Replaced By My Bully

After every trip, our four-person group chat had a ritual: we scored each other. I was always their designated tour guide, driver, and pack mule. I handled the bookings, hauled the luggage, ran the errands, and mediated every minor meltdown. My score was still a flat zero. Tagged as the "Dead Weight Friend." My boyfriend didn't hesitate to pile on: Traveling with her is pure torture. The hotel was a dingy mess, and the sights were a total bore. My childhood friend Mason chimed right in: Her itinerary was pure garbage. And don’t get me started on her photos—she managed to make everyone look hideous. Completely useless. Meanwhile, Gemma—who had done nothing but cause chaos from the moment wheels touched the tarmac—got a perfect ten out of ten. The "Absolute Vibe." On day one, she threw a fit because we couldn’t get a walk-in table at an influencer-hyped bistro, storming off into the crowded downtown streets. I spent the entire evening scouring city blocks for her, my fingers hovering over 911, sick with worry. On day two, she slept in until two in the afternoon, leaving the rest of us stranded in the hotel lobby. Our entire afternoon schedule had to be scrapped, downing hundreds of dollars in non-refundable excursion tickets. On the final day, she insisted on changing our plans to hike an unmarked, treacherous backcountry trail. Halfway up, her legs gave out; she collapsed onto the dirt, sobbing and throwing a tantrum until the rest of us took turns carrying her down the ridge on our backs. When I confronted them about the absurd ratings, they simply brushed it off. "Come on, Paige, it’s not that deep. Don’t be dramatic." "Gemma’s just high-spirited. That’s what we’re here for—to have her back." Mason waved a hand, steering the conversation away with practiced ease: "Look, for our next vacation, we’re doing Asheville. You’ve got a chance to redeem yourself this time. Don’t drag us down again." Without missing a beat, they began barking orders in the thread: research Airbnbs, track airfare, draft the day-by-day spreadsheets. I didn't type a single word. I simply tapped the banner at the top of the screen and pressed Leave Group. Over a decade of selfless accommodation, of bending myself backward until my spine nearly snapped, and in their eyes, I was still the zero-point liability. If that was the case, they could find their own way out of my life. 1 They didn’t even realize I was gone from the thread. When Carter got home from the office, the front door had barely clicked shut before the complaints started rolling in. "We’ve been texting you all afternoon. Why haven't you answered?" I didn't look up from folding my laundry. "Are you blind? I left the group." He froze, his brow knitting into that familiar, dismissive scowl. "Over that stupid score? Seriously? Are you in middle school?" He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the chat history and thrusting the screen in front of my face. "You know the rules. Lowest score plans the next getaway. That's how we keep it fair. Here—the guys dropped their wishlists. Put together a solid itinerary, show some effort, and we’ll add you back." I glanced at the screen, and a hollow, bitter laugh caught in my throat. Mason had sent a link to a weekend DSLR photography masterclass, telling me to register so their Instagram shots wouldn't look "tragic." Gemma had dropped five trendy, no-reservation brunch spots, instructing me to stand in line at least an hour ahead of the group so a table would be waiting when they strolled in. A profound exhaustion settled deep in my chest. I pushed his phone away. "I’m not going to Asheville," I said. "And my PTO is gone. I burned the last of it standing in sub-zero winds for four hours to buy Gemma’s limited-edition vinyl collectible." Two weeks ago, an underground boutique downtown had hosted a limited designer toy drop Gemma was obsessed with. The group held a quick poll in the chat, and by a unanimous three-to-one vote, it was decided that I should take a personal day to camp outside the store in fifteen-degree weather. I stood on the frozen pavement until my toes went numb. That night, I came down with a hundred-and-three fever. And when Gemma unboxed the figurine and discovered it wasn’t the rare hidden chase piece she wanted, she threw a tantrum in the group chat, accusing me of sabotaging her on purpose. Carter and Mason rushed in to comfort her. Mason even threatened to cut me off entirely if I didn't apologize to her. Shivering under three blankets, delirious with sickness, I swallowed my dignity and texted her an apology dozens of times just to keep the peace. Every memory felt like an open wound, salt-scraped and raw. Yet here was Carter, leaning against