My Construction Site Nightmare - Chapter 6: Chapter 6

I was hanging by a thread, one step away from completely losing it.
Go or stay? My heart was being ripped in two.
Dinner? Couldn't stomach it. In just forty-eight hours, I'd dropped pounds like they were nothing. My eyes were raw from crying, but I refused to break. Begging that monster would only feed his ego, make him dig his claws in deeper.
Chase waited for me until ten.
I texted him—cold, firm. I'm not coming.
"Bianca, you sure about this?" he shot back.
"Positive."
Then I powered off my phone. If I was going to survive this, I needed to keep my head clear. And that started with sleep—if I could manage it.
Morning came. My hands shook as I turned my phone back on.
No calls. No messages.
The work group chat? Dead silent. No angry pings, no humiliating notifications.
I exhaled. Had Chase actually backed off? Had some shred of decency stopped him from airing my shame to the entire site?
I wasn't naive enough to believe it, but I messaged him anyway.
God, even typing his name made me sick—like swallowing something rotten.
No reply.
But I knew he'd seen it. He was playing with me.
For a second, I let myself hope. Maybe he'd shown mercy. Maybe I'd dodged the worst of it.
I was dead wrong.
By noon, I stepped into the women's restroom—and froze. Loud, leering voices spilled from the men's side.
"Chase, Bianca's tits are so pale, so damn perky—and that skin? Smooth as hell. You hit the jackpot, man. The queen of the construction site, and you plucked her clean. Lucky bastard."
Every word was a knife.
My vision blurred. My legs nearly buckled.
"Damn right," Chase sneered. "She got on her knees, begged me not to post anything. So I made a new group—figured the guys deserved a little reward. Bet she never saw that coming."
The pride in his voice made me want to vomit.
More laughter. More crude commentary—what was soft, what was tight, what they'd do if they got the chance—
I swayed, gripping the sink to stay upright.
This wasn't just humiliation.
This was annihilation.
Now, every single person on-site had seen me—all of me—in grotesque, unfiltered detail.
I don't know how I made it out of that bathroom.
Every glance burned. Every whisper stripped me bare all over again. My dignity was gone. In that moment, death didn't just seem like an escape—it felt like mercy.
Why keep breathing?
Why should I?
I stared at the river beside the site, the water dark and endless. One step. That's all it would take.
But then—
No.
I was the victim. If I died, he'd win. He'd move on like nothing happened.
Why?
Why should my life be the tragedy?
Why should he walk away?
No.
I wasn't done yet.
Revenge—that was what came next.