ELENA

“Clifford, what the actual fuck?”

My voice sliced through the bedroom doorway before my brain even caught up to what my eyes were seeing.

Sheets tangled, clothes on the floor, two bodies intertwined.

And Lenora’s head snapped up first, her strawberry-blonde hair messy, lips swollen, Clifford’s shirt dangling off her shoulders like a badge of victory.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

Then Clifford jolted upright, eyes wide. “Elena, wait, I can explain.”

“Explain?” I choked out a laugh, one hand pressed to the doorframe because my knees had gone numb. “Explain why your secretary is naked in our bed?” My voice cracked on “our,” and it felt like swallowing glass.

Lenora smirked.

Smirked.

Like this was a show. Like I was the entertainment.

“Well,” she drawled, sliding closer to Clifford like she owned him, “it’s not exactly a secret anymore, is it?”

My fingers curled into fists. “Lenora, get out.”

“No.” Clifford’s voice hardened, sharper than I’d ever heard it directed at me. “Elena, calm down. Don’t make a scene.”

The audacity.

A laugh clawed out of my throat, broken, hysterical. “Make a scene? I walk in on you screwing your secretary and you think I’m making a scene?”

Lenora ran a finger down Clifford’s chest. “You should’ve known he still loves me. You were just… filling space.”

The words hit harder than any slap ever could.

A replacement. A convenient stand–in while they rekindled behind my back.

Air vanished from my lungs.

“You told me you were over her,” I whispered, stepping inside. “You told me I was your future.”

Clifford wouldn’t even look at me. “I thought you were. Things changed.”

“Things?” My voice rose painfully. “Or you did when she spread her legs again?”

His jaw clenched. “Elena, stop.”

Lenora tsked. “Don’t be crude, sweetie. It doesn’t suit you.”

Something in me detonated.

I launched myself forward, not to fight—though God, I wanted to—but to grab Clifford’s discarded shirt and fling it at her face. “Get dressed before I drag you out myself.”

Lenora shrieked, clutching the sheet.

Clifford finally stood, grabbing my wrist. “Enough, Elena!”

“Don’t touch me!” I yanked away, my breath coming in sharp bursts. “Just tell me the truth, was I ever enough for you? Or was I just the convenient designer who skyrocketed your company while you pined for her?”

He hesitated.

That one second of silence killed every remaining part of me.

I stepped back.

“Wow. Okay.”

