Elena's POV
I'm going to throw up.
The thought hits me as Marcus slides his arm around my waist, pulling me close for another photo. The camera flashes. I smile wider, the kind of smile I've perfected over years of Instagram posts and brand partnerships. The kind that says I'm living my best life when really, I'm dying inside.
"One more, Miss Moretti!" the photographer calls out. "You two are absolutely glowing!"
Marcus kisses my temple. His lips feel like ice against my skin. Three hours ago, those same lips whispered to my best friend Jade about how "pathetically easy" I am to manipulate.
I heard every word.
"Darling, you're trembling," Marcus murmurs in my ear, his voice dripping with fake concern. To everyone watching, he's the perfect fiancé. Attentive. Loving. Supportive.
Only I know the truth.
"I'm fine," I lie, because that's what I do best. I lie to everyone, including myself.
The Manhattan gallery is packed with people who matter—art critics, social media influencers, wealthy collectors, magazine editors. They're here to see Wanderlust by Elena, my travel photography exhibition. Five years of work displayed on these pristine white walls. My dreams made real.
Except none of it feels real anymore.
"Elena! Over here!" Another camera flash. I turn, smile, pose. My red dress cost three thousand dollars. My engagement ring cost fifty. Marcus made sure everyone knew that detail when he proposed six months ago at the top of the Eiffel Tower. The post got two million likes.
I wonder how many likes the truth would get.
"Champagne?" A server appears beside me. I take a glass even though my stomach is twisted in knots. My hand shakes slightly. I press it against my side, hoping no one notices.
But Marcus notices everything. That's what makes him so dangerous.
"Careful, love," he says quietly, his smile never faltering. "We need you sharp for your speech. Don't embarrass us."
Don't embarrass us. Not Don't embarrass yourself. Because I stopped being my own person the day I let Marcus take over the business side of my career.
That was two years ago. Two years of slowly watching him erase me from my own brand while I smiled and nodded and played the grateful girlfriend.
"There's my superstar!" Jade appears, all glossy black hair and perfect makeup. She hugs me tight, and I fight the urge to shove her away. This morning, she was in my apartment office with Marcus. I came home early from a meeting, excited to surprise them with coffee.
Instead, I got the surprise.
I stood frozen in the hallway, listening through the cracked door as they laughed. Actually laughed.
"She hasn't even read the new contracts," Marcus had said. "She just signs whatever I put in front of her. God, she's so desperate for approval."
"Does she suspect anything about us?" That was Jade's voice. Jade, who I've known since college. Jade, who I trusted with everything.
"Are you kidding? Elena's too busy being insecure to notice anything. She's terrified of being alone. That's why this works so perfectly."
"So we're still on schedule? She signs the partnership deal next week, we push her out, I become the new face of Wanderlust?"
"Exactly. The contracts tie all her creative work to me. She won't be able to touch it. We rebrand with you, split the profits, and Elena gets nothing."
"What if she fights back?"
Marcus had laughed then. The sound made my blood turn cold. "She won't. She never does. That's why I chose her."
I'd backed away slowly, then walked outside and screamed into my hands until my throat hurt. Then I dried my tears, fixed my makeup, and came to this gallery opening like a good, obedient puppet.
Because confronting them felt impossible. Because I've spent my whole life avoiding conflict. Because somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispers that maybe they're right—maybe I am pathetically easy to manipulate.
"Elena? Hello?" Jade waves her hand in front of my face. "You zoned out again. Are you okay?"
"Perfect," I say, and take a long drink of champagne. The bubbles burn going down.
"Good, because it's almost time for your speech." Jade squeezes my shoulder. Her nails dig in slightly. "Marcus worked really hard on it. Don't mess it up."
My speech. That Marcus wrote. About my own photographs.
Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. It might be anger. I've forgotten what that feels like.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The gallery director taps a microphone. "If you could gather around, our artist Elena Moretti would like to say a few words!"
The crowd shifts toward the small stage. Marcus guides me forward with a hand on my lower back. Jade stands nearby, her phone out, ready to record everything for Instagram.
They're both smiling. Both so confident that I'll play my part.
