The morning after....
The sun broke through the silk curtains of my room far too soon, its light harsh against swollen eyes and a pounding head. The scent of dried champagne still clung to my ruined gown, discarded in the corner like a corpse of last night's humiliation.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Every screen in the mansion, the TV in the sitting room, the tablet in the kitchen, even the maids whispering behind closed doors, was filled with me.
Headlines screamed:
• "Saints Heiress Publicly Humiliated: Damian Gray Ends Engagement at X Holdings Ball!"
• "Cinderella Prevails? Damian Chooses Secretary Over Saint!"
• "Is This the End of the Saints Legacy?"
Clips of me grabbing Natalie's wrist, my stained gown, Damian's cold declaration, they were everywhere.
Played on repeat, dissected by anchors, torn apart by gossip panels. Social media was a frenzy of hashtags and memes.
#SaintsDownfall
#NatalieGray
#CinderellaWins
Everywhere, people laughed, pitied, speculated. The image of me standing alone in the middle of that ballroom was burned into the city's mind.
At the breakfast table downstairs, Grandfather James sat in silence, the morning news spread open before him on his ipad. The headline photo was of Damian and Natalie leaving the ball hand in hand, my humiliated figure blurred in the background.
He didn't rant. He didn't shout. He simply folded the paper and set it aside, his expression carved from stone.
"Frank," he said quietly, "clear my schedule. Today, all that matters is containing this fire."
Frank bowed. "Yes, sir."
And though no one said it aloud, the truth echoed in every corner of the Saints mansion: the heiress had fallen.