Chapter 7 · She Was Never Ordinary

That day, he said, "Emmaline, when I make it big, I'll throw you a proper wedding party."

Six years later, he was worth 400 million dollars, owned three cars, and two luxury houses.

The wedding party never happened.

But he went and bought Macey a house.

I deleted both photos.

Why keep them around? Just to remind myself how dumb I was?

Just to remind myself how dumb I was?

Right before I went to bed, Soren sent me a message. [Tracked it down. The company behind 'Her Story' is Everview Media Group, and the legal representative is Ethan.]

He was the college roommate who acted as a proxy owner for Desmond's luxury house.

All the pieces finally fell into place.

This whole interview was nothing but a setup masterminded by Desmond from beginning to end.

He was pulling the strings behind the scenes, making his beloved Macey play the victim front and center.

He thought if he cornered me from both sides, I'd have nowhere left to run.

I said, "Soren."

"Yes?" Soren said.

"Keep this information on file."

"Got it."

I turned off the light.

Tomorrow, the real show would start.

That afternoon, I called him. "Soren, can you record the livestream?"

"Sure, no problem. You want me to record it?" he replied.

"Record the whole thing from start to finish. Don't let a single second slip by."

"Okay," I said.

By 7:30 that night, I threw on a dark jacket, skipped the makeup, tied my hair back, and put on a pair of plain glasses.

The interview was set up in a hotel.

I didn't go to the interview studio.

I headed straight for the hotel lobby because I knew Macey would never come alone.

Just as I expected, at 7:50, a black sedan pulled up to the entrance.

Desmond got out of the driver's seat, came around, and opened the passenger door for her.

Macey stepped out, wearing that same white sweater from the poster, in stilettos, her arm linked with his as they walked in together.

They walked past me, just 10 feet away.

Desmond's face practically screamed, "Leave it to me."

Macey kept her head down, lips pressed tight, her eyes already rimmed with red.

But from the side, I caught a glimpse of her hand clutching Desmond's sleeve, her grip so tight her knuckles were bone-white.

She wasn't on the verge of tears.

She was nervous.

They got into the elevator without noticing me tucked away in the corner.

At 8 PM sharp, the livestream kicked off.

I sat down on a couch in the lobby and opened up my phone.

Tens of thousands of people were watching, and the screen was flooded with comments.

[Go Macey.]

[The truth will come out.]

[Bring that liar out and make her answer for it.]

I hid the comments and focused on the video.

Macey was sitting on a tastefully decorated couch, the lighting so soft it looked like a layer of gauze.

The host was a young woman, her tone extra gentle.

"Macey, thank you for being willing to share your story today. I know you've had a lot to deal with lately," the host said.

"Thank you," Macey said, bowing her head. "If I don't say it now, the truth will just stay buried forever."

"Why don't we start from the very beginning?"

"Okay," I said.

She talked for fifteen minutes—starting with their high school days, then her years abroad, her return home, and finally, the moment she found out he was already married.

Every pause landed exactly where it needed to, like she'd rehearsed it a hundred times.

I caught about half of it while sitting in the lobby.

Then I put my phone away and stood up.

I didn't need to see any more.

I could predict everything she'd say, right down to the order. Her whole script was obvious to me.

There was only one thing I needed to do: wait.

I would let her say her piece, spin her web of lies, and wring out every last tear.

It was my turn.

But not today.

Today, she was acting out her own drama. Let her act. The longer the show dragged on, the more holes she would expose.

I walked out of the hotel and got into Mason's car.

"Ms. Murphy, heading home?" Mason asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You're not going in?"

"No, I'm heading home to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for her to finish her show."

Macey's interview went live at 8 PM.

I propped up my tablet on the dining table and watched as I ate dinner.

My dad sat across from me, head down, eating his fish.

Mason stood by the kitchen door, glancing over every now and then.

As the interview went on, Macey started throwing shade at me. "I honestly don't even know how to describe Emmaline.

"When she first met Desmond, she said she had no family, that she was all alone. Desmond's too kind-hearted. He felt bad for her and kept taking care of her. But the more he tried to help, the more she latched onto him."

The host asked, "So you're saying Emmaline was never genuine with Desmond from the beginning?"

"Exactly. Later on, I found out her dad is Alexander. He basically runs half the private hospitals in this city."

