Chapter 3

The memory of rain clinging to my skin lingered long after I’d checked into the cheapest hotel I could find. The room was small, the wallpaper peeling in one corner, and the air conditioner rattled like old bones. I sat on the edge of the bed, suitcase at my feet, watching the world unravel on the glowing screen of my phone.

I should have turned off the notifications. But I couldn’t. Not when the video—my video—was everywhere.

Jenna’s footage had gone viral within hours. There I was: hair slicked to my cheeks, suitcase dragging behind me, Damien’s voice clear as a bell: “Let this be a lesson—no one crosses the Vance family.” The internet devoured it. My name trended for all the wrong reasons. The comments were a torrent of mockery and venom:

‘A wife who can’t even keep her husband, let alone have a child.’

‘So much for the perfect Vance family.’

‘Useless. She should have left long ago—what was she holding onto?’

I scrolled, numb, until the words blurred into a cruel, buzzing static. Still, I read every one. Each insult felt like a stone, pressing me further down, as if I might disappear entirely—just a rumor, a punchline, a warning to others.

Reporters found the hotel by noon. Their voices seeped through the crack beneath the door, muffled but relentless. I heard the scrape of camera tripods, the drone of questions shouted through the thin walls: “Mrs. Vance, do you regret it?” “Was it true you tried to harm the new heir?” “What do you have to say to your husband’s accusations?”

I drew the curtains tight and pressed my back to the wall, phone clutched in my hand. The hotel room felt like a tomb, its silence broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the thump of my heart. Every time my phone pinged, I flinched. I didn’t answer any calls. I couldn’t face my parents, not even to beg for comfort. What would I say—that all their lessons in dignity and composure had been for nothing? That they’d raised a daughter who was ridiculed by the world?

Night fell. I lay in bed, the light from my screen ghosting across the ceiling, eyes gritty and aching. I watched myself, over and over, stumbling through the rain with nowhere to go. My shame was now a public property—replayed, dissected, memed. But beneath the humiliation, something colder, harder began to settle. If this was rock bottom, then at least the fall had ended.

Morning came gray and airless. I dressed carefully, smoothing the wrinkles from my only clean blouse, and forced myself to face what remained of my life: the office. My badge still worked. For now.

The Vance Corporation headquarters loomed before me—a glass-and-steel monolith reflecting a city that had already moved on. Inside, the lobby buzzed with the usual churn of power and ambition, but something in the air had shifted. Whispered laughter followed me as I passed. Heads turned, not in greeting, but in barely concealed amusement.

Near the elevators, a young assistant nudged her friend, phone angled discreetly. The video played again: my soaked, haggard face beamed out in high definition. “That’s her,” the assistant whispered, not caring if I heard. “The wife who got replaced.”

I kept walking, spine straight, every step a battle against the urge to run. In the mirrored elevator doors, I caught my own reflection—chin lifted, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not here.

The office floor was worse. My colleagues—people I’d worked alongside for years—turned away or, worse, offered thin, brittle smiles. Mark Conroy, the junior executive whose ambition outstripped his talent, leaned back in his chair, phone held high as I passed.

“Morning, Mrs. Vance,” he called out. “Or is it just Ms. Laurent now?”

Laughter rippled through the open-plan workspace. I ignored it, focusing on the mountain of paperwork waiting for me. If I kept moving, if I kept working, maybe the world would right itself.

But the whispers never stopped. In the break room, someone played the video on loop, volume just loud enough that every word—every accusation—was audible. I poured coffee with trembling hands, the mug nearly slipping from my grasp. The bitterness of the coffee was nothing compared to the taste in my mouth.

By the time the board meeting began, my nerves were scraped raw. I took my seat, aware of every sideways glance, every suppressed smirk. The conference room was cold, sunlight filtering through frosted glass, throwing pale stripes across the mahogany table. Damien sat at the head, impeccably dressed, eyes fixed on his phone. He didn’t look at me—not even as the room settled into an expectant hush.

I presented my quarterly proposal. My voice was steady, but my hands tightened around the edge of my notes to keep from trembling. I outlined the new expansion plan, listing financial forecasts, projected growth, risks. When I finished, the silence was sharper than applause.

Mark Conroy broke it, his tone oily with false concern. “Thank you for that…passionate presentation, Erica. But I have to ask—are you sure you’re in the right state of mind to make such decisions? Given, well, recent domestic circumstances?”

The words hung in the air like a blade. A few board members tittered, others nodded, their expressions smug. My cheeks flamed. I glanced at Damien. He scrolled through his phone, a smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t even look up.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay even. “My personal life is not relevant to the company’s bottom line. If you have concerns about the numbers, we can review them together.”

Mark leaned forward, feigning sympathy. “We all know how emotional these things can be. No shame in taking a step back. Maybe…someone more stable could handle your portfolio for a while.”

A cold, sick laughter bubbled from somewhere near the far end of the table. The board chair—Damien’s old friend—leaned in, voice syrupy: “We’re only thinking of your well-being, Erica. Perhaps it’s time to consider what’s best for the company—and yourself.”

I gripped my pen so tightly my knuckles ached. “I am doing what’s best for the company. If there are specific objections, name them. Otherwise, I expect the respect due my position.”

Mark’s smile was a razor. “We’re just concerned. You seem…fragile, lately.”

I barely heard the rest. My heartbeat roared in my ears as the meeting dissolved into side conversations and thinly veiled jokes. Damien never once intervened. Instead, he thumbed through his phone, his lips twitching whenever Mark landed a particularly cruel jab. When the meeting adjourned, he stood and walked out without a word, leaving my authority in ruins behind him.

I gathered my papers in silence, ignoring the burn of tears at the back of my throat. The humiliation was complete—first at home, now here, in the one place I thought I still mattered.

As the boardroom emptied, Mark passed behind me, his voice pitched low, for my ears only. “You should get used to the sidelines, Erica. That’s where you belong.”

His cologne lingered—a sharp, sour note. The door swung shut, leaving me alone in the sterile, echoing room. For a moment, I let my head drop into my hands, the weight of it all pressing down, suffocating.