Face-Slapping12 min read
When the Live Stream Broke Her Crown
ButterPicks15 views
I still remember the exact sound my phone made when it slid off the carpet and hit the floor.
"Tap," it landed face down, screen black, like the moment someone closes a book on you.
"You okay?" Jaxon asked from the doorway.
"I'm fine," I said, but my voice was a thin thing. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine," he said, coming closer and squatting so his face was level with mine. "Tell me what happened."
"I don't want—" I swallowed. "I can't say it out loud yet."
"Say 'I can't say it' out loud," he prompted. "Say anything."
"I went to the hotel because Kehlani sent a voice message."
"Kehlani?" he echoed. "Your roommate?"
"Yes." I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes. "She said she was scared. She said she was alone. She wanted me to come. So I went."
"And you found—" He didn't finish.
"And I found Wilder with her," I said. "They were on the bed. Wilder's hand on her neck. Wilder kissing her neck."
Jaxon made a small sound, somewhere between anger and disbelief. "What did Wilder do when he saw you?"
"He didn't step forward," I said. "He stepped back, and then he hid her behind his body. He said—"
"'Giana, it's my fault. Don't make it hard for her.'"
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes."
Jaxon stared at me as if trying to read a dry map. "What did you do?"
"I dropped my phone," I said. "And then I walked out until I was... until I couldn't. I don't even remember how I got back to the dorm."
"You went home alone."
"I went home alone."
"Do you want me to go with you?" he asked.
"No." I wiped a hand over my face. The motion made my cheeks wet again. "No. He pushed me out. He shut the door behind him."
"That explains the 'tap,'" he said softly. "You threw the phone."
"I didn't throw it." I tried to laugh. It broke into a cough. "I didn't expect it to happen like that."
Jaxon held my hand until I could breathe normally. "Then let's do it your way. When you're ready."
"I never thought this would happen," I said. "I knew Kehlani liked taking what wasn't hers, but I thought— I thought there were lines."
"She thinks it's a game," Jaxon said. "She treats people like toys."
"She calls it 'testing,'" I said. "She says she helps girls 'weed out' bad men. She calls us 'romantics' and she posts advice about how to make a man give you things."
"Her posts," Jaxon said, "they make people follow her."
"She has three hundred thousand followers," I said. "She has fans who will defend anything she does."
"Then we'll give them something else to watch." He smiled in a sharp way that made the back of my neck prickle. "We won't make her the only story."
"You won't be angry at me for what I'm about to do?" I asked.
"Angry enough to protect you," he said. "And to make sure she gets what's coming."
*
"How did you not see the pattern?" Isabel asked, hugging me across the cafeteria table. "Kehlani seduced Dan, she seduced Mark, and now Wilder? She's an addiction. She chases the thrill."
"She calls it 'brand building,'" I said. "She says her 'labels' are honesty and 'not being romantic.'"
"She monetizes cruelty," Isabel said. "That's the worst."
"She stole my boyfriend," I said. "She stole his promises."
"Then take them back," Isabel said simply. "Publicly."
"People tried," I said. "Once, someone called the school's security and... nothing happened. Kehlani played victim, a little offended girl, and everyone believed her."
"Because people prefer drama with a villain they can like," Jaxon said, tapping his spoon against his bowl. "But villains can be unmasked."
"How?" I asked. "How do you unmask someone who calls herself 'clever' and gets followers to cheer when she hurts people?"
"Collect proof," Jaxon said. "Get the stories in one place. Make her care about her audience losing trust. Make her lose the one thing she worships."
"Her followers," I said. "If she loses them—"
"She loses attention. She loses money. She loses the stage."
"Okay," I said. "Let's do it."
"Now tell me the plan," Isabel said. "Step by step."
"Step one," I said, "is to build a crowd of women who will speak."
"Women who will not be anonymous," Jaxon said. "Women who will show their faces."
"Step two," I continued, "is to pick a place where Kehlani is proud and feel safe—her birthday livestream."
She hears the word 'birthday' as if it's an alarm. "Her birthday?"
"Her birthday," I confirmed. "She will be live. She will have followers. She will love that stage."
"And she'll be less careful," Isabel mused. "She'll be drunk on applause."
"Step three," Jaxon said, "we will turn her stage into a courtroom. But not a real one. A people's judgment."
"Step four," I said, and my voice steadied as I spoke it. "We show the receipts."
"Like what?" Isabel asked.
