My Bully Became My Fan Chapter 06
“ScarlettGlow” became my brand name. Scarlett Murphy wasn’t mysterious enough, but ” ScarlettGlow” suggested transformation. Magic.
Like I could give other people what Donna gave me– the power to become who they wanted to be.*
The brand partnerships came fast. First small companies sending free products, then major brands offering real money. By my junior year of college, I was making more from social media than most people made at their day jobs.
“Inclusive beauty for everyone” became my tagline. I didn’t just cover scars–I helped people with birthmarks, acne scars, vitiligo, anything that made them feel different. the
Because I knew exactly how it felt to be different.*
My followers loved the story I told them; small–town girl who learned makeup to boost her confidence, now helping others do the same. I never mentioned Madison or the real reason for my scars.
That story wasn’t for them. That story was mine to keep, By graduation, I had 5 million followers and my own makeup line in development. Mike cried at my graduation ceremony.
“We’re so proud of you, kiddo,” he said. “Your mom would be proud too.”
*Mom.* I’d been so busy becoming ScarlettGlow, I’d almost forgotten who I used to be.
But not completely. Never completely.
Five years after leaving Riverside, I had 9.5 million followers, a penthouse in downtown LA, and enough money to buy whatever I wanted.
Including revenge.*
“Mom, I made it. I’m everything you believed I could be. But there’s something I need to do first before I can truly move on. She took you away from me, and I’m going to make sure she pays for every single tear I cried over your grave.
I knelt beside Mom’s headstone in the Riverside demetery, placing fresh flowers in the little vase. The inscription was simple: “Kathleen Murphy. Beloved Mother.”
Beloved by me. Only by me.*
I’d driven here from LA this morning, needing to see her before I did what came next. The cemetery looked exactly the same, but I was different. Designer clothes perfect makeup, manicured nails.
she’d be so proud. But she’d also want justice.*
My phone buzzed. A DM notification on Instagram.
@MaddyB_xo wants to send you a message.*
I stared at the notification for a full ten seconds, my brain refusing to process what I was seeing.
No. No way.
Madison. After all these years.
My hands were shaking as I opened the message.
“Hi! You probably don’t remember me, but we went o high school together in Riverside! I’m Madison Blackwell–I think we had chemistry class together? Anyway, I’m your BIGGEST fan! I’ve been following ScarlettGlow forever and I just love everything you do. You’re literally my inspiration! Would love to catch up sometime if you’re ever back in town! XOXO”
The phone slipped from my hands and hit the grass.
You probably don’t remember me.
I think we had chemistry class together.*
You probably don’t remember me.*
sat there staring at my phone screen, reading the message over and over. The casual tone. The exclamation points. The complete and utter lack of recognition.
*she has no idea. After everything she did to me, she has no fucking idea who I am.*
The girl who’d killed my mother thought we’d just had “chemistry class together.”
Estimate she bullied so many people, she can’t even remember each victim.*
The rage hit me so hard I actually saw spots. Five years of therapy, of building a new life, of trying to move on–and here she was, acting like we were old school friends catching up.
*Breathe, Scarlett. Breathe.*
I picked up my phone with trembling fingers and clicked on her profile.
The photos told a story she probably didn’t want people to see.
Gone was the perfectly put–together queen bee. This Madison had cheaper clothes, worse lighting, and that desperate look of someone trying too hard. Her bio said “Influencer Lifestyle Blogger, Living
My Best Life” but she only had 3,000 followers.
Living your best life in what looks like a studio apartment, Madison?*
I scrolled deeper, my anger slowly transforming into something colder. More calculating.
The photos were all fake luxury–designer bags that were obviously knockoffs, “champagne brunch” that was clearly just sparkling cid’er, “blessed” captions over images that screamed broke and desperate.
This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect.*
But I needed more information. I opened my laptop night there in the cemetery and did what I did best- research.
Twenty minutes later, I had the whole story.
Robert Blackwell, Madison’s father, had been arrested for embezzlement three years ago. The bank had covered it up quietly, but he’d still lost his job and most of their money. The house on Maple Street had been foreclosed on. Madison’s college fund–gone.
Daddy’s little princess lost her kingdom.*
Court records showed she was living in Burbank now, in a 400–square–foot studio apartment. She worked at
Target, making minimum wage.
Target. The girl who called me trailer trash is folding clothes at Target.*
But the really interesting part was her dating app. profiles. I found three different ones, all with the same theme: “Looking for generous older gentlemen who know how to treat a lady right.”
She’s literally selling herself to old men for money*
The irony was delicious. Madison, who’d called me trailer trash, who’d said I didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her, was trow doing exactly what she’d accused me of in those fake photos.
Karma, meet Madison. Madison, meet rock bottom.*
But as I saved screenshot after screenshot, something
else crept in alongside the satisfaction. The memory of being sixteen and broken, of losing everything that mattered.
She felt that too. She lost everything too.” For just a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then I remembered my mom’s funeral. Madison taking selfies. Using my grief for Instagram clout.
*No. She deserves everything that’s coming to her.*
I went back to her DM and stared at it again. She was reaching out to me–to ScarlettGlow–with no idea that she was contacting the girl whose life she’d destroyed, This is too good to be true. She’s literally delivering herself to me.*
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could ignore this. Block her. Move on with my successful life and let karma handle the rest.
Or I could give karma a little help.
I started typing, keeping it simple and friendly.
“Of course I remember you! Want to catch up?“