My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. I walked out before I collapsed in front of them because I absolutely refused to break in front of the woman who had just stolen everything from me.

~~~~

The club lights from last night still pulsed behind my eyelids as I stumbled out of my Uber the next morning, head pounding, throat raw. I’d drunk for the first time ever, enough to drown a city. Enough to forget Clifford’s betrayal.

Enough to end up kissing a stranger in a dark corner.

Or maybe more than kissing.

But nothing prepared me for the sound of a notification that turned into fifty, then a hundred, then a thousand.

My phone vibrated nonstop.

Then I saw it.

My face, my naked back, a man behind me.

Flash photos I didn’t even remember being taken.

Trending. Everywhere.

With hashtags like; #CheapFiancée #ScandalBride #PowellDodgedABullet

And in the middle of it all, was Clifford’s interview.

He sat before cameras, hair slicked back, wearing the suit I tailored for him last month.

“She’s… not the woman I thought she was,” he said solemnly. “I broke off our engagement because… because she wasn’t faithful.”

Then Lenora leaned into the frame like a supportive angel. “I caught her sneaking around with men several times,” she lied effortlessly.

My ears rang.

The breath left my lungs. He set me up. They both did.

My vision blurred with rage, betrayal, humiliation so sharp it vibrated under my skin.

Minutes later, I was storming into Clifford’s mansion like a woman possessed.

The front door slammed behind me, echoing like thunder.

His stepmother’s shrill voice was the first to greet me. “Look who crawled back.”

I ignored her, marching straight toward the dining area where laughter echoed, his laughter.

Clifford sat comfortably at the table, enjoying breakfast with Lenora, his stepsister, and his stepmother. Their expressions shifted from smug to disgusted to annoyed as I approached.

My voice cut through the room.

“You ruined my life.”

Clifford’s shoulders tensed. “Elena, this isn’t the time-”

“You used me,” I spat. “I sacrificed everything for you, for this family, for your company. And in return you sleep with her,” I jabbed a finger at Lenora. “And then frame me to save face?”

His stepmother slammed her fork down. “You will not accuse my son in this house!”

“Oh, shut up,” I snapped. “You hated me from the start.”

Lenora rose to her feet like a triumphant fox, crossing her arms. “You should leave before this gets more embarrassing.”

I stepped closer to Clifford, trembling with rage. “Tell them the truth. Tell them YOU cheated. Tell them YOU set up that camera in the club. Tell them YOU ruined me.”

He looked away.

Coward.

His stepsister scoffed. “If you keep slandering Clifford, we’ll have you jailed for harassment.”

Clifford didn’t defend me, he didn’t deny it, he didn’t apologize, and he didn’t even flinch.

He just sighed, reached into his pocket, pulled out a Cheque, and slid it across the table.

“Take it, Elena. Start over. Move on.”

My heart cracked.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Then I tore the check in half, and then again and again.

Bits of paper fluttered like snow across the table.

Then I slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed through the mansion.

“You betrayed me.”

Another slap.

“You ruined me.”

Another.

“You think you can buy me off like I’m trash?”

He staggered back, clutching his cheek, stunned.

“And hear this clearly, Clifford,” I whispered, trembling all over, “the same family you’re choosing over me will destroy you one day. Mark my words.”

I turned on my heel and walked out as they yelled behind me, voices mixing, chaos spilling.

But none of them mattered.

My life was burning down to fucking ashes and I wasn’t sure how to rise from it.

ELENA

My apartment felt colder than usual.

Not because of the weather, but because the moment I stepped inside, the silence hit me like a sledgehammer, heavy, suffocating and echoing with memories I suddenly wanted to rip out of my skull.

Then I saw them.

My sketches.

Piled neatly on the table exactly where I left them the night before Clifford’s betrayal shattered my world.

I froze.

The sunlight streaming through my window caught the edges of the papers, and the delicate strokes of pencil looked almost beautiful… almost alive.

Designs I had poured myself into, designs I stayed awake for nights sketching, designs that were supposed to debut under his company, designs that would’ve broken yet another record for him.

My breath stilled.

Slowly, I walked toward the table and picked up the top page.

The gown was intricate. Bold. Dramatic. The kind of piece that would own runways and silence a room. Every line was strong, every curve intentional. It was me. Everything I was. Everything I gave.