She lowered her head. "A girl from a wealthy family, acting like she had nothing, just to hook an underdog who built everything from scratch. Isn't that basically a scam marriage?"

Chapter 7

That day, he said, "Emmaline, when I make it big, I'll throw you a proper wedding party."

Six years later, he was worth 400 million dollars, owned three cars, and two luxury houses.

The wedding party never happened.

But he went and bought Macey a house.

I deleted both photos.

Why keep them around? Just to remind myself how dumb I was?

Just to remind myself how dumb I was?

Right before I went to bed, Soren sent me a message. [Tracked it down. The company behind 'Her Story' is Everview Media Group, and the legal representative is Ethan.]

He was the college roommate who acted as a proxy owner for Desmond's luxury house.

All the pieces finally fell into place.

This whole interview was nothing but a setup masterminded by Desmond from beginning to end.

He was pulling the strings behind the scenes, making his beloved Macey play the victim front and center.

He thought if he cornered me from both sides, I'd have nowhere left to run.

I said, "Soren."

"Yes?" Soren said.

"Keep this information on file."

"Got it."

I turned off the light.

Tomorrow, the real show would start.

That afternoon, I called him. "Soren, can you record the livestream?"

"Sure, no problem. You want me to record it?" he replied.

"Record the whole thing from start to finish. Don't let a single second slip by."

"Okay," I said.

By 7:30 that night, I threw on a dark jacket, skipped the makeup, tied my hair back, and put on a pair of plain glasses.

The interview was set up in a hotel.

I didn't go to the interview studio.

I headed straight for the hotel lobby because I knew Macey would never come alone.

Just as I expected, at 7:50, a black sedan pulled up to the entrance.

Desmond got out of the driver's seat, came around, and opened the passenger door for her.

Macey stepped out, wearing that same white sweater from the poster, in stilettos, her arm linked with his as they walked in together.

They walked past me, just 10 feet away.

Desmond's face practically screamed, "Leave it to me."

Macey kept her head down, lips pressed tight, her eyes already rimmed with red.

But from the side, I caught a glimpse of her hand clutching Desmond's sleeve, her grip so tight her knuckles were bone-white.

She wasn't on the verge of tears.

She was nervous.

They got into the elevator without noticing me tucked away in the corner.

At 8 PM sharp, the livestream kicked off.

I sat down on a couch in the lobby and opened up my phone.

Tens of thousands of people were watching, and the screen was flooded with comments.

[Go Macey.]

[The truth will come out.]

[Bring that liar out and make her answer for it.]

I hid the comments and focused on the video.

Macey was sitting on a tastefully decorated couch, the lighting so soft it looked like a layer of gauze.

The host was a young woman, her tone extra gentle.

"Macey, thank you for being willing to share your story today. I know you've had a lot to deal with lately," the host said.

"Thank you," Macey said, bowing her head. "If I don't say it now, the truth will just stay buried forever."

"Why don't we start from the very beginning?"

"Okay," I said.

She talked for fifteen minutes—starting with their high school days, then her years abroad, her return home, and finally, the moment she found out he was already married.

Every pause landed exactly where it needed to, like she'd rehearsed it a hundred times.

I caught about half of it while sitting in the lobby.

Then I put my phone away and stood up.

I didn't need to see any more.

I could predict everything she'd say, right down to the order. Her whole script was obvious to me.

There was only one thing I needed to do: wait.

I would let her say her piece, spin her web of lies, and wring out every last tear.

It was my turn.

But not today.

Today, she was acting out her own drama. Let her act. The longer the show dragged on, the more holes she would expose.

I walked out of the hotel and got into Mason's car.

"Ms. Murphy, heading home?" Mason asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You're not going in?"

"No, I'm heading home to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for her to finish her show."

Macey's interview went live at 8 PM.

I propped up my tablet on the dining table and watched as I ate dinner.

My dad sat across from me, head down, eating his fish.

Mason stood by the kitchen door, glancing over every now and then.

As the interview went on, Macey started throwing shade at me. "I honestly don't even know how to describe Emmaline.

The host asked, "So you're saying Emmaline was never genuine with Desmond from the beginning?"

"Exactly. Later on, I found out her dad is Alexander. He basically runs half the private hospitals in this city."

She lowered her head. "A girl from a wealthy family, acting like she had nothing, just to hook an underdog who built everything from scratch. Isn't that basically a scam marriage?"