the doorframe, speaking with that breezy, entitled certainty that I would always fold. "So what if you’re out of PTO? Call in sick. Take unpaid leave. We’re the core four, Paige. It’s not a trip without all of us. Look, Gemma even posted about us on her Instagram reel." He opened her profile. She had uploaded a three-minute aesthetic vlog of our last weekend. I watched it. From start to finish, the screen belonged exclusively to the three of them. The group selfie at golden hour was just the three of them. The cozy late-night fireside chat was just the three of them. The goofy TikTok dance challenge was just the three of them. My only appearance in the entire video lasted barely four seconds: I was staggering along the sidewalk, carrying five overflowing tote bags, my hair matted with sweat, looking completely unhinged. Suddenly, a violent gust of wind swept down the street, blowing my skirt up over my hips, exposing my underwear to the traffic behind us. In the audio, their laughter erupted like hyenas. Gemma had freeze-framed that exact moment of mortification, turned it into a looping, distorted sticker, and pasted it into the corner of the frame like a running gag. I was the designated clown of the entire reel. My hands began to tremble. Before I could stop myself, I FaceTimed Gemma. She picked up on the third ring. "Take that video down right now," I said, my voice shaking with rage. On the other end, her eyes went wide, instantly shiny with rehearsed hurt. "What did I do wrong now? That vlog was our memories together, Paige..." "Freezing my skirt blowing up and turning my body into a joke for thousands of strangers is a memory to you?" She sighed, a tiny, passive-aggressive puff of air through her teeth. "God, after ten years, you still can’t take a single joke." Carter leaned over my shoulder, speaking into my phone with an exasperated groan. "Paige, stop picking fights over nothing. Can't you be a little more like Gemma? Just lighthearted and easygoing? Walking on eggshells around you is exhausting." I stared at Carter's profile, then down at the screen where Gemma was softly biting her lip, playing the saint. "If it’s so exhausting," I said, the words suddenly coming out cold and clear, "then let's stop pretending. Carter, we’re done. Gemma, we’re through. Don’t ever contact me again." I ended the call before either of them could speak. Walking straight past Carter into the bedroom, I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and hit Reply All on an email from corporate HR that had been sitting in my draft folder for three days: I accept the transfer. Please count me in for the launch team in Austin. Carter sauntered into the bedroom a moment later. He didn't believe for a second that I was serious; his lips were still curved in that smug, patronizing smirk. "Paige, quit playing the breakup card every time you get your feelings hurt. Keep pushing it, and one of these days I’ll actually say yes, and you’ll be crying on the floor." His phone buzzed twice on the nightstand. He looked at it, then deliberately tapped the speaker icon on a voice memo from Gemma. Gemma’s voice spilled out into the bedroom: "I’m honestly so drained. What is her highness throwing a fit about this time?" Then came Mason’s voice in the background: "She’s off her leash again. Everyone has to bend over backwards to stroke her ego. Who does she think she is?" Gemma spoke again, dripping with theatrical pity: "Forget it, Mason. Don't make Carter's life harder than it already is. Just let her have her tantrum. Paige, sweetie, we’re so, so sorry. There, are you happy now~?" The sheer condescension in that apology made my scalp prickle with fire. Blood roared in my ears. Carter arched an eyebrow, tossing his phone onto the mattress. "See? Gemma apologized. She took the video down. Take the win and let it go. Tomorrow’s your birthday—you really want to spend it completely alone?" I didn't waste my breath on another argument. "Get out," I said. Then I stepped forward, pulled the bedroom door toward me, and slammed it shut in his face. 2 The next day, I went into the office to finalize my handover paperwork. When I unlocked the apartment door that afternoon, I stopped dead on the threshold. All three of them were sitting in my living room. "What are you doing here?" I asked, keeping my hand on the doorknob. Mason leaned back against the sofa cushions, speaking first. "Heard you were pulling the plug on Carter again. Thought we’d come check on the drama." Gemma rose with an exaggerated, remorseful smile, crossing the floor to take my hands. Her grip was tight, her voice laced with that same sickening sweetness. "Paige, baby, please don't be mad anymore. From now on, we’ll let you have your