And Clifford would’ve showcased it with pride while betraying me behind my back.

A small crack sounded in the quiet room.

It took me a second to realize it came from me—my breath catching, my heart splintering with a pain I didn’t think could get any worse.

I pressed the sketch to my chest, shaking.

“He used me,” I whispered into the empty room. “He used everything.”

My knees gave out and I slid to the floor, clutching the design like it was the last piece of my dignity.

For a few minutes, I let the tears come. Hot, silent, weakening tears.

I hated crying. I hated that Clifford still had that much power over me.

When I finally pulled myself together, I stood and headed for my laptop. My fingers trembled as I typed out the shortest resignation letter in history.

Dear Wells Fashion Enterprise,

This is to officially notify you of my resignation, effective immediately.

-Elena Hart

I hit send before I could think too hard about it.

And just like that, three years of my life were gone.

Over the next few days, I submitted my portfolio to every major fashion house in Texas, smaller companies, and independent brands. Even startups that didn’t have offices bigger than shoeboxes.

Every single one rejected me.

Some politely, most not.

At one interview, the HR woman didn’t even let me sit down before she said,

“Oh… you’re that Elena. We don’t want trouble.”

Another muttered under her breath, “Should’ve stayed loyal to Clifford.”

I left before I punched her.

Online was worse. One would think that the tension would've simmered over the past few days but everyday, there were new trending hashtags, memes even.

#ElenaTheCheater, #DesignerSlut, #PowellSavedHimself, #CheapBride

Millions of strangers, ready to judge, to mock, to spit on my name without ever hearing my side.

I stopped looking after day three, stopped leaving the curtains open, stopped eating full meals.

Every morning, I tried—God, I tried—to keep applying everywhere. But each rejection carved another piece out of me.

By the fifth day, even my reflection looked like a stranger, pale and tired. And by the sixth day…

I snapped.

I walked out of my last interview with my designs in hand, the HR manager’s snide “Not with your reputation, sweetheart” still ringing in my ears.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t shout.

I just walked—straight to the nearest bar.

The neon sign buzzed overhead as I pushed the door open. The strong scent of whiskey, sweat, and hopelessness wrapped around me like a blanket too heavy to remove.

Tonight, I wasn’t here to forget.

I was here to drown.

I slid onto the bar stool and slapped a twenty down. “Anything strong,” I murmured.

The bartender raised a brow. “You look like you’ve had a long week.”

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

He poured. I drank.

And drank.

And drank.

The burn felt good, sharp enough to distract me, heavy enough to dull the ache in my chest.

But the more I drank, the fuzzier the room became. The faces blurred, the music thumped, my head swayed.

That’s when a rough voice slithered behind me.

“Well, well… look who we have here.”

I turned sluggishly and saw a man with a sleazy smile, alcohol-breath, eyes crawling down my body like I was prey.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart.”

“No, thanks,” I muttered, turning away.

His hand clamped on my wrist.

“I wasn’t asking.”

A cold bolt of fear shot down my spine.

“Let go,” I hissed, pulling, my voice trembling with the alcohol fog mixing with pure dread.

He grinned wider and leaned closer. “Come on, don’t be like that…”

A shadow swept between us.

A tall figure with broad shoulders wearing a black shirt.

And his voice sliced the air clean.

“She said let go.”

The man released me instantly.

I blinked up at the stranger, vision swimming, barely making out the sharp jawline, the dark hair, the piercing stare fixed on my harasser.

“Who the hell are you?” the guy spat.

The stranger stepped closer, a calm, cold and dangerous aura exuding from him. “The one who’ll break your nose if you touch her again.”

The creep backed off, muttering curses before disappearing into the crowd.

My savior turned to me.

“Are you okay?”

But the room was spinning. My mouth barely moved.

“My ex… he… I can’t—” Words tangled and blurred “Did he send you? To frame me?”

The man frowned. “What? I don’t even know who your ex is.”

“I just…everyone…everyone hates me…” My vision blurred at the edges.

“Okay,” he said softly, steadying me with a firm grip, “you’re drunk. Let’s get you somewhere safe before you pass out.”

I tried to protest. Tried to push him away.

But the world tilted and everything went black.

