The CEO’s Fake Bride: Her Cold-Blooded Revenge

The laughter in the university hallway was louder than the lecturer’s voice. Elara kept her head down, her fingers gripping the strap of her frayed backpack until her knuckles turned white. "Oops! My bad, 'Princess' Elara," a voice sneered. Suddenly, a cold, sticky liquid drenched Elara’s head. The smell of spoiled milk and coffee filled her nostrils. Her classmate, Sarah—a girl she’d never even spoken to—stood over her with an empty cup and a cruel smirk. Behind her, a group of students held up their phones, the flashes blinding as they recorded her humiliation. "You smell like a trash can, just like where you live," Sarah laughed. "Tiffany was right; you really are the stain on the Vance family name." Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs. Tiffany. Her stepsister had paid them. Again. It didn't matter that Elara was the top student in the chemistry department; to the world Tiffany created, Elara was just a nuisance to be stepped on. She didn’t cry. She couldn't afford the luxury of tears. Shaking, Elara gathered her wet notes and walked out of the building, the echoes of their mockery following her into the gray afternoon. By the time she reached the gates of the Vance Mansion, a heavy downpour had started. She just wanted a hot shower. She just wanted to crawl into the small attic room that used to be hers and study for her finals. But as she stepped onto the driveway, she saw them. Three suitcases—her only belongings—lay sprawled in the mud near the gate. Her textbooks were soaking up the rainwater, the ink of her mother's old journals beginning to bleed. "What is this?" Elara whispered, her voice trembling as she looked up. Standing on the sheltered porch was Eleanor, her stepmother, draped in a silk robe, and Tiffany, who was buffing her nails with a look of pure boredom. Her father, Julian, stood a few feet behind them, looking at his shoes. "The help needs that attic space, Elara," Eleanor said, her voice like honey dipped in venom. "And frankly, we're tired of looking at your pathetic face. You're twenty-one now. The 'charity' ends today." "Dad?" Elara called out, her eyes searching for the man who used to read her bedtime stories. "Dad, it’s pouring. I have finals next week. I have nowhere to go!" Julian Vance finally looked up, but there was no love in his eyes—only a weak, cowardly flicker of annoyance. "You’ve been a burden on Eleanor and Tiffany for long enough, Elara. Maybe being on the streets will finally teach you some gratitude. Don't come back." "But this was my mother’s house!" Elara screamed, her voice cracking. "She built this! You're standing on her legacy!" Slap! Eleanor had descended the stairs faster than Elara could blink. The sting on Elara’s cheek was sharper than the cold rain. "Your mother is a ghost, and ghosts don't own property," Eleanor hissed. "Get your trash off our driveway before I call the police for trespassing." Tiffany leaned against the doorframe, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Don't worry, Elara. I’ll make sure Marcus takes real good care of me tonight while you're finding a bridge to sleep under." The door slammed shut. The heavy iron gates clicked locked. Elara stood alone in the mud, the rain washing away the spoiled milk, but nothing could wash away the cold realization that she no longer had a family. She reached into her pocket for her phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed Marcus’s number. He was her last hope. Six years of love had to mean something. But as the line rang and rang, only to be cut off, she saw a notification pop up on her screen. A social media post from Tiffany. It was a photo of Marcus’s hand intertwined with Tiffany’s, a sparkling engagement ring on her finger. The caption read: “Finally with someone who matches my status. Sorry, not sorry.” Elara let the phone slip from her hand. It hit the puddle with a dull splash. She didn't scream this time. Instead, a cold, hard fire began to ignite in the pit of her stomach. "You want me to be a ghost?" she whispered to the closed gates, her eyes turning as sharp as flint. "Then I will be the one that haunts you until you have nothing left."