I step up to the microphone. Two hundred faces look at me expectantly. These people think they know me. They've seen my perfectly filtered life online—the exotic locations, the romantic moments with Marcus, the friendship goals with Jade.
They don't know anything.
I pull the folded speech from my clutch. Marcus's handwriting covers the page. Words about gratitude and inspiration and thanking my "amazing support system."
My hands stop shaking. Something inside me shifts.
I've spent my whole life being what other people needed me to be. The perfect daughter for my critical mother. The successful influencer for my sponsors. The agreeable girlfriend for Marcus.
But maybe I'm tired of being perfect.
I look at Marcus. He gives me an encouraging nod, completely unaware that his world is about to explode.
I look at Jade. She's still recording, waiting for content she can post with heart emojis and fake friendship captions.
I look at the speech in my hands—Marcus's carefully crafted lies.
Then I tear it in half.
The sound of ripping paper echoes through the suddenly silent gallery. Marcus's face goes white. Jade's phone nearly drops.
"Actually," I say into the microphone, my voice surprisingly steady, "I have something different to say."
Marcus takes a step toward the stage, his expression shifting from shock to warning. "Elena, what are you—"
"My fiancé is sleeping with my best friend." The words come out clear and loud. "They've been planning to steal my business. Tonight, actually, I'm supposed to sign contracts that would give Marcus ownership of everything I've created. Then they were going to push me out and rebrand with Jade as the new face."
The gallery erupts. Gasps. Whispers. Camera phones appearing everywhere.
"Elena, stop!" Jade's voice is shrill. "You're not well, you're confused—"
"I heard you." I'm looking right at her now. "This morning. In my apartment. I heard everything."
Marcus recovers fast. He's good at this—the manipulation, the performance. His face transforms into concern, hurt, confusion. "Darling, you're under so much stress. You're not making sense. Maybe we should—"
"Eighteen months," I interrupt. "That's how long you've been lying to me. Both of you."
"This is insane!" Jade shouts. "I would never—"
But I'm not listening anymore. I'm looking at the crowd. Some faces show shock. Others show pity. A few show something worse—doubt. They're not sure who to believe.
And that's when I realize my mistake.
Marcus is already moving through the crowd, playing wounded and bewildered. "I'm sorry, everyone. Elena has been under tremendous pressure. She's been struggling with some mental health issues we've been trying to address privately—"
"That's a lie!" My voice cracks.
"She's been increasingly paranoid, seeing conspiracies where there are none." Marcus's voice is gentle, sad, convincing. "I love her so much, but I think she needs help. Professional help."
The crowd's energy shifts. Now they're looking at me with concern. Poor, unstable Elena. Having a breakdown at her own gallery opening.
Jade is crying. Actual tears. "I've been so worried about you," she says, moving closer to the stage. "We all have. Why would you say these terrible things?"
My phone starts buzzing in my clutch. I pull it out with shaking hands. Notifications flood the screen. Someone's already posted video of my speech. Comments are pouring in.
OMG what's happening
Elena looks unhinged
Marcus seems so worried about her
This is so sad to watch
"No," I whisper. "No, you can't—"
Security appears. Two large men in suits. "Miss Moretti, we need you to leave."
"This is MY gallery opening!" I'm shaking now, rage and panic mixing together. "They're lying! All of you, they're—"
"Let's go, ma'am. Calmly."
The security guards take my arms. Not roughly, but firmly. They're escorting me toward the exit. Through the crowd that parts around me like I'm contagious.
I see my mother near the back. She's covering her face with one hand, mortified. My father stands beside her, stone-faced and distant as always.
Neither of them moves to help me.
"Elena, wait!" Marcus calls after me, his voice full of fake concern. "Let me help you!"
But he doesn't follow. He stays in the gallery, surrounded by sympathetic faces, already controlling the narrative.
The guards walk me to the front doors. The cold March air hits my face. Behind me, I hear the murmur of voices, the click of cameras.
"Ma'am, do you have someone we can call?" one guard asks, not unkindly.
I don't answer. I'm staring at my phone as notifications multiply. Someone's already made my "breakdown" into a trending topic. Marcus's PR team works fast.