~~~~

I woke up to an unfamiliar ceiling. White, pristine, almost too clean. My head throbbed like someone was hammering inside it. Slowly, the memories trickled back—the bar, the drinks, the creep who tried to touch me.

I bolted upright… and froze.

A man was sitting across from me. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in crisp black trousers and a fitted shirt. His dark hair fell perfectly, and his piercing silver-blue eyes scanned some papers on the table—my designs.

My heart leapt into my throat.

“W-What are you doing here?” I croaked, my voice hoarse from panic and alcohol.

He looked up, calm, almost amused. “You’re awake. Good. I was starting to think you’d sleep through the apocalypse.”

I scrambled backward, clutching the blanket around me like a shield. My thoughts raced. Did… did he take advantage of me last night?

“Don’t you dare move closer!” I shouted, panic spiking. “I…I know what happened last night, and if you think—”

He raised a hand, interrupting me with a smirk. “Relax. Nothing happened. You didn’t even remember me, did you?”

My brows furrowed. “Remember you? Who the hell are you?”

He leaned back, still holding my designs with one hand, and tilted his head. “That’s surprising. You’ve met me before?”

I stared at him. Confused. My head still buzzed from the alcohol and stress, but something about him… familiar.

“Last night… at the club… you,” I faltered. “You were… you were the one who…”

“Saved you from getting raped?” he finished for me, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yes. That would be me. The tall, dark, irresistible hero.”

I blinked. “Right… you were a… club… stripper?”

He chuckled, dark and low. “No. Not even close. But thanks for the compliment.”

I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I—I… I’m sorry. I thought…”

“Thought I would take advantage of a drunk girl? Really?” His silver-blue eyes pierced mine. “Do you think I need to lower myself to that? There are women who would pay me just for that. I don’t. You should feel honored.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Instead, I muttered under my breath, “I’m just… careful. I never know… my fiancé could—my ex fiancé-”

“Your ex-fiancé?” His brow, quirked. “You have an ex-fiancé?”

I narrowed my gaze. “Yes.” Everybody in the world knew about the ‘scandal,’

“I didn’t know,” he said calmly. “The last time I saw you, you were single.”

“You… we’ve met before?” I asked, cautiously.

“You don’t remember me? He looked genuinely confused and so was I because what the hell?

ELENA

I didn’t get a chance to respond. His phone vibrated violently on the hotel nightstand, and he, without a word, grabbed it and answered. His voice was calm, professional, and measured.

“I have to take this,” he murmured, giving me a brief, almost apologetic glance before slipping out of the room

The hotel room smelled faintly of disinfectant, the kind of sterile scent that reminded me I was still alive, but not really living. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stared at the floor, trying to make sense of the past twenty-four hours.

I got up, dressed quickly, and left the hotel. The city outside was waking, indifferent to the wreckage of my life. I hailed a cab, barely noticing the street signs blur past. When I finally reached my apartment, it greeted me with the same cold silence that had been there for days.

I collapsed onto my bed and I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of rejection press down on me.

The days passed in a haze of exhaustion and despair. I woke, scrolled through my phone for rejection emails, scowled at the trending hashtags, and went back to sleep. The apartment was littered with half-empty coffee cups and crumpled sketches. Every day felt like a repeat of the last, a slow rotation of grief, anger, and disbelief.

On the fourth day, I woke to my phone buzzing incessantly. Groaning, I reached over and unlocked it. The first headline made my stomach drop:

“Clifford Scott Announces Engagement to Lenora Bell. Society Watches in Awe as the Scandalous Ex-Fiancée is Completely Ignored.”

I blinked. Twice. Three times. My throat constricted.

He hadn’t just moved on, he had flaunted it, broadcast it, and the world had cheered him on. I could hear the whispers of my name everywhere I looked, the snide, reproaching comments, the memes, the mockery.

I closed my laptop and pressed my face into the pillow. Rage mixed with despair, boiling under my skin. The betrayal still burned fresh, sharper than any wound I’d imagined.

I thought maybe I could distract myself, reach for something familiar. I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts, stopping at a name I hadn’t spoken to in years, Jade, my friend from fashion school. Someone who had once understood the fire in me.

“Hey,” I said, hesitating. “Want to hang out? Coffee, lunch, I don’t care. I just need… someone.”

There was a long pause.

“Uh… Elena,” Jade finally said, her voice cautious, hesitant, “I… I don’t know. People… would talk. I just… I don’t want to…my reputation by being seen around you right now.”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone, gripping it so tightly my knuckles went white.

So this was it. The people I thought would stand by me—friends, colleagues, anyone—had abandoned me.

I curled into myself, letting the despair swallow me whole. Hours passed. I stared at the ceiling. I stared at my sketches. I stared at the clock, the sun dragging slowly across the sky as I sank deeper into the pit of my own helplessness.

