Chapter Two – Tied to Riches
1278 Words
The air was cold, cutting through layers of silk and lace as I stumbled out of the hall. The doors slammed behind me with a hollow echo, shutting out the laughter and music that had once been mine. My white gown dragged through puddles, streaked with dirt and shame. I didn’t even try to fix my crown—it had slipped off and hit the steps behind me, the last piece of my dignity rolling away.
Everyone had left. Guests, family, even Reed—gone. I was alone, swallowed by silence, left to bear my cross myself. No applause. No cheers. Just the bitter echo of betrayal.
My hands curled into fists. They’d thrown me away like trash, but I wouldn’t stay broken forever.
“Elena!”
Mia’s voice broke through my fog of despair. My best friend, the only one who hadn’t turned against me, came running across the deserted steps. Her lilac dress was wrinkled, heels uneven. She stopped when she saw me—my ruined makeup, my empty eyes.
“God, what happened? Why are you—”
“It’s over,” I cut her off, my voice flat. “Everything’s over.”
She grabbed my arm. “Get in the car. Now.”
We drove in silence through Bayford’s glittering streets. The billboards still flashed my smiling face beside Reed’s: A Match Made in Heaven. Someone had forgotten to take them down. My reflection in the window looked like someone else—smudged lipstick, messy hair, mascara streaked. Hollow.
When we reached Mia’s apartment, I didn’t even take off my shoes. I just collapsed onto the couch, veil and all, the certificate still clutched in my hands like a curse.
Mia crouched beside me. “Show me.”
I handed her the certificate. She scanned it, eyes widening. “Who the hell is Damien Voss?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said bitterly. “And why my signature’s on this paper.”
She frowned. “Your uncle said it’s real?”
“Yeah.”
“Could it be a setup?”
I laughed, sharp and hollow. “Everything in that family’s a setup. But this… this feels different. The date says three years ago. I’ve been married for over three years.”
She shook her head. “That’s insane. You’d remember something like that!”
“I should.” My voice cracked. “But I don’t. I don’t even know a Damien Voss.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy. I pressed my palms against my temples. My mother’s funeral, my father’s cold eyes, my stepmother’s fake smile—all flashed through my mind. But no memory of any man named Damien Voss.
Then a knock at the door.
I turned. A man stood there, plain clothes, face mostly hidden under the hood of his jacket. He held a small, unmarked parcel. I didn’t recognize him. Before I could say anything, he handed it over and turned, leaving without a word.
I tore the package open. Inside, neatly folded, was a photograph.
My breath hitched.
It was me. Standing intimately close to a man—tall, cold, perfect, hand in hands —but his eyes… I tried to remember them but nothing came to my head . Then I saw a write up ; Elena and Damien . It sent an unfamiliar signal to my head that I could not place. When did we take this picture? Who was the delivery man that brought this? I wanted to ask so many questions but sadly there's no one to answer.
I held the photo up to Mia. “Look. A picture of I and someone that does not exist in my memory , Damien ”
Her eyes widened, voice barely a whisper. “Elena… that’s… that’s the man whose signature is on the certificate?”
I nodded. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it straight. “This has to be some game or joke because… I don’t remember him. I don’t remember any of this.”
Mia leaned closer, taking the photo in her hands. “Wait… what if… what if this Damien Voss is someone important? Someone powerful?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
We sat in tense silence, the weight of the photo pressing down on us like a living thing. I traced the outline of the man beside me, feeling a strange pull, a recognition I couldn’t name. Someone had rewritten my past. I could feel it in my bones.
I told Mia, we need to find this man named Damien Boss and learn the truth once and for all
Hours passed in flickering candlelight and glowing screens. Laptops and phones cluttered the table as we scoured every corner of the internet. Names, photos, records—nothing. No trace of Damien Voss anywhere.
Or maybe he’d been erased.
Mia shut her laptop hard. “This makes no sense. There’s no one with that name—here, abroad, nothing.”
My hand hovered over the mouse. “Then maybe my grandmother was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said What if he's probably dead.”
Mia turned slowly. “That’s crazy.”
“Everything today’s been crazy,” I said quietly. “But if he’s dead, why does his name still tie me legally?” I held up the certificate. “Why do I have proof I was married to him?”
My phone buzzed. Notifications, dozens of them. Gossip threads. My name trending.
The runaway bride.
The liar.
The shame of the Cross family.
I didn’t need to open them. I already knew.
“They’re going to destroy me,” I whispered.
“You’ve already lost everything, Elena. The least you can do now is fight,” Mia said, eyes hard, voice steady.
A weak smile tugged at my lips. “You’re right. If he’s alive, I’ll find him. And if he’s dead—then someone forged that paper, and I’ll make them regret it.”
I stood, trying to look steadier than I felt. But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
---
Later, the TV murmured in the background. Mia flipped it on absentmindedly. Business news, scandals, headlines scrolling by—until she gasped.
“Elena—look!”
A man in a black suit strode through an airport, flanked by security. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted. He didn’t flinch.
> “After three years abroad,” the anchor said, “Adrian Hale, heir to the Hale Group, has returned to Bayford to take over from his father.”
I froze.
My heart thudded hard.
That face. Those eyes.
It was him.
Mia grabbed the photo from the table, holding it up to the screen. “Elena… that’s Damien Voss!”
I shook my head slowly, voice trembling. “No… that’s Adrian Hale.”
We stared at each other. The air felt thick, heavy with a silent storm.
“Elena,” Mia whispered, “what if… what if Damien Voss and Adrian Hale are the same person?”
I looked down at the certificate again, then at the photo, then back at the TV. Same sharp handwriting. Same signature. Same eyes. Same man.
My pulse raced.
Adrian Hale. Damien Voss.
Two names. One man.
I dropped the certificate onto the coffee table, stepping back. “This… this can’t be real. He’s one of the richest men in Bayford… why would he—”
The camera zoomed in on Adrian Hale’s face. Cold. Gray. Unreadable.
And for just a second—I thought I saw a flicker, a corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, like he knew I was watching.
- Writer
