CHAPTER TWO
989 Words
CHAPTER TWO
The world didn’t stop spinning just because Amanda Andrew’s heart did.
It kept going — the same way the headlines did.
"Groom Caught in Wedding Scandal — Did the Bride Know?"
"Damien Devy’s Silent Betrayal: Wedding Day Shock"
"Blushing Bride or Business Pawn? Amanda Andrew Vanishes Hours After Ceremony"
The morning after was louder than the wedding itself. News anchors, gossip blogs, even fashion networks — all replayed that grainy footage like it was gospel. The clip was only five seconds long, but it burned deeper than any lifetime of words.
Amanda hadn’t slept.
Not a second.
The wedding suite, once adorned in ivory roses and pale gold silk, now looked like the aftermath of a war. The veil lay crumpled on the floor. The train of her wedding dress trailed like a ghost behind her as she stood by the window, staring at the Los Angeles skyline as if it could undo everything.
Damien’s voice still echoed in her head.
"We both signed up for this."
She hated him. And worse — she hated that some part of her had hoped for more.
A soft knock pulled her attention. Marisol entered, barefoot, her makeup smudged from the night before. “You need to go.”
Amanda didn’t move. “Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
Amanda turned. Her eyes were dull. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’re not hiding,” Marisol said. “You’re escaping. Big difference.”
Amanda didn’t argue. Her throat burned. Her chest ached. “Where is he?”
Marisol’s jaw clenched. “Downstairs. Still talking to PR. Damage control. As if that’s all this is to him.”
Amanda exhaled, her voice low. “Of course it is.”
Another knock.
The door opened again, and Theo stepped inside, eyes nervous but polite. “They’re asking for you. The press. The guests. They want a statement.”
Amanda turned her gaze toward him. “What kind of statement?”
He swallowed. “Something that smooths this over. They want to know if the wedding is still valid.”
She walked across the suite slowly, stopped right in front of him, and tilted her head. “Did he send you?”
“No,” Theo replied quickly. “But… he doesn’t know how to reach you.”
Amanda gave a dry laugh. “Tell him not to bother.”
Theo hesitated, then added, “He didn’t know that footage would air. Someone hacked the projector.”
“Oh,” Amanda said. “Let me guess — someone like Vivian Hale?”
Theo didn’t respond.
Amanda sighed and brushed past him. “I’ll give them their statement.”
Marisol followed as Amanda descended the stairs into the private ballroom, now empty but still heavy with last night’s tension. Outside the tall glass windows, paparazzi lights flickered like dying stars.
A few press members and wedding guests remained near the reception entrance, cameras at the ready. Damien stood near the stage, flanked by his assistant and a PR team.
He turned when Amanda walked in. She didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. Her heels clicked with calculated grace.
“Wait,” Damien said as she passed.
She stopped.
Their eyes met. Her gaze was cool, steady.
“Vivian planned that,” Damien said. “I didn’t know she was going to—”
“I don’t care,” Amanda cut in. “The damage is done. I’m not your wife, Damien. Not really. And thank God for that.”
Silence.
Reporters raised their cameras, but Amanda held up a hand and stepped onto the small reception stage.
“My name is Amanda Andrew,” she said, voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. “I stood on this altar yesterday believing I was entering a partnership built on trust, however fragile. But what happened on those screens was betrayal. A betrayal made worse by silence.”
Murmurs echoed through the crowd.
“I am stepping away,” she continued. “From this event. From this marriage. From anything that attaches my name to a scandal that was never mine to begin with.”
Then she looked straight at the cameras.
“I will not be remembered as a woman scorned. I will be remembered as a woman who rose.”
And with that, she descended the stage and exited the room. The press shouted her name, but she didn’t look back. Damien didn’t follow. Marisol caught up to her at the elevator.
“You sure?” Marisol asked.
Amanda’s voice was low. “I’m done.”
The elevator dinged.
She stepped inside, heart shattering into quieter pieces.
As the doors slid shut, her fingers found the ring Damien had placed on her hand less than twenty-four hours ago. She slid it off.
And dropped it to the floor.
>>>
Six hours later, Amanda was on a red-eye flight out of L.A., her veil stuffed in a carry-on, her heart somewhere over the Pacific.
She built a life in pieces, quietly. And when she was strong enough — when the fire in her chest outshone the shame, she called Marisol,determined as ever.
"Let’s start something."
Marisol’s laugh on the other end had been choked. "Took you long enough."
Marisol joined her a week later. They rented a small apartment in a quieter city, far from the noise. Far from shame. They started all over.
Amanda started sketching again. Marisol took jobs to keep them afloat.
In Paris, she enrolled in a fashion program under an alias.
In Milan, she interned in fabric markets, learning cuts and weaves from old Italian women who didn’t care about who she was.
In Tokyo, she stayed up nights stitching her first pieces by hand.
And so began the slow rebirth of a wom
an who refused to be defined by one man’s mistake.
But the world has a way of circling back.
And six years later… it did.
- Writer