Then, just as I had begun to drift into the kind of numbness that promised nothing would ever hurt again, my phone rang.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the green icon. Something in me whispered that I shouldn’t pick up. But curiosity, and a faint, desperate hope won.

“Hello?” My voice was hoarse, fragile.

“Ms. Hart?” The voice was smooth, professional, but there was an underlying warmth I couldn’t place. “This is Wolfe Enterprises. We’ve reviewed your portfolio and would like to speak to you about an opportunity.”

I froze. My brain refused to compute. Wolfe? The name alone made me uneasy—Clifford’s company’s biggest rival. And yet here they were, calling me, offering me a lifeline, when I hadn’t even applied.

“Are… you serious?” I croaked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Absolutely. If you can come to our offices today, we’d like to schedule a meeting.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed, trying to catch my breath. My heart raced with a mix of disbelief, caution, and something else I hadn’t felt in days; hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely ruined.

The next few hours were a blur. I showered, dressed, and combed my hair as though I were preparing for a battle I wasn’t sure I could win.

Every reflection in the mirror showed the same tired, pale, and broken woman I had been for the past week, but beneath it all, there was a spark I hadn’t realized I still had.

When I reached Wolfe’s office, the marble floors and glass walls were intimidating. The hiring manager, a man with a sneer that made my stomach twist, looked me up and down.

“Ms. Hart,” he said, tone dripping with condescension. “We’re aware of… your current situation. I’m not sure anyone in this company would want—”

A shadow fell over him. I turned, and there he was.

The same man from the hotel, the same man I had barely known, now standing like a wall between me and ridicule. His presence alone made the air feel charged, electric, alive.

“She has an appointment,” he said, calm, unwavering, and with an authority I couldn’t ignore.

“My apologies, Sir,” the hiring manager bowed, his apology sharp.

I stared at him. The man I thought was a stranger… was being referred to as “sir.”

He gestured for me to follow him into his office. My mind raced as I took tentative steps. Every instinct screamed that this was too good to be true, that there must be some ulterior motive.

The tag on the door sucked out all of my breath. “ADRIAN WOLFE—CEO”

Oh, my goodness.

“Why me?” I asked as soon as we were alone. My voice trembled, but I forced it out. “Given… My scandal… my reputation… Are you using me as some pawn? To attack Clifford? Or for some vendetta?”

He blinked, genuinely confused. “What?”

“Don’t play with me. You’re just trying to use me too. Just like my ex fiancé.”

“Who the fuck is Clifford?”

Ain’t no way he didn’t know who Clifford is. His business rival for fuck’s sake.

“I just returned to the country. I know nothing about him, your relationship, or the scandal you’re referring to. I only know what I saw in your designs at the hotel. I saved your card, I called you, and now I’m offering you a contractual position to design masterpieces for Wolfe Enterprises. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

I blinked, overwhelmed, my mind trying to process the absurdity and the hope of it all.

“But… my scandal…” I whispered, voice small. “Everyone… thinks I…”

He cut me off gently, firmly. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe that’s you. You are not that person. And I know you aren’t. I don’t need the internet, or rumors, or opinions. I need your talent, your creativity, and your integrity. That’s what brought you here.”

The words struck me with a force I hadn’t expected. Warmth spread through my chest, chasing out a little of the bitterness, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to breathe.

“Thank you, Mr Wolfe,” I murmured, the memory rushing back. France. The bar. The club. The moment he saved me.

“Just Adrian.”

“Adrian,” I repeated.

He gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Yes. That’s me.”

I sat back, stunned, the weight of the past week pressing against me, and yet… for the first time, there was a glimmer of possibility.

A possibility that maybe my life wasn’t over. Possibility that I could rise from the ashes Clifford left behind. Possibility that not everyone had turned against me.

And most importantly, a possibility that someone saw me for who I truly was.