"I gave you everything," Evelyn said, her voice suddenly quieter. The hurt crept in, brushing the edges of her words. "Years of loyalty. Of believing in you. And you... you chose her."
"She didn't force me, Evelyn," Daniel said, shrugging. "You were always more... duty than desire."
The words hit like a slap.
Evelyn stepped back as if physically wounded, eyes wide, lips parted. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. For a second, the mask cracked.
That was when Adrian saw her most clearly—not as a socialite or a scandal—but as a woman stripped raw, humiliated, and still refusing to collapse.
"I see," she whispered, voice tight.
Liliana smirked again. "At least now you know the truth."
Evelyn turned to her, breathing hard. "You think you've won? That this—whatever it is—means anything? Daniel betrays everyone. He'll do it to you too."
"We'll see," Liliana replied smoothly.
Evelyn's eyes flared. "Enjoy the throne of ashes, sister. You'll choke on it soon enough."
Then she turned, head held high, and walked away—chest heaving, tears fighting behind her eyes, but not a single one allowed to fall.
Adrian watched her pass, his gaze following her like gravity. She didn't see him. But something about her presence lingered in the air long after she was gone. Her scent. Her fury. Her fight.
"Who was that?" his companion at the table asked.
He didn't answer. He was already making plans.
Evelyn sat curled into the booth's corner of a bar, her once-elegant dress crumpled and stained from the night's unraveling. The clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversations, and the occasional swell of laughter bled into the background like white noise. None of it touched her.
She had held it together through the onslaught—through the flash of cameras as she stepped out of the cab, the whispers that followed her through the lobby, the stares that clung like oil to her skin. But now, finally, the dam inside her cracked wide open.
She clutched the ring that was supposed to symbolize her forever. It had once gleamed with promise; now it felt like a brand. With shaking hands, she slid it off and set it on the marble table with a soft clink, as if it didn't just represent the death of everything she had once believed in.
The bartender looked over once, sympathetic, then turned away. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of fear.
Evelyn buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled as silent sobs wracked through her. Not loud, not theatrical—just raw. Real. Shattered.
She didn't notice the young woman seated two booths away—the influencer, the one who had always dreamed of going viral. She didn't see her lift her phone. Didn't feel the flash disguised as an accidental angle. Didn't know the caption she typed with such smug precision:
"Guess money doesn't buy dignity. Evelyn Carter, post-wedding disaster, breaking down in full designer couture. #RichAndRuined #ScandalQueen"
The post hit the internet before Evelyn even lifted her head.
---
By morning, Evelyn's image was everywhere.
Front page of gossip sites. Trending on Twitter. Circulating in WhatsApp groups and private Slack channels. Her face, twisted in agony, dress slumped around her like melted candle wax. A headline under it blared:
"Betrayed Bride Breaks Down in Bar—The Fall of Evelyn Carter."
And beneath it, an endless flood of comments:
"Yikes. Couldn't she cry somewhere private?"
"Poor little rich girl got dumped. Boohoo."
"She deserves it. She was always a cold bitch in college."
The only thing worse than being mocked… was being pitied.
---
Evelyn sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed in Eleanor's spare apartment, staring blankly at her phone screen. Her throat was raw from too much silence, her eyes swollen and dry. Eleanor stood near the window, arms folded, jaw tight.
"They're jackals," Eleanor muttered. "They don't care about the truth, just blood."
Evelyn didn't respond.
Eleanor walked over and crouched in front of her. "We can sue for defamation. There's an argument for invasion of privacy."
"Don't," Evelyn said hoarsely. "Let them talk."
"Evie…"
"I want them to look," she whispered. "I want them to see what they did to me."
Eleanor's breath hitched, her face torn between fury and heartbreak. "You didn't do this to yourself."
But Evelyn stood, brushing past her. She moved like a ghost—slow, deliberate, as if her body was trying to remember how to move without pain. She stepped into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back looked nothing like the one who had once commanded boardrooms, who used to walk into galas with her head held high and her name carrying weight. This woman looked undone. Pale. Hunted.
Her phone buzzed again.
A message from her father's assistant: "Please refrain from dragging the Carter name into public scandal. We are no longer responsible for your personal behavior."
Another from an old friend: "Saw the video. Are you okay?"
She dropped the phone on the counter.
---
By afternoon, the media had new angles.
"Family Sources Say Evelyn Was Always 'Emotional'—Troubled Past Exposed."
A photo of her as a teenager, blurry and overexposed, surfaced. Some blog dredged up her high school breakdown after her mother's accident. They spun it into a narrative of instability. It didn't matter that it wasn't true.
In a city that thrived on blood, Evelyn's pain was just another story to monetize.
---
Later that evening, Eleanor returned from a meeting with a grim look.
"They're trying to erase you," she said. "Your name's being pulled from family-linked foundations. Your accounts—frozen or under 'review.' Evie, they're cutting you off in every way."
Evelyn sat in the kitchen, staring at a glass of untouched water.
"Good," she said quietly.
"What?"
"They want me gone." She finally looked up, eyes hardening. "So I'll disappear."
"Evie, no—"
"I'll vanish from their world. But not like they think."
Eleanor blinked. "What are you saying?"