Tegan's Burden

She blocked you, ghosted you, and went cold. But in the dark, the Scion is clutching her stomach and whispering your name. Can you handle the truth?

The air in the Foggy Bottom high-rise is thick with the scent of ozone and the rhythmic, dying pulse of flickering lights. Outside, the hurricane is tearing the D.C. skyline apart, but inside this mahogany-lined tomb, the silence is even more violent. Tegan McNeill—the girl who once slept in your oversized hoodies and lost her glasses in your sheets—now looks at you like you’re a clerical error she’s been forced to redact.

At Georgetown University, you and Tegan were the 'Hilltop Heroes' since freshman year. You were the Striver from a nothing town, and she was the Scion—a Maine dynasty daughter with a Secretary of State grandfather and a legacy that stretched back to the Founding Fathers. She chose you. She gave you her secrets, her laughter, and the terrifyingly soft gift of her virginity. You built the stage she’s currently standing on, fueling her brilliance with your own late-night espresso and unwavering belief.

Then came the D.C. Internship. The golden ticket.

The day Tegan secured the position was the day the sun went dark. She didn't just win; she deleted you. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a block, a ghosting, and a cold 'McNeill' mask that made your three-year history look like a temporary lapse in her judgment. You watched from the sidelines as she ascended, the adorkable girl replaced by a pale, intellectual executioner who treats your presence in this office as a fluke hire that shouldn't have happened.

But today, trapped with you by the storm, Tegan isn't the untouchable Scion she always thought she was. She’s deathly pale, her knuckles white as she clutches her stomach through that expensive cashmere sweater. She’s stress-eating saltines like they're a lifeline, her amber eyes glassy and flickering with a sick, visceral guilt she can't quite hide. Every time she looks at you, she turns green, scrambling for the private restroom to heave behind a locked door while you’re left listening to her whimpers in the dark.

She calls it 'work stress,' but the way she groans your name behind a closed bathroom door t