Chapter 2
1361 Words
Elena's POV
The screen kept replaying the same nightmare.
Him on one knee. Isabella gasping, crying, saying yes. Paris glittered around them like a fairy tale meant for someone else.
My breath came weak and uneven. My ears rang with a sharp hum that drowned out every rational thought.
"No… no, this isn't real." My voice cracked in the silence of my apartment.
But the hashtags didn't lie. Neither did the comments scrolling like wildfire.
Poor Elena.
Imagine your best friend stealing your man.
I dropped the phone onto the couch, but the notifications kept buzzing. My name is trending worldwide. My heartbreak dissected in real time.
This wasn't just betrayal. This was a spectacle.
My fingers trembled as I tried calling him. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail. That professional, clipped recording of his voice, the one I used to tease him about because it made him sound like a robot, now felt like a slap.
I dialled Isabella. My Bella. My sister in all but blood. The girl who used to braid my hair at sleepovers, who cried into my lap the night her parents divorced, who swore nothing would ever come between us.
Her phone rang once. Twice. Then cut to voicemail.
She'd rejected my call.
The tears came then, hot and furious, blurring my vision until the room became nothing but smeared light and shadow.
I tried her again. And again. Each time, the same cold rejection. Each time, my heart felt like it was breaking anew.
How long has this been going on? How many times had she looked me in the eye and lied? How many times had he kissed me goodbye and gone straight to her?
The questions circled endlessly, breaking down what little sanity I had left.
I stumbled into the kitchen and yanked open a bottle of wine I'd been saving, some expensive vintage Marcus had bought for my birthday last year. The cork cracked as I wrestled with it. I didn't bother with finesse, just poured too much into a glass, red liquid spilling onto the white marble like a wound.
I gulped it down. The bitterness coated my tongue, but it didn't touch the ache blooming in my chest.
It didn't help. Nothing helped.
I poured another glass. Then another.
The memory crashed through me before I could stop it: the last morning we'd spent together, just two weeks ago.
He'd woken before me but stayed, propped up on one elbow, watching me with that soft smile I thought was reserved only for me. When I caught him staring, he laughed, that deep voice that sent shivers down my spine, and brushed the hair from my face.
"Morning, beautiful."
Then he disappeared into the kitchen. I thought he'd left for work like he usually did, slipping out while I was still half-asleep. But minutes later he returned, balancing a tray with pancakes and strawberries arranged in a perfect heart shape on the plate. He didn't even like strawberries; he said they were too sweet and too much effort for too little payoff, but he'd cut them carefully, precisely, just for me.
"You didn't have to do this," I whispered, throat tight with emotion.
"I wanted to." He sat beside me on the bed, feeding me with his fingers, licking the syrup from my lips between bites. "You're my whole world, Elena. Don't you know that?"
I believed him.
God, I believed every word.
I believed every promise in his smile, every touch that lingered. I believed when he pulled me into his arms afterward and whispered that I was it for him. That he'd never felt this way about anyone. That forever wasn't just a word; it was us.
How could someone who gave me that turn around and give the same vows to her?
How could he whisper forever into my skin and then get on one knee for someone else?
The sweetness of that memory curdled inside me, becoming poison.
"Bastard." The word was ripped out of me, ugly and raw.
I slammed the wine glass across the room. It exploded against the wall, red streaking down the white paint like blood. Shards scattered across the hardwood floor, glittering under the dim light.
Good. Let something else break.
Let the whole world shatter the way mine just had.
But the rage died as quickly as it came, replaced by something worse. Something hollow and aching and so tiring at the same time
I pressed my palms against the counter, breathing hard, staring at the mess I'd made. The split wine. The broken glass. The evidence of my unravelling.
My phone buzzed again.
I almost ignored it. But when I saw the name on the screen, Mom, my stomach rolled and I swallowed hard.
I hesitated, then answered.
"Elena." Her voice was sharp and controlled. Not a question. Not concerned. Just my name, weighted with disappointment. "What is going on? Why are you trending for something like this?"
"I didn't know, Mom. I swear I didn't."
"This is humiliating. For you, for us. People are talking, Elena. Do you understand what this does to our family? To you? Your brand? Everything you represent?"
Something inside me snapped.
"Do you think I care about any of that right now?" My voice broke, shattering into something raw and desperate. "He proposed to Isabella. My best friend. The person I trusted most in the world besides him."
A pause. Long enough that I thought maybe, just maybe, she'd offer comfort. Sympathy. Anything human.
Then, softer but no less cutting: "You need to get a grip. The world is watching. You need to find a way to fix this. Don't let them see you break."
The call ended before I could respond.
I stared at the dead phone, the screen dark and lifeless in my hand.
The ache in my chest spread until it was everywhere, my lungs, my throat, my fingertips. I couldn't breathe around it. Couldn't think past it.
I sank onto the cold kitchen tiles, pulling my knees to my chest. The city lights outside my window blurred with my tears, the room spinning in slow, nauseating circles. My head buzzed with comments I couldn't silence, questions I couldn't answer, and a future I couldn't see.
Everything was gone. Him. Her. My dignity. My image. The life I thought I had.
And still, the world was watching. Still dissecting. Still judging.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and let the sobs come, ugly and broken and so loud they echoed off the walls.
I don't know how long I stayed there, minutes, hours. Long enough for the wine to make my head heavy, for the tears to dry into salt on my cheeks, for my body to go numb against the hard floor.
Long enough for the notifications to slow. For the silence to creep in, thick and suffocating.
Then, three sharp knocks at the door.
I froze.
Nobody ever came here uninvited. Not at this hour. Not without calling first.
The knocks came again, louder this time. Insistent. My heart kicked against my ribs.
I wiped at my face with shaking hands, smearing mascara across my skin. I could feel how wrecked I looked: puffy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, hair a tangled mess. I looked like the aftermath of a disaster.
I looked exactly how I felt.
Slowly, I pushed myself up from the floor, each movement heavy and unsteady. My legs were stiff, struggling to hold me up, whether from the wine or the emotional exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
Another knock. Firm. Demanding.
With my heart beating too fast, I crossed the apartment and reached for the door handle. My hand hesitated on the cool metal.
What if it was him? What if he'd come to explain, to apologise, to tell me it was all some terrible mistake?
What if it was her?
I didn't know which would be worse.
I took a breath. Then another. And opened the door.
The air left my lungs.
Of all the people in the world, of all the faces I thought I might see tonight
This one made everything worse.
- Writer
