By Monday morning, Arden's gossip machine had reinvented Eleanor Sinclair.
"Eleanor Sinclair's Graceful Words: 'Please, Stop Hurting Elena.'"
"Heiress Speaks with Compassion Amid Scandal."
"Blackwell–Sinclair Union Stronger Than Ever."
I sat at the kitchen island with my untouched coffee growing cold, staring at the glossy print.
The photo was calculated perfection: Eleanor draped in ivory silk, hair in soft waves, no jewelry except pearl studs. She looked like a woman weary from the weight of love and responsibility, a modern saint begging the city to be kind—even to me.
I felt bile rise in my throat.
"She's good," I muttered, slamming the paper shut. "Too good."
Damien looked up from his phone where he was scrolling through news feeds, his sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. "Classic Sinclair strategy," he said flatly. "Play the martyr, collect the sympathy, hide the blade."
I laughed bitterly. "And now I'm back to being the villain. Again."
Finally, his eyes lifted, steel-gray and cutting. "Only if you let her. Control the story, Elena. Don't hand her the script."
He said it like it was simple. Like I could just tear down Eleanor's carefully built halo with a flick of my hand. But the truth was—I wasn't sure I was ready to fight her on her battlefield.
Because Eleanor didn't raise her voice, didn't throw tantrums. She killed reputations with silk and tears. And Arden loved nothing more than a woman who looked like a victim.
---
That evening, the true test came.
Leonard Huxley, one of the city's most influential investors, hosted a private dinner at his sprawling estate. A palace of mirrors and marble, with staff gliding silently in black and white. He was a man whose approval could stabilize fortunes—or ruin them.
The guest list was a who's who of Arden's elite: magnates, socialites, journalists with influence. It was no coincidence that Adrian and Eleanor were invited. And no coincidence Damien insisted I go too.
"She'll make her move tonight," he told me in the car. "Smile when she does. And cut deeper."
The ballroom was drenched in candlelight and strings of violins. Eleanor floated in wearing lavender silk, her arm tucked in Adrian's, her smile so gentle it could have been carved from porcelain. People swarmed to her like moths.
"She's so kind."
"Imagine, after everything, still speaking softly of Elena."
"A real lady."
I wanted to scream. Instead, I lifted my chin higher.
The moment came when one of Huxley's companions brought up the article, loud enough for the entire circle to hear. "Eleanor, my dear, such grace! Asking the city to stop judging poor Elena. You're a jewel."
Eleanor lowered her lashes modestly. "It was nothing. I only want peace. After all, none of us deserve to keep bleeding over the past."
Eyes turned to me. Waiting.
I let the pause stretch, then smiled faintly. "She's right about one thing," I said smoothly, my voice calm, clear. "I do hope this circus ends soon. Not because I'm broken—but because I'm done playing the part they wrote for me."
A ripple of surprise swept through the circle. Whispers rose, curious, thoughtful. Eleanor's smile twitched, so faint I almost missed it.
But I didn't miss it. And neither did she.
For the first time, I'd slipped a crack into her saintly mask.
---
Later, I drifted toward the balcony, the air cooler outside the crush of bodies and perfume. That was when I heard it—two men with cigars, voices lowered but not enough.
"…the Sinclairs are overleveraged."
"Adrian made a mistake pushing this merger."
"Huxley's pulling back. Might withdraw before quarter's end."
My chest tightened. Adrian, untouchable Adrian, was bleeding where it mattered most—money, power, reputation. And Eleanor's lavender silk couldn't stitch it shut.
I turned back into the ballroom, scanning the room. Adrian's smile was brittle, his charm forced. Eleanor kept leaning in, whispering to him, her eyes sharper than her lips. They knew.
And I knew too.
This was it. The empire that had cast me out was wobbling, its pillars trembling.
---
When I finally left, Damien was waiting by the car, leaning against it as though the night was unfolding exactly as he had predicted. His posture was easy, but his gaze sharpened when he saw me.
"Well?" he asked.
I didn't hesitate. "They're losing investors. I heard it myself—Huxley's pulling out. Adrian's mask is slipping."
Damien's lips curved faintly, the kind of expression that wasn't joy but triumph. "Good. Then the timing is perfect."
"For what?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
"For the next strike." His voice was quiet, dangerous. "If Eleanor wants to play the saint, we'll show the city what festers beneath her halo. And Adrian—" His eyes darkened, glinting like steel. "Adrian will hang himself. All we have to do is hand him the rope."
I sank into the car seat, my pulse still racing. The city lights blurred by outside, neon and gold, but my reflection in the window was sharp.
Not the abandoned bride. Not the weeping woman in the rain.
The hunter.