The News went on
"Unconfirmed reports suggest that her younger sister stepped in to replace her at the ceremony to avoid public humiliation. The Alcotts have declined to comment further, but sources close to the family describe this as a betrayal. Many are questioning how this scandal will impact the company's future."
A photo flashed onto the screen— not of her face, because apparently no one had a recent one. Instead, it was a blurry picture of a veil, a gown, the back of a woman stepping into a car.
I frowned, the words circling in my mind. Vanished. Betrayal. Fled.
I didn't know the Alcotts personally, though their name floated in every corner of the city. Their wealth, their influence, their company— everyone knew it. Everyone wanted something from them.
But hearing it like this… I felt something strange. Not just curiosity. Something heavier.
The way the anchor spoke, it was as though this girl had turned into a ghost, her whole life rewritten in one night by the people who claimed to love her. A runaway. A thief. A coward.
I rubbed a hand down my face, staring at the empty glass coffee table. What would drive someone to leave everything like that? To walk away from power, from family, from a future already carved in marble for them?
Or maybe… maybe she hadn't chosen.
My chest tightened without reason, like I'd swallowed a stone. I did not know this girl. I'd never even seen her face. But something about the way they spoke— cold, polished, final— made me uneasy.
I knew how easily lies could be dressed as truth when enough people with power agreed to repeat them.
Leaning back, I let out a long breath. "Tracy Alcott." I whispered her name to the empty room.
It meant nothing to me. Yet, somehow, it did.
I found myself lingering on the screen until the report ended, the anchor shifting to another story as though Tracy Alcott had never existed. Just another scandal for the city to feed on before moving to the next. I turned the TV off, and the silence filled in again, louder than before.
For the first time in a long while, my home felt too big. And for reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't stop wondering about a girl I had never met.
I rubbed the back of my neck and blew out a breath. Why did I care? This wasn't my life. This wasn't my mess. I had my own world to manage, and it was already too full.
But I couldn't shake it.
Her name hung in the room even after the TV went dark again.
I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, staring at the ripples as it filled. My reflection wavered there— tired eyes, a jaw clenched too tight.
"Tracy Alcott." I muttered under my breath, testing how it sounded in my mouth. The name felt odd, almost heavy, like it didn't belong to me but refused to leave me alone.
I took a sip, hoping it would clear her from my mind, but it didn't. If anything, the memory of the broadcast grew sharper— the blurred photo they had shown, the voice of her mother, cold and unforgiving, the way the story painted her as if her whole existence had boiled down to failure.
I hated that. I hated when people's stories were written without their voices in them.
Back in the living room, I picked up the newspaper from the coffee table and flipped it open. Business, politics, markets— my name came up once, then twice, and I skimmed past without a second glance. None of it mattered right now. Not compared to the small article near the back.
"Who is Tracy Alcott?"
The column was filled with speculation. They described her as hidden, fragile, spoiled. Words written by people who had never met her, never spoken to her, never even seen her in person.
I folded the paper shut with a sigh and leaned back again. The couch swallowed me, but not in comfort— more like quicksand.
This shouldn't bother me. And yet it did.
It was almost midnight by the time I stretched out and tried to close my eyes. Work would be waiting in the morning, deadlines and deals that demanded my full attention. But even as exhaustion dragged at me, her name threaded through my thoughts like an echo.
Tracy Alcott.
I didn't know her. I wasn't supposed to care. But something in me whispered that this wasn't the last time I'd hear her name.
Not in the news.
And maybe— not in my life.