The first headline appears from a gossip blog: Influencer Elena Moretti Has Meltdown, Accuses Fiancé and BFF of Affair
Then another: Friends Worry as Travel Photographer Shows Signs of Mental Breakdown
And another: Inside Elena Moretti's Shocking Behavior at Her Own Gallery Opening
They're all sharing the video. In it, I look wild-eyed and desperate. Marcus looks concerned and heartbroken. Jade looks scared.
I look crazy.
"No," I breathe. "No, no, no—"
My phone rings. My mother. I answer.
"Elena Margaret Moretti." Her voice is ice. "What have you done? Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? Marcus is a good man from a good family, and you just—"
I hang up.
The phone rings again. My father this time. I don't answer.
Text messages flood in. My sponsors. My agent. Magazine editors. All professional and polite, but the message is clear: We need to distance ourselves from you.
I'm watching my life collapse in real-time, measured in notifications and lost opportunities.
And Marcus orchestrated all of it.
The rain starts—cold, hard drops that soak through my expensive dress in seconds. I stand there on the sidewalk, watching through the gallery windows as Marcus comforts guests, as Jade wipes her fake tears, as my career burns to ashes.
Then Marcus looks at me through the glass. Our eyes meet.
And he smiles.
Not the charming smile he shows the world. The real one. Cold and victorious.
He knew I would break. He planned for it. This entire disaster plays right into his narrative—the unstable girlfriend, the concerned fiancé, the justified takeover of my brand.
I've lost everything in one night.
My phone buzzes again. Another headline: Breaking: Elena Moretti's Sponsors Begin Dropping Partnership Deals
The rain pours harder. I'm shaking, soaked, destroyed.
I start walking. Away from the gallery. Away from the cameras. Away from everything.
I don't know where I'm going. I just know I can't stay here. Can't face the pity and the judgment and the whispered gossip.
My car. I need my car.
I start running through the rain, heels clicking on wet pavement. People stare as I pass, but I don't care anymore. I just need to leave. Need to disappear. Need to—
My phone rings one more time. A number I don't recognize.
I answer without thinking. "What?"
"Miss Moretti?" A professional voice. "This is Sarah from Luxe Travel Brands. I'm calling to inform you that we're terminating our contract effective immediately. Given tonight's... incident... we feel it's best to part ways."
"But that contract is worth—" I can't breathe. "That's a two-year deal. You can't just—"
"Actually, according to clause fifteen, we can terminate for behavior that damages the brand. I'm very sorry. We'll be in touch about final details."
She hangs up.
I stand there in the rain, phone pressed to my ear, listening to dead air.
That contract was supposed to be my biggest deal ever. A million dollars over two years. My proof that I'd made it.
Gone.
More notifications flash across my screen. More sponsors pulling out. More headlines painting me as unstable. More comments calling me jealous, paranoid, attention-seeking.
Marcus has won.
I reach my car—a sleek silver Mercedes that Marcus convinced me to buy because it "photographs well." I throw myself inside, slamming the door against the rain and the cold and the nightmare my life has become.
My makeup runs down my face in black streams. My perfect hair plasters against my skull. My designer dress is ruined.
I look like exactly what they're calling me: a disaster.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel and scream. A raw, primal sound that tears from somewhere deep inside me. All the rage and hurt and humiliation and betrayal pouring out in one horrible moment.
When I'm empty, I lift my head. My reflection stares back at me from the rearview mirror. I don't recognize the broken woman I see.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a news alert: Marcus Castellano Makes Statement About Fiancée's Breakdown: "We Love Her and Want Her to Get Help"
I throw the phone against the passenger window. The screen cracks but doesn't shatter.
Just like me.
Start the car. I need to start the car. Need to leave this city. Need to run.
The engine roars to life. Rain pounds the windshield so hard I can barely see.
I don't care.
I pull into traffic, hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. Horns honk as I cut someone off. I keep driving.
North. South. East. West. It doesn't matter. Anywhere but here.
My phone rings and rings and rings. I ignore it all.
The city lights blur past. Buildings become trees. Streets become highways. The rain gets worse, but I press the gas harder.
Hours pass. Maybe two, maybe ten. Time stops meaning anything.
All I know is that I need to get away. From Marcus. From Jade. From my mother's disappointed voice and my father's cold silence. From the cameras and the comments and the headlines.