"Messages. Screenshots. Testimonies—live testimonies. And a montage."
"A montage?" Jaxon smiled. "You always had a flair. Okay, montage it is."
"Who will help?" Isabel asked.
"All of us," I said. "Those she hurt. Giovanna, Aviana, Margot, Amber, Kiyoko, Kailey, Helena—every woman she played with. They agreed because they are tired."
"They agreed because it's time?" Jaxon finished.
"Yes," I said. "Because it is time."
*
"Happy birthday!" Kehlani sang into the camera, all glitter and practiced charm. "Thank you, everyone, my loves!"
"Smile," Jaxon whispered to me. "Look like you're enjoying the show."
"I am," I lied. My stomach was in knots, but my face was the calm I wanted. "Pretend."
"Keep pretending," Isabel said, taking a seat behind us with an overly casual toss of her hair. "Act like we belong."
"She knows you don't belong," Jaxon murmured.
"She won't care," I said. "Her followers make her untouchable."
"Until they don't," Jaxon replied.
The chat scrolled in a river of hearts and clapping hands. Kehlani waved an expensive-looking box toward the camera. "He got me the bag! He got me the limited one!" She squealed. "He's so good to me."
"Is Wilder here?" I asked quietly.
"Probably," Isabel said. "He likes showing up when there's applause to catch."
"Good," I said. "Then call him up."
Jaxon stood and walked to the edge of the hall stage. "Kehlani!" he called in a voice that cut through the chatter. "Can you announce Wilder?"
She turned with a practiced grin, and for a second the mask slipped. "Who is that?"
"Jaxon Rousseau," he said. "We went to school together."
"He always wants to be part of every party," she said, rolling her eyes to the camera.
"Could Wilder come up for a second?" Jaxon asked.
"He will," she said, flirty to the chat. "Hold on, loves."
The door opened. Wilder came in like a guilty breeze—nervous, a bit too eager to be seen with her. He looked around, saw me, and for a moment the room tightened. He moved toward the stage as if he didn't notice the group of women standing, as if he didn't feel the audience.
"Why did you bring him up?" Kehlani asked him, theatrical.
"I came because I didn't want to miss celebrating you," Wilder said. His eyes kept flicking to me. "I wanted to—"
"—to what?" Jaxon interrupted pleasantly. "To tell the world you cheated? That'd be brave."
Kehlani's laughter sounded louder than it should. "That's not true. You're being dramatic, Jaxon."
"But you made him dramatic," Jaxon said. "You made him leave another woman and take pictures with you. He told us."
He held out a phone. "We have screenshots."
Kehlani's smile faltered. "What screenshots?"
"Conversation where you arranged to 'test' his loyalty," Jaxon said. "Video where you said you like to take other people's men for fun. Messages where you bragged about getting 'bag' and 'attention' by breaking hearts."
Kehlani's face went still a beat. Then she laughed, high and brittle. "This is so underhanded. Is this a prank?"
"Would a prank require so many different phones?" I asked, stepping forward.
"She has a lot of phones," Kehlani snapped. "She buys them."
"Then maybe she has a lot of shame to hide," Giovanna said into the room mic, voice steady. "Maybe she'd prefer the truth be loud."
"We have a montage," Jaxon said, and the lights dimmed. A screen lit up with messages—Kehlani's public posts on her profile, private screenshots where she bragged about seducing partners, video clips where she laughed about calling love 'testing.' Names flashed: Dan, Mark, Tomas, Jason—then the face of each girl she used, with short statements.
"I'm Claudia," Giovanna said. "You took Mark from me. You told him I was clingy."
"I'm Aviana," Aviana said. "You said you were 'helping' me lose a loser, but you kept the boy's heart as a trophy."
"I'm Margot," Margot said. "You called me naive and posted my pictures for likes."
"I'm Amber," Amber said. "You mocked me in private messages. You celebrated when he left me."
"I'm Kiyoko," Kiyoko said. "You turned our pain into content."
"I'm Kailey," Kailey said. "You told your followers I was 'too soft' and that's why he left."
"I'm Helena," Helena said. "You praise yourself as 'clear-sighted' while you stab other people."
"I am Giana," I said. "You took my boyfriend and blamed me for making a scene. You made a business out of humiliation."
Kehlani's eyelids fluttered like someone trying to keep a secret inside. She opened her mouth, closed it, searched for control, found none.
"Why tell all of this now?" she asked, voice smaller.
"Because a stage is useless if it is built on lies," Jaxon said. "Because your followers deserve to know."