way on everything, okay?" Mason chuckled dryly. "Come on, Paige, you’ve made your point. Take the olive branch while it’s there. You actually dump Carter, and you know damn well whose side we’re taking. Nobody’s gonna hang out with you, and then where will you be?" Before I could tear my hands away, Carter emerged from the kitchen carrying a bakery box with an eight-inch strawberry shortcake, a single candle flickering on top. "All right, truce," Carter said, stepping toward the coffee table. "We came over to celebrate your birthday. See how good we are to you? You throw an absolute fit, and we still bring you cake." The yellow flame danced in the quiet room. I looked at the fresh cream, the bright strawberries, and then at their expectant, smiling faces. For a fleeting, pathetic fraction of a second, a knot in my stomach loosened. I wondered if, somewhere under all the callousness, they actually understood how badly they had hurt me. "Blow out the candle," Carter urged, pointing at a small plastic topper nestled in the frosting. "Pull the little tab. There’s a surprise inside." My fingers felt numb as I took the tab and pulled. A strip of one-dollar bills, taped end-to-end, began unwinding from the center of the sponge cake. But as the chain kept coming, the bills stopped, and something else emerged from the frosting. Laminated photographs. My breath stopped dead in my throat. They were pictures from sophomore year of high school. The year the school’s golden-girl clique cornered me behind the bleachers. They had hacked off half my hair with dull craft scissors, scrawled obscene slurs across my forehead with permanent oil pastels, and choked me against the brick wall until I forced a manic, terrified grin for their phone cameras. Back then, they had turned those snapshots into cruel memes, airdropping them across the entire cafeteria: Trash Can Barbie. Eighty Cents an Hour. Begging for Scraps. Ugly Cry Queen. Those images were the absolute darkest, most humiliating chapter of my life. I had spent years in therapy trying to scrub the phantom dirt off my skin. And now, they were dripping with sweet strawberry glaze in my living room. "Surprise!" Gemma squealed, clapping her hands together in delight. "Didn't expect that, did you? Yesterday you threw an absolute tantrum over a silly screenshot, threatening to cut ties, threatening to break up. But look—you survived the whole school seeing these back in the day, didn't you? You turned out totally fine!" She beamed, nudging my arm. "I’m helping you with exposure therapy, babe! You need thicker skin. You can't let every little thing wound you." Before the words fully registered, a massive slab of frosting and sponge cake was smashed directly into my face. Laughter exploded around me, sharp and deafening. "Happy birthday!" "Consider this a gift: emotional resilience!" "Toughen up, Paige, that’s how you survive the real world!" Gemma wrapped an arm around my stiff shoulders, giggling against my ear. "Oh, and guess what? You remember Mackenzie Doyle? The girl who took all these 'iconic' photos of you?" The room seemed to tilt. "We reconnected with her a few weeks ago," Gemma continued, practically bouncing. "She’s in town, so we figured, why not turn tonight into a full reunion? We booked a table at that pub right by the old high school campus. She’s waiting for us right now!" A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears. Mackenzie Doyle. The girl who had held the scissors. The girl who had pushed my face into the bathroom sink. My whole body began to shiver violently. "You want me... to go have dinner with the girl who tormented me? Do any of you have even the slightest shred of human decency?" Mason rolled his eyes, utterly unfazed. "Paige, that was ten years ago. People grow up. Stop holding petty grudges like a child." Carter chimed in, perfectly reasonable. "He’s right. You skip every high school reunion, but the truth is, we’ve been hanging out with Mackenzie for months. We just kept it off your radar and blocked you from the stories so you wouldn't get insecure." Gemma eagerly turned her phone toward me. On the screen was a photo from a rooftop bar: Carter, Mason, Gemma, and Mackenzie Doyle, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, their glasses clinking, laughing under the fairy lights. My veins ran with liquid ice. Carter reached for my wrist. "Go wash your face, babe. I’ll call an Uber. We’re already running late." "Don't touch me!" I ripped my arm back with such force that Carter stumbled. Using every ounce of adrenaline coursing through my limbs, I grabbed the edge of the glass coffee table and flipped it. The heavy glass slammed into the hardwood floor. The ceramic vase shattered into a