Amy barely recognized herself in the mirror when she returned home. Her cheeks still burned from the humiliation at the auction, her dress slightly wrinkled, and her hair now tangled from the stress. She had imagined the night as a chance to shine, to feel valued, to be noticed by Ethan. Instead, she had been made a spectacle, blamed for something she hadn't done, and left alone in the glittering chaos of the auction hall.
The Davis house felt colder than usual when she stepped inside. Mrs. Davis was seated in the living room, her posture stiff, lips pressed tightly. Mr. Davis didn't even look up from the evening paper. Amy's stomach twisted. They saw the headlines, no doubt. They think it's my fault.
"Did you… enjoy the auction?" Mrs. Davis asked carefully, her tone laced with suspicion rather than concern.
Amy's fingers tightened around the hem of her gown. "It… it wasn't what I expected," she said quietly, carefully keeping her voice steady.
Mrs. Davis sighed, shaking her head. "Amy, you need to be more careful. People like that… they will take advantage if you make a mistake. Are you sure you handled yourself appropriately?"
Her words felt like knives. Amy wanted to scream, to tell them everything, to reveal Mirable's plan and the injustice, but the words stuck in her throat. Every instinct screamed against the injustice, but her so-called parents' cold disbelief only added to the weight pressing on her chest.
Mirable appeared from the hallway, her presence casual, almost innocent. "Oh, Amy," she said softly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "I saw what happened at the auction. It must have been so overwhelming. You really should be more careful next time… don't let things get out of control."
Amy's blood boiled. She's enjoying this. She's reveling in my misery. She clenched her fists behind her back, forcing herself to breathe. The room felt suffocating, the Davis family's judgment pressing on her like a physical weight.
Her phone buzzed silently. A message from Ethan: We need to talk tomorrow. Don't disappoint me again.
Amy's chest tightened further. Even after the public humiliation, even after Mirable's deliberate scheming, Ethan still expected perfection. The unfairness stung like acid. She felt small, powerless, and trapped.
Later that night, she sat alone in her room, pulling the curtains closed. The evening gown was tossed over a chair, still faintly smelling of perfume and stress. Her mind replayed every detail: Mirable's smirk, the whispers, Ethan's cold eyes, the insults from strangers. Each memory sharpened the ache in her chest.
And yet, beneath the humiliation and the hurt, a spark began to grow. I will not stay broken. I will not be their puppet. I will not let Mirable win. Amy pressed her hands to her face, trying to push down the anger and grief that simmered there. One day, they'll all pay.
Somewhere in the shadows of her frustration, a fleeting thought drifted through her mind—Benson. She had met him before, briefly, in circumstances she barely remembered. The name surfaced like a small, warm light, distant but comforting. Maybe… maybe I don't have to face everything alone.
The night stretched long and cold, filled with whispers of betrayal and echoes of laughter that weren't hers. Amy curled up on her bed, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, her mind a storm of humiliation, anger, and nascent resolve.
Tomorrow, she told herself, she would return to the office. Tomorrow, she would start carefully untangling the web Mirable had spun. And somewhere, somehow, she would find the strength to reclaim herself.