By the week's end, Arden City was humming with my name.
It wasn't pity anymore. Not ridicule. This time, it was intrigue—sharp, hungry, electric.
"Elena Vaughn Returns—From Pawn to Queen?""Elena Vaughn Returns—From Pawn to Queen?"
"Sinclair Heiress Overshadowed.""Sinclair Heiress Overshadowed."
"Adrian Blackwell Facing Doubts After Gala.""Adrian Blackwell Facing Doubts After Gala."
Everywhere I looked—phone screens, café tabloids, whispered conversations over afternoon teas—my face was there. The shot of me in midnight silk, glass raised, smile poised like a blade. Me, meeting Evelyn Cross's barbed words head-on. Me, walking away without flinching.
And beside every glowing photo of me was Eleanor Sinclair—smiling too tightly, standing too still, her shine dulled.
I should have felt triumphant. Instead, my stomach twisted with anticipation. Because I knew her silence wasn't weakness. It was planning. And Adrian? His pride didn't bend—it broke into anger.
Damien skimmed the morning papers in silence, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up. He looked at the storm like it was the weather forecast.
"She won't forgive me for this," I murmured.
He didn't even glance up. "Of course she won't. The Sinclairs don't forgive. They calculate. But Adrian's the one you should watch—his pride's bleeding. Men like him get reckless when they bleed."
His calm unnerved me. But it also steadied me.
---
That night, the Vaughn estate turned into a theater of illusions.
Crystal chandeliers threw light on polished marble, violins hummed, and the air reeked of expensive perfume and champagne. The guests—investors, allies, journalists—hovered with greedy eyes, hungry to see how the Vaughns would handle their cracks.
Victoria floated in diamonds, her smile too bright, her laugh too sharp. Richard clinked glasses, booming with forced cheer.
And Adrian stood there with Eleanor on his arm, posture rigid, grip on her hand too tight—as if he could anchor himself against the whispers. She smiled, flawless as always, but I saw it: the tension in her jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders.
The room stilled when I walked in. A wave of whispers rolled, eyes darted, phones tilted. My steps sounded too loud, but I didn't falter.
It didn't take long for someone to bite.
"Elena Vaughn," Richard's ally said loudly enough for every corner of the hall. "What courage. Sitting in the same room as your ex-fiancé and his bride-to-be. Must feel… awkward, doesn't it?"
I could feel Eleanor's eyes on me, Adrian's too. Cameras tipped.
The old Elena would have shrunk, laughed nervously, tried to disappear. But she was gone.
I lifted my glass, let the golden champagne catch the light, and smiled as though I held all the time in the world.
"Awkward?" I let the word linger. "Not really. I'm just curious how long this engagement will last. Arden loves a scandal, after all."
A ripple of laughter cut through the tension—sharp, delighted, cruel.
Not at me. At them.
Eleanor's flawless smile froze for half a beat. Adrian's jaw flexed, his grip tightening until his knuckles went white.
And I—once the bride thrown aside—stood taller under the chandeliers.
The fracture had widened.
---
The terrace outside was quieter, cooler, the roses heavy with dew and the fountains whispering like secrets. I stepped out just to breathe, to let the champagne laughter fade from my ears.
But I wasn't alone.
"Elena."
His voice was low, taut.
Adrian stepped out from the shadows, tie undone, his perfect hair slightly mussed. The sight of him made my chest tighten with a confusing mix of memories—six years of promises and betrayals coiled together like thorns.
"Stop this," he said.
I turned, arms crossed, chin lifted. "Stop what?"
"This performance." His voice cracked at the edges, his anger barely caged. "Damien's using you. Don't you see? You're nothing more than a pawn in his game against me."
For a moment, his words stung—because once, I had believed every lie that left his mouth. But not anymore.
"Maybe I am," I said, calm and deliberate. "Or maybe I've finally realized how easy it is to watch you unravel."
His chest heaved. His hand twitched as if he might reach for me, drag me close like he used to when anger masqueraded as passion. But he didn't. He clenched his fist instead.
"You're playing with fire," he warned, his voice raw. "And when it burns you, don't expect me to save you."
I stepped forward, closing the space, letting him see the steel in my eyes. "You already had your chance to save me, Adrian. You chose to set me on fire instead."
His breath caught. For the first time, I saw doubt flicker across his face.
I turned and walked away, the sound of my heels echoing like defiance across the marble.
---
Damien was waiting outside the estate, leaning casually against his car under the glow of the streetlight. He looked at me the way a man studies a chess piece that has just moved exactly where he planned.
"Well?" he asked.
I exhaled, still trembling with adrenaline. "He's cracking. They both are."
Damien's lips curved slightly, the closest thing to approval I'd ever seen on his face. "Good. Then we keep pressing. Widen the fractures. Until everything collapses."
The night air felt different as I stood there. For the first time, I wasn't running from the fire.
I was feeding it.
And it thrilled me.