hundred jagged shards, murky water soaking into the rug. Gemma shrieked, ducking behind Carter like a frightened child. "Are you insane?!" They stared at me with pure disgust, as if I were a feral animal that had broken loose in their civilized presence. "Get out," I whispered. Then my voice broke into a raw, ragged scream: "Get the hell out of my home!" Seeing the wildness in my eyes, they backed toward the door, step by step. Even on the landing, Carter couldn't resist a parting shot: "Look at yourself, Paige. With an unhinged temper like that, who else would ever put up with you besides us?" "Get out!" I slammed the door and locked it. Dropping to my knees among the glass and spilled water, I tore the laminated photos into tiny, unreadable ribbons. Then I slumped against the base of the sofa, staring blankly at the ruined living room for a very long time. Thirty minutes later, three notifications lit up my phone. Carter, Gemma, and Mason had each posted the same photo from the pub: drinks raised with Mackenzie Doyle. Carter’s caption read: The real Core Four, back together. I looked at the screen, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I smiled. There had never been a place for me in that circle. I had been their chauffeur, their errand girl, their domestic safety net, their convenient target when they needed someone to look down upon. Never their friend. The fog finally cleared. No more second-guessing. No more internal negotiations. People who treat you like trash belong on the curb. 3 Around midnight, my phone buzzed on the nightstand with a fraud alert notification from my credit card issuer. Transaction Approved: $850.00 at The Velvet Room. I didn't need to guess who ran the tab. That card was a dedicated corporate line I had set up under my personal credit to handle client entertainment for my firm. They had memorized the digital wallet code and used my money to buy rounds of top-shelf tequila for the girl who had made my adolescence a living hell. My teeth chattered with fury. I opened my banking app, navigating straight to the shared high-yield savings vault we had opened together three years ago. We had all contributed to it, treating it as our rainy-day fund and future travel pool. I intended to withdraw my share immediately. When the account balance loaded on the screen, my breath caught. Available Balance: $16.42. Over thirty thousand dollars had vanished. I frantically swiped to the transaction ledger. The history was wiped clean—the withdrawals had been executed using the master admin credentials, and the logs had been cleared through the app's internal sweep function. Thirty grand. Gone. Without a word, without a warning. I dialed Carter’s cell immediately. It rang until it went to voicemail. I tried Mason. His phone went straight to automated operator. Gemma’s phone was powered down. They stayed off the grid until ten o'clock the following morning, when the front door swung open and the three of them strolled into the kitchen, reeking of stale gin and cigarette smoke. Carter looked entirely unbothered, as though the shattered coffee table from yesterday had simply never happened. He tossed his keys on the counter and spoke in that same comfortable, entitled drawl: "Hey, babe. We’ve been drinking all night and we’re starving. Whip us up some breakfast, will you? Some scrambled eggs, toast, and maybe brew a pot of coffee—" I didn't answer. I walked straight up to him and swung my right arm with everything I had. Crack. The slap echoed through the open kitchen. The force spun him half a step sideways. The room went dead silent. Mason froze in mid-stride. Gemma gasped, clutching her throat. Carter slowly turned back, his cheek blooming crimson, his eyes wide with shock. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" "What’s wrong with me?" I stepped into his space, my voice lethal. "Where is the thirty thousand dollars from our joint vault?" A flicker of guilt darted across Carter’s eyes. He touched his stinging cheek and looked away, unable to hold my gaze. Gemma cleared her throat and stepped forward, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, that? Is that why you're throwing another violent fit? We wired that money to Mackenzie." 