I was a game to be won, not a person they'd met at countless dinners and parties.

"Her tits are legit," someone named Tyler had commented on a photo Hayes had taken of me sleeping. "Worth at least twenty grand of the pot."

I felt sick. Five years. Five years of believing in us, of planning our future together, and he'd turned me into entertainment for his frat-boy friends.

A sound in the hallway jolted me back to reality. Hayes's key in the lock.

I quickly closed the app and placed the iPad exactly as I'd found it, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Rory?" Hayes called out, his voice carrying that casual arrogance I once found charming. "You're early."

"In the living room," I managed, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

He appeared in the doorway, already pulling out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. He barely glanced at me.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Had to handle some business."

I watched him texting—probably back to his precious group chat—and felt something inside me harden.

"I actually just realized I have a splitting headache," I said, standing up. "I should go."

"What? But I haven't eaten yet." He looked up briefly, irritation flashing across his face.

"I'm sorry. I'll