Her phone buzzed. A number she didn’t know.

On-screen Trisha giggled, swirled her glass. "Which one? The one who left or the step-one who tried to..." She trailed off, then laughed harder. The ice cubes clinked. "Let's just say I learned to order a stiff drink early."

Trisha stared at the paused screen. Her own face, frozen mid-laugh from a party last June, stared back. The "1080p" was cruelly clear—every fake smile line, every drop of cheap Chardonnay on her knuckles. The "DesireMovies" watermark sat in the corner like a brand.

She looked back at the screen. The paused image glitched for a second, the pixelated version of her younger self smiling through the pain.

"And the ex-boyfriend? The one who leaked your nudes?"

The file name was a digital tombstone.

She stood up, walked to her kitchen sink, and poured out the half-empty bottle of wine that had been her roommate for three nights.

She hadn’t known they were filming.