Shadows In The Glass
764 Words
~Unknown Male~
They said time softens things.
That anger fades, that shame gets buried, that people move on.
What a f*****g lie.
Time doesn’t heal — it festers.
It curdles, rots.
Every minute she’s out there smiling, every time I see her name printed in glossy black font under words like visionary or empire builder, it’s like acid under my skin.
Alyssa Rose.
God, she used to be nothing.
A pretty thing with trembling hands and wide, terrified eyes.
She needed me.
Depended on me.
And then she took everything.
I can still hear the click of those security doors closing behind me that night — her bodyguards holding me down, their hands rough, voices calm like I was some stray animal.
The humiliation burned hotter than the cuffs.
Her voice — cold, detached — ordering them to get me “out of her building.”
Not our building.
Her building.
Seven years, and she’s remade herself.
CEO, mother, public darling.
Her face on the cover of magazines, draped in silk, posing beside her designs.
Like she didn’t build all that from the money she stole from me.
Like she didn’t destroy me first.
I’ve spent years in the dark — watching, waiting, building my way back.
And now, I finally see my opening.
She thinks the world adores her.
But fame is fragile — one whisper, one photograph, one headline, and it all crumbles.
People love a hero until they can call her a fraud.
The laptop screen glows against the cracked walls of the cheap flat I’ve been living in.
The walls smell like damp and mould, but I barely notice anymore.
Half a dozen tabs are open — gossip blogs, fashion journals, archived interviews. Every piece of her digital life.
I’ve learned everything I need to know.
Her company structure, her publicist’s name, even the fake “school mum” alias she uses.
Amy.
Cute.
Predictable.
And then there’s him — Greyson Riley.
I remember that name.
Riley Construction. Architecture. Influence.
If she’s got him wrapped around her finger, then she’s aiming higher than I thought.
But even powerful men bleed when you hit their pride.
She’s built herself a life that looks perfect — but I know where the cracks are.
I know who she was before she decided to play the saint.
It won’t take much.
A few well-placed lies.
A few doctored photos.
And the right journalist hungry for a scandal.
I open a folder on my desktop labelled “Rose”.
Inside:
• An old picture of her, barely nineteen, looking broken.
• Screenshots of old bank statements, showing transfers that look incriminating if you don’t know the truth.
• A voice recording from one of our arguments — edited so it sounds like she’s the aggressor.
Piece by piece, I’ve built the perfect illusion.
The headline writes itself:
“Fashion Icon’s Hidden Past — Domestic Abuse Allegations and Fraud Claims Surface.”
All it needs is a source — someone willing to feed the fire.
And I’ve already found one.
I lean back in my chair and light a cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
A journalist named Callum Deighton — hungry, reckless, desperate for relevance. He’s been sniffing around the fashion industry for months, trying to expose something dirty.
I’ll give him what he wants.
My phone buzzes.
Callum: You sure this is legit? This’ll destroy her.
Me: It’s all real. I’ve got proof. She’s not who she says she is.
Callum: Meet tomorrow. 10 a.m. Café by Hyde Park. Bring everything.
Me: You’ll have it.
The cigarette burns out between my fingers, and I watch the last wisp of smoke fade.
There’s a thrill humming under my skin — the same rush I used to feel when I knew I was in control.
When she’d flinch from my voice.
When she’d listen.
She took that power away from me.
Now I’m taking it back.
I get up and cross the room, pulling the curtain aside just enough to watch the street below.
It’s quiet — too quiet. The city’s asleep.
But soon, it won’t be.
Soon, her perfect life will start to crumble.
Her empire will rot from the inside.
Her little world — the house, the car, the company, the man — will all fall apart.
And when the headlines hit, when the vultures start circling, I’ll be there to watch it happen.
Because she can’t hide from who she really is.
Not forever.
She forgot one thing about me.
I don’t forgive.
I don’t forget.
And I don’t lose.
- Writer