From myself.
The highway turns into a smaller road. Then smaller still. Trees close in on both sides. The rain becomes a storm—violent, angry, matching everything inside me.
I should stop. Pull over. Wait for the weather to clear.
But stopping means thinking. Thinking means feeling. Feeling means breaking apart completely.
So I keep driving.
The road gets narrower. Darker. The storm gets worse. Lightning cracks across the sky.
My phone—lying broken on the passenger seat—lights up one more time.
A text from Marcus: I'm sorry it had to be this way. You should have just signed the contracts.
And I understand then. He wanted this. Wanted me to break publicly so no one would believe me when I fought back. Wanted to destroy my credibility before I could destroy his plans.
He's not just stealing my business. He's stealing my truth.
White-hot rage floods through me. I press the gas pedal down harder. The car surges forward. Rain hammers the windshield. I can barely see five feet ahead.
I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore.
The road curves sharply. I see it too late.
I yank the wheel. The car skids on the wet pavement. Everything happens in slow motion and too fast all at once.
Metal screaming. Glass shattering. The world spinning sideways.
The guardrail appears in my headlights—rusted, old, useless.
My car smashes through it like it's paper.
For one impossible moment, I'm flying. Suspended in air and rain and darkness.
Then I'm falling.
Tumbling down the cliff side. Branches smashing through windows. Metal crunching. My body slamming against the seatbelt.
The car hits something hard. Stops. Tilts forward dangerously.
I taste blood. Everything hurts. The world spins.
Through the cracked windshield, I see ocean waves far below, white foam against black rocks. The car is balanced on something, teetering on the edge.
If it falls, I die.
I try to move. Pain explodes through my ribs. Something's broken. Maybe everything.
The car shifts forward an inch.
I freeze.
Rain pours through the broken windows. Wind screams. The car groans, metal protesting against gravity.
I'm going to die here. Alone. In the dark. While Marcus celebrates his victory.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, I feel almost... peaceful.
At least it's over.
The car shifts again. Forward. Forward.
I close my eyes.
Then I hear it. Over the storm, over the ocean, over the screaming wind.
A voice.
"Don't move!"
My eyes fly open. Through the rain, I see a figure climbing down the cliff toward me. A man. Tall and dark-haired, moving with impossible confidence over the slippery rocks.
"The car's about to fall!" he shouts. "Stay absolutely still!"
"I can't—" My voice comes out as a whisper. Everything hurts so much.
"Yes, you can. Look at me!"
I turn my head carefully. Lightning flashes, and I see his face for the first time.
Gray eyes like storm clouds. Sharp features. A scar along his jaw. He looks like something out of a dark fairy tale—beautiful and dangerous and somehow exactly what this moment needs.
"I'm going to get you out," he says, his voice steady despite the chaos. "But you have to trust me. Can you do that?"
Trust. The word that destroyed my life.
But what choice do I have?
"Yes," I whisper.
The car shifts forward again. The man moves faster, closing the distance between us.
"What's your name?" he asks, reaching for the driver's door.
"Elena."
"Elena, I'm going to open this door very slowly. When I do, the weight shift might send the car over. So when I say move, you move fast. Understand?"
I nod. Pain shoots through my neck.
His hand closes on the door handle. "Ready?"
No. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.
"Ready," I lie.
He pulls the door open in one smooth motion. The car lurches forward with a horrible grinding sound.
"NOW!" he roars.
I move. Instinct takes over. I unbuckle the seatbelt, push through the pain, reach for his outstretched hand.
His fingers close around my wrist like an iron band.
He yanks me out of the car just as it tips forward. I fall against him, and we both slam into the muddy cliff face. The car slides past us with a scream of metal on rock, then disappears over the edge.
Three seconds of silence.
Then a crash from far below as it hits the water.
I'm pressed against the stranger's chest, both of us breathing hard. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me against the cliff face. Keeping me safe.
"I've got you," he says quietly. "You're safe."
But I'm not safe. I'm bleeding and broken and everything hurts and my car just fell into the ocean and my life is destroyed and—
The world goes dark.
The last thing I feel is the stranger lifting me into his arms, his voice low and calm: "Stay with me, Elena. Just stay with me."
Then nothing.