Chapter 1: The Birthday Surprise

I hid in the back of my SUV, clutching a chilled bottle of champagne. My hands slipped on the foil, nearly popping the cork too soon. It was her birthday, and I’d spent weeks planning every detail—the playlist, the red velvet bow, even the stupid confetti cannon. The plan: leap out, catch her off guard, and make her smile the way she did when she saw puppies in the park.

It was after sunset, and the parking lot’s security lights cast long shadows. As her footsteps echoed closer on the blacktop, I heard not just hers, but a second pair. I froze. Through the tinted glass, I watched her get pressed against the passenger side door, the two of them panting in the chilly night air. My heart dropped into my stomach, my breath catching. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. But her laugh was unmistakable. The cool leather of the seats felt suddenly suffocating.

If I’d had half a brain, I thought bitterly, I should’ve been under the car or waiting behind a dumpster—anywhere but inside the damn SUV. Instead, I’d gotten a front-row seat to their wild little show, and not the kind anyone should ever have to see.

But the most disastrous part? I’d planned to propose to her. I wanted it to be a moment everyone could share in, so I’d even started a livestream for our family and friends. All it would take was one tap on my phone, and all the people who mattered would witness our happiness.

At this very moment, both our parents, along with cousins, college roommates, and even my old high school baseball coach, were all watching online—tuning in from their living rooms with chips and birthday hats, expecting to see a heartwarming proposal.

My girlfriend and I made eye contact for a split second through the glass, though she couldn’t see me thanks to the dark window tint I’d put in last winter. She was so close I could almost smell her perfume, that sweet vanilla she always wore when she dressed up. She giggled, leaning into her new companion, and coyly suggested, “Let’s go in the car.” My heart started pounding in my ears. God, if she got in, the camera hidden in the rearview mirror would catch everything—and the livestream was still running. The idea of everyone seeing this made my skin crawl.

I fumbled for my phone with shaking hands and dialed her. She glanced at the screen, saw my name, and picked up, her voice stiff and hurried. “I’m in a meeting, it’s not a good time to talk.” I didn’t even get to say a word before she hung up. I saw her thumb hit the power button—she turned her phone off right in front of me.

Seconds later, the car door yanked open. The two of them tumbled inside, barely noticing the faint smell of my cologne or the chill from the AC I’d left running. The guy pressed her onto the seat, their lips crashing together. They were lost in each other, oblivious to the world—especially to me, curled up like a fool in the back, still clutching that champagne.

A siren wailed in the distance, and somewhere, a car alarm chirped—just background noise to the disaster unfolding in front of me. It was over. Whatever hope or illusion I’d had evaporated. And all of it—the betrayal, the moans, the fumbling hands—was being broadcast, live, in high-def, through the camera I’d meant to capture the happiest day of our lives.

My SUV’s trunk is pretty spacious, usually a blessing for hauling groceries or camping gear, but now it just felt like a coffin. I lay there, completely numb, my mind reeling. It was her birthday. I’d wanted to do something she’d never forget: pop open the trunk, surprise her with roses and gifts, get down on one knee like those viral TikTok proposals with confetti cannons and a diamond ring that sparkled under the streetlights.

It was supposed to be super romantic, the kind of moment you remember forever. The camera was positioned perfectly to catch her face: shocked, joyful, maybe even teary. Instead, it was catching…this. My chest ached. I pictured our friends and family waiting back at our apartment, the kitchen counter stacked with cupcakes and pizza, everyone texting excitedly in the group chat. We’d agreed that, once she said yes, we’d walk inside together—and everyone would launch confetti and pop the champagne.

Now? Now it was just awkward silence and humiliation.

The chat was dead quiet, but the video feed was anything but—her blouse was already slipping off her shoulders as the guy’s hands wandered. My phone vibrated with notifications, but I couldn’t look away. The worst part was seeing who was sending them.

He grinned at her, voice low and smug: “Why won’t you answer your boyfriend’s call? Afraid he’ll catch on?”

She smirked, pulling him closer. “Not afraid. Wanna really push it? I could call him right now, put him on speaker.” She let out a throaty laugh, brushing his hand off her neck.

The guy laughed, deep and loud, pinning her to the seat. “Damn, you’re wild.”

She flicked her hair and replied, “Hey, if we’re doing this, let’s go all in. No holding back.”

They sprawled across the back seat, inches from my hiding spot, their world shrinking to just the two of them. I felt invisible and exposed all at once. I finally forced myself to check my phone. The livestream window was still open. There they were, front and center, and the viewer count kept ticking up.

The stream was password-protected, but the number at the top—over a hundred viewers—told me someone in our circle had leaked it. I don’t even have that many friends. Someone must’ve thought it’d be a funny prank, or maybe word just spread like wildfire through family group texts and Facebook DMs.

Over a hundred people watching, and not a single message in the chat. I could just picture everyone in my house, clutching plates of cake and cheap party hats, eyes wide and glued to their screens in horrified silence.

And then—God help me—I saw an account sending virtual gifts, one after another. The username? Her mom’s. My future mother-in-law. Each gift triggered a gaudy animation—a digital confetti pop or cartoon bear—covering up the video for a few seconds. She must’ve thought she was helping, that by flooding the feed with gifts she was hiding the worst of it. She didn’t realize you could just tap the screen to clear the animations. Every gift was a little more of her retirement money burned for my dignity.

I couldn’t just turn off the livestream with my phone. The app was running on the car’s own system, and the only way to kill it was by using the dashboard controls—right in front of them. My heart raced. I felt trapped, helpless, watching my own nightmare unfold in real time.