"You can't do this to me," Kehlani said, stepping back. "You can't—"
"Watch," Jaxon said. He tapped his phone. The livestream resumed, but not Kehlani's. It was our combined feeds synced: messages, photos, clips, voices. The chat flooded. The viewers' comments changed from hearts to question marks, to angry emojis, to "blocked," to "fake." Followers began to comment: "she's lying?" "why did she do this?" "I can't believe this."
Kehlani's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Her practiced smile dropped. "You're lying," she hissed. "I didn't—"
"Stop," Isabel said. "Stop lying to yourself. Twenty screens, all the same story. You called us 'romantics' to make us small. You made a hobby of theft."
She turned to the camera, hands trembling. "Doesn't it feel empty now?" Giovanna asked. "Doesn't it feel hollow when your followers leave?"
Kehlani looked like someone pulled the floor away. She blinked fast, as if to water her face, but there were no tears, just a frantic heat. "You can't do this—"
"Watch the comments," Jaxon said. "Your fans are leaving. Your sponsors texted. Your small accounts get flagged. People are reporting your content. It's all public."
She looked at her phone as if expecting it to be filled with messages of support. Instead, there were fans asking for proof, friends asking "are you okay?" and strangers posting her old posts with new captions.
"You did this to yourself," I said. "You made other people's pain into a brand."
Her shoulders trembled. "But I never—"
"We have videos," Margot said. "We have messages. We have witness names. We have the receipts."
Kehlani's face crumpled in a way I'd never seen. The arrogant poise fell away, revealing fear. "Please," she whispered. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was for the brand. I didn't mean—"
"You meant it," Kiyoko said. "You meant every cruelty."
"No!" Kehlani cried suddenly, and the sound was raw. "No, I didn't mean it! I was pretending! I was acting! You don't understand—I need them. They loved me. I needed followers. Please."
Her voice broke into sobs. The camera showed the face she had used as armor now wet and red.
"You're not the only one who loses now," Jaxon said calmly. "Tell them you're sorry."
Kehlani reached for a microphone and spoke into it, voice small: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone I hurt. I'm sorry."
The livestream filled with mixed reactions. Some viewers typed "forgiveness," others typed "cancel." The school security guard looked stunned at first, then took notes.
And the worst part—at least for Kehlani—was the slow, public unmasking of her followers' reaction. The chat scrolled: "I followed because I liked the honesty." "I unfollow." "This is disgusting." "She lied." The follower count dropped. Notifications pinged her phone. Sponsor DMs popped up asking for an explanation. Her saved drafts revealed shocking private messages where she boasted.
The room hummed. People around us watched, some recording, some whispering, some stunned into silence. A few students stood up and cheered when Kehlani's number began to tumble on screen. Others looked away, embarrassed at the spectacle.
Kehlani's eyes shifted from face to face. She attempted to lock her gaze onto Wilder, as if a familiar anchor could stop the humiliation. Wilder's face was pale. He tried to speak for her, to say something that would anchor her, but his voice was small.
"Kehlani..." he murmured, "please, can we talk?"
"You stood in front of me that night," I said, unable to help the tremor in my voice. "You made her the victim and me the villain. You said, 'Don't make this hard for her.' You shielded her."
He went white. "I didn't—"
"You did," I said. "You hid behind his chest while I left. You built an alibi around a woman who looked for trophies."
He touched his face like he had been slapped. "I am sorry," he said, voice cracking. "I made a mistake."
"That's not enough," Giovanna said. "Not anymore."
The audience had become a jury that did not need a judge. They watched the slow collapse: Kehlani pleading, Wilder shrinking, Kehlani's followers dropping away, her live comments turning into accusations. A few people began filming. The hall murmured. Some students came closer. An elderly professor who chanced by frowned, then left to inform the student affairs office.
Kehlani's expression passed through stages—first denial, then anger, then disbelief, then the slow sinking into shame. At one moment she tried to laugh it off. At another she cried and begged. The crowd's reaction swelled from shock to vindication to discomfort.
"Look at her now," someone whispered near me. "She always made other people small to feel tall."
"She humiliated us," another voice said. "Now the whole thing is on her."
"It feels good," a girl said softly. "To be seen."
"The footage will be shared," Jaxon said. "Social media will have it. She will be asked to answer for this everywhere."
