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.

ELENA

Adrian, I remember him now.

A few years ago I was invited to a fashion event in France a few weeks before my graduation. There was a fire incident, and as I tried to escape that night, there was a man, lying very close to the entrance. He looked dead.

I should’ve ignored him and ran for my life, but I reached over and checked. He was breathing, but barely. So I helped him.

With strength I didn’t know I had, I pulled a man three times my weight out of danger.

He was grateful and he invited me to have coffee. Over the next couple of weeks, we got to know each other. He was Adrian Wolfe, heir to a fashion empire in America.

That was about all I knew of him.

I returned to America and was involved in a car crash that claimed my father’s life, while I only suffered a minor memory loss.

And then there was Clifford. He came into my life like a sunrise, right after Dad died, when I thought I’d never feel happiness again. He made me laugh, made me feel beautiful, made me believe love could survive even the worst of losses. I fell for him hard, got engaged to him, and believed in the fairy tale.

And now? Remembering all of it, remembering how utterly he had destroyed me… my chest burned. My hands shook. My fury was a living thing inside me, coiling tight and sharp as I walked into the private restaurant, the crisp autumn air biting at my cheeks.

Clifford had called. Bold, presumptuous, infuriatingly arrogant. He had asked for a meeting, and I had agreed—not because I wanted to forgive him, but because I wanted him to remember exactly who he had wronged.

He was already there when I arrived, sitting in the booth with that practiced, polished smile that never reached his eyes.

“Elena,” he said smoothly, sliding in across from me. “Thank you for coming.”

I set my jaw. “Don’t thank me,” I said, voice steady but laced with venom. “I came because I wanted to remind you that some people don’t crawl.”

He raised an eyebrow, set his face straight and hit the nail on the head. “I called because of the fashion show. You know your designs would steal the spotlight. I want you back, Elena. Back at Wells. I’ll clear your name of all the scandals, and there’s a huge reward waiting for you at the end of the success of the show.”

The words made me want to laugh. Or scream. Or both. “Back at Wells?” I echoed, my voice low and dangerous. “You think money can erase betrayal? You think a cheque can buy forgiveness? You don’t get to erase what you did.”

He leaned back, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Elena… think carefully. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. No one else could—”

“Could what?” I cut him off, leaning forward so our eyes met. “Be complicit in your lies? Be another pawn in your games? You think I’d fall for that? Crawl back on my knees just because you decide to offer a few pieces of paper with numbers on them?” I laughed, the sound harsh, bitter and unrestrained. “You’ve humiliated me, Clifford. You’ve used me, and now you think money can make it okay? You’re pathetic.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re throwing away the chance of a lifetime. Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said, voice rising with every word. “I will not return. I will not make your company richer while my name is spat across the globe. You’ve used me enough and nothing can fix it. Enjoy your life while you can, Clifford. Because when I’m done, the world will see you for exactly who you are. And you’ll regret ever thinking you could control me.”

I stood, my chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot, and walked out before he could respond, leaving him simmering in silence.

~~~~

Later that evening, I walked into a mansion that smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive furniture. My heart was racing with anticipation.

Adrian had invited me for a business dinner, and we were to discuss the fashion show. I was buzzing with excitement. Wolfe Enterprises would dominate, and I would be the reason. Clifford would see me, not as the woman he’d destroyed, but as the force he could never touch. My first strike was ready.

The dining room was grander than I’d imagined. A polished oak table stretched the length of the room, chandeliers casting light over everyone seated.

Two older men and an older woman sat at the table, eyes sharp, evaluating me before I even stepped fully inside.

Recognition hit one of them like a hammer. “Ah… Ms. Hart,” he said, voice thick with disapproval. “You’re Clifford Scott’s ex-fiancée, aren’t you? What on earth are you doing in our home?”

I bristled, opening my mouth to reply, but Adrian stepped between us, his presence a shield I hadn’t expected. “She is my guest,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“You can’t be serious right now,” the man looked really angry, like he wanted to grab me and throw me out immediately.

“Uncle, please.” Adrian said. “And for the record, your assumptions are misplaced. What happened with her fiancé—well, it’s obvious she was set up, anybody with reasoning can tell. He moved on immediately after their engagement was called, which only proves he orchestrated very likely everything.”

I blinked. Defense was one thing, but Adrian’s words, firm and unwavering, were like a warm hand on my heart. Shock twisted through me.

The uncle opened his mouth again, but Adrian raised a hand. His eyes scanned the room before landing on his father. “And just so there’s no confusion, she is not just my guest, she is my fiancée. Engaged. I will not have anyone insult her under my roof.”

Wait, what?