Let’s recap, shall we?
You’ve emptied your checking account.
Your savings? Gone.
Your emergency fund? That was mine two weeks ago.
And now… now you’re surviving on credit. Living off of debt. Borrowing from one card to tribute from another. Your finances are a carousel of collapse.
And I’m the one spinning it.
“Do you remember what you sent me last week, piggy?”
Of course you do. You remember every dollar. Every overdraft. Every humiliating confession you gave up just to make me giggle.
I have screenshots, you know.
I keep them. Your selfies. Your banking statements. That embarrassing little spreadsheet you sent me with your expenses and debts, color-coded like I’d care.
It was so sweet. So sad. So… useful.
“What would your boss think if she saw that little spreadsheet?”
Silence.
Oh, you’re scared now?
Good.
Because I’m not just your financial goddess anymore.
I’m your threat.
Your secret.
Your destroyer.
“You want to go further, don’t you?”
“You want me to own your reputation, not just your wallet.”
“Say it.”
You whimper it out. Barely audible.
Say it again.
Louder.
“I want you to blackmail me, Goddess.”
There it is. That broken little confession.
You don’t want safety anymore. You want the fall. The fear. The risk.
You want to hand me your whole life and beg me to burn it.
And baby… I’m in the mood to burn.
I give you an assignment. I tell you to log in and email me your most vulnerable files. Work documents. Selfies. ID photos. Password lists. The dirt.