4 "You... what?" "She’s opening a cocktail lounge in Asheville," Gemma said, her tone utterly breezy, as if she were explaining a grocery receipt. "She needed angel investors to close out the commercial lease, so we bought in. We were actually going to tell you yesterday—it was supposed to be part of your birthday surprise. That’s why we’re going to Asheville next week: to scout the location." Carter gathered his composure, nodding vigorously. "Yeah, exactly. Gemma and I put in our two weeks at work last month anyway. We’re moving down to Asheville for a couple of months to help Mackenzie run the place. Remember how we always talked about opening our own bar? Living that easy, slow-paced lifestyle? It’s finally happening, Paige!" His voice was laced with frantic excitement, but my heart had dropped to absolute zero. "Whose dream was that?" I asked quietly. "Ours, or yours? Is my name on the operating agreement? What percentage of the equity do I own?" Silence fell over the room. Mason sighed loudly, leaning against the kitchen island. "Here she goes again. Money, money, money. Can’t you ever just be happy for once?" "Twenty thousand of that thirty thousand was my money, Mason!" I screamed, the rage tearing up my throat. "I put in two-thirds of that vault! You took my life savings and handed it to the woman who abused me!" Gemma offered a weak, patronizing grimace. "Don't be so dramatic, Paige. Obviously you’re included. Look—we even drafted the concept logo for the signage. We made sure you were on it." She unlocked her iPad and slid it across the island. The sketch showed four stylized cartoon figures standing in front of a rustic brick storefront. But the fourth girl, standing between Carter and Mason, had blonde beach waves and high cheekbones. It was Mackenzie Doyle. At her feet, holding a leash, was a small cartoon dog wearing oversized tortoiseshell glasses, with a tiny brown mole drawn precisely under its lower lip. My exact glasses. My exact mole. A humiliating, sickening choke rose in my throat. Carter must have seen the darkness in my face, because he stepped forward, wrapping an arm around my stiff shoulders in an oily, soothing gesture. "Look, babe, we messed up by not looping you in first. We get it. We’ll talk to Mackenzie when we get down there. We can cut you in for... say, two percent? How’s that sound?" A ragged laugh tore out of my chest. "Two percent? For twenty thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind?" Mason’s face hardened. "Take it or leave it, Paige. We’re supposed to be family. Who counts pennies like this between friends? Honestly, you’re impossible. Come on, guys, let’s go grab lunch somewhere else." Without another glance, the three of them grabbed their jackets and walked out the door. I stood in the silent apartment, taking long, deliberate breaths until the shaking in my fingers subsided. There was no point in screaming. Words were useless against people who lacked a basic conscience. I pulled out my phone and dialed an attorney I knew through corporate compliance. Unauthorized withdrawal of co-mingled funds without contractual consent, conversion of property, and misappropriation. If they wouldn't listen to reason, they would listen to a court order. That afternoon, I hired a moving crew, cleared out every single item I owned, and surrendered my key to the landlord. By evening, Carter had added my number back into a newly created group chat. Carter: We leave for Asheville in three days. Stop acting like a child and come home. Carter (30 minutes later): Fine. We get it. You made your point. Carter: We’ll handle the hotel and rental car this time, okay? Carter: Gate B12, Friday morning at 8:00 AM sharp. Don't be late. I didn't type a single letter. I locked my phone and tossed it into my carry-on bag. Friday morning, eight o’clock. I stood at the boarding gate at the airport, waiting for group three to be called. A text popped up from Carter: Carter: Hey babe, change of plans! Mason wanted to make a road trip out of it, so the three of us are driving down in his SUV. We already hit the highway. Carter: Just catch your flight and take an Uber to the cabin. Travel safe! They honestly believed I was on my way to meet them. I let out a quiet, scornful breath, boarded the plane, and took my seat for Austin. Meanwhile, after a fourteen-hour drive through the mountains, Carter, Gemma, and Mason finally pulled up to their boutique rental cabin outside Asheville. They checked in, unpacked their bags, and realized Paige was nowhere to be found. Carter, his patience wearing thin, dialed her number. The line connected, followed by the flat, synthetic voice of an automated operator: "We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service." Before Carter could lower the phone, the cabin manager knocked on the open door, holding a priority courier envelope. "Package for Carter Hayes and Mason Reed? Signature was required, but the courier said it was urgent." Carter tore the seal open, pulling out the thick legal documents inside. Mason leaned over his shoulder, his eyes skimming the header: District Court of Common Pleas — Notice of Civil Action. "What the fuck..." Mason muttered, his voice cracking. "Did Paige just sue us?"