Within hours, the clips were being reposted with commentary. People who had never met any of us wrote threads analyzing Kehlani's pattern. People who once complimented her started deleting posts. Her follower count sank like a boat with a hole. The sponsors who had whispered goodwill now sent formal letters asking for clarification. The school had to step in because people were using campus images in the posts.
At night, the school's admin called her in. Her accounts were suspended. She couldn't use her clean, curated feeds to spin her image. She couldn't monetize the damage she had done anymore.
When I left that night, Jaxon walked with me to a small ramen place near campus.
"You did well," he said, as he stirred his soup. "You were brave."
"I didn't feel brave," I said. "I felt hollow from all the times I let things slide."
"You didn't let it slide," he corrected. "You chose the right time."
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I regret only that we had to do it at all."
"She lost everything," I said. "Is that what I wanted?"
"You wanted justice," Jaxon said. "Justice is sometimes public. Remember that charade at the hotel?"
"Yes," I said. "I remember."
"Good and bad," Isabel said as she sat down with two steaming bowls. "Good and bad mix. But the important thing is you take back your nights and your dignity."
"I still don't like how Wilder looked at me like I was the problem," I said, stirring my noodles. "He asked if he could prove his love. He cried."
"Let him cry," Giovanna said. "Let him watch what he lost."
"Did you feel satisfied when the livestream started?" Jaxon asked.
"A strange kind of satisfaction," I admitted. "Like a wound closing."
"You deserved that," Isabel said. "You deserved to be defended."
"Thank you," I said to them all. "For being loud."
Jaxon smiled and reached for a piece of beef that was floating in my bowl. "Eat," he said. "You need energy."
I nudged the beef toward him. "Fine. But only because you helped."
He laughed, genuine and soft. "I'll hold you to that. One month of ramen."
"Deal," I said.
*
Days later, the aftermath settled like dust. Kehlani's campus presence was gone. She didn't return to class. Her roommate box lay empty. Wilder withdrew; he didn't show up for a while. Some people whispered that he had left school. The girls who had come forward were quieter, but their shoulders were straighter. People who had laughed at our pain now avoided Kehlani's empty bench in the quad as if it had an odor.
"People will forget," Isabel said one afternoon.
"Maybe," I said. "But the memory will be different. It won't be about us being stupid. It will be about her doing wrong."
"And you," Jaxon said, "you will be softer with yourself. Promise me."
"I promise," I said.
He looked at me then, with a look that had been in his eyes before—the look that had made me trust him. "You deserve somebody who will stand in front of you when the world is rough and stand beside you when it's soft."
"Are you saying you'll be the one?" I asked.
He smiled shyly. "I'm saying I'll try."
Three moments later, three small things happened that burned into me like bright marks.
First, he remembered my coffee order two weeks later and brought it without being asked. "Two sugars," he said, smiling.
"How did you—?" I began.
"You told me once," he said. "You were half asleep. I wrote it down."
Second, when I came back late from studying and shivered on the dorm steps, he took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. "You always say you're cold," he said.
"How do you always know?" I asked.
"Because I listen," he said.
Third, when a boy in class said something mean about women who 'cry for attention,' Jaxon stood up and said, "She's not making noise for you." He sat down. My face burned. People turned. A few clapped softly.
Those moments were small. They were not a storm. They were seeds.
"Don't rush anything," Isabel said. "Let him show you who he is."
"Let him show," Jaxon said, half-laughing. "I'll show."
"Then show me a ramen tomorrow," I said.
"Deal," he answered.
The sky was soft the next morning, the kind of gray that promised sun. We walked to the ramen shop and the steam curled like a small victory. I tasted my food and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the broth. It had to do with being seen and choosing to be brave.
I put down my chopsticks and smiled.
"Thank you," I said.
"You don't need to thank me," Jaxon said. "You didn't get a crown stolen. You took back your crown and placed it where it belongs."
"I like that," I said. "It sounds like something Kehlani would say but better."
He laughed. "She liked crowns too."
"Not anymore," I said. "Not for her."
We ate, and the city felt a little kinder. I had lost a boy and found my voice. I had taken back the night that belonged to me, with witnesses, with friends, and with one man who listened.
Later, when people told the story, they'd point to the livestream as the turning point, to the montage as the blow that toppled a small empire of cruelty. But for me, the end would always be the ramen shop—the steam, the taste, and the soft look Jaxon gave me over the bowl.
"Sky's clearing," he said, glancing out the window.
"Yes," I said, and watched a shaft of sun split the clouds. "Sky's clearing."
The End
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