His Beautiful Undoing

CHAPTER 3

I tell myself that today will be simple. I will meet my friends, drink something warm, hear normal conversation, and remember what it feels like to exist without every breath carrying the weight of the trial. I cling to that hope while I get dressed, choosing a soft sweater and jeans that make me feel a little more like myself.

When I step outside, the air feels crisp, almost kind. For a moment, I believe the world might let me breathe again.

The café is already busy when I arrive. People laugh and talk over each other, their voices mixing with the smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries. I sit at a table near the window, cupping my hands around a mug of tea for comfort.

At 10:05, Jenna walks in. Her smile appears quickly but does not reach her eyes. Tessa follows her, clutching her bag tightly.

“Hi,” I say, offering a hopeful smile.

“Hey,” Jenna replies, taking the seat across from me. Tessa sits beside her but keeps her gaze on the table.

They exchange a look. A quick nervous one. My stomach sinks a little.

“How have you been?” Jenna asks.

“I have been trying to stay busy,” I answer. “Sending job applications. Resting. Trying to get my life back on track.”

“Right,” Jenna says quietly. “Of course.”

I stir my tea just to have something to do with my hands. “What about you two? Anything new?”

“Not really,” Tessa says. She forces a small smile that disappears instantly.

The silence grows awkward. I try again. I tell them about the elderly woman in my building who waters all the hallway plants even though none of them belong to her. I mention a ridiculous cooking show I started watching. I try to fill the air.

But their smiles feel thin. Their eyes keep flicking to each other rather than to me.

Something is wrong. I feel it tightening in my chest.

Tessa clears her throat. “So. The trial.” Her voice is too casual to be natural.

I freeze. “What about it?”

She hesitates, then blurts it out. “I just wanted to ask if maybe you exaggerated a little.”

My heart drops, sharp and sudden. “Exaggerated?”

She lifts her hands defensively. “People online are saying the story might not be as bad as it sounded in court. That maybe emotions made everything feel worse. That sometimes memories get blurred.”

I stare at her. “Tessa, I testified under oath. I did not exaggerate anything.”

Jenna sighs softly. “There was an article yesterday. It suggested you might have had motives other than telling the truth.”

“What motives?” My voice shakes despite my effort to stay steady.

“Attention,” Jenna murmurs. “Public sympathy. Maybe even money. It implied you could have been pushed to take things further than they were.”

My chest tightens painfully. “That is not true.”

“I know,” she says, though her eyes avoid mine. “At least, I think I do. It is just that people are talking and... things are complicated.”

“Complicated how?” I ask.

Neither of them answers right away.

Finally Tessa says, “Being associated with you is complicated. People ask us questions. They assume we know things that you did not tell the court. That maybe you told us something different.”

“I never lied to either of you,” I whisper.

“We are not saying you lied,” Jenna replies quickly. “It is just... a lot.”

A lot. Complicated. Maybe exaggerated. Words that slam into me with more force than I expect.

The café noise swells around us, though I suddenly feel far away from everything. Distant. As if I slipped underwater without realizing.

Jenna checks her watch. “I am so sorry. I need to get going.”

Tessa stands as well. “Me too. Something came up.”

They collect their things too fast. Relief flickers across their faces, and it hurts. They have already decided to leave. Already decided to step back from me.

“Can we meet again soon?” I ask quietly.

“Sure,” Jenna says. “We will see.”

They leave together, walking close, heads bent in conversation. They do not look back.

I sit there for a long time, staring at my cooling tea. I blink a few times to stop my vision from blurring. People walk by outside, laughing, living, existing in ways I suddenly feel shut out from.

When I finally stand, my legs feel heavy. The walk home is slow and quiet. Every step feels like I am shedding another piece of the life I used to have.

Inside my apartment, the silence greets me like a familiar ache. I toss my keys on the counter and sink onto the couch. I need a moment. Just a moment to breathe. To convince myself I am not unraveling.

My phone buzzes. A new email. No subject line. No sender name I recognize. Only a link. I hesitate, my pulse rising. Then I tap it. A webpage loads. My stomach twists when I see the headline.

Elena Sheridan: The Manipulative Woman Behind the Scandal

I read the first line. Then the next. Each one feels like a blow.

The article claims I pursued Adrian for status. It says I fabricated or exaggerated my experiences after he tried to end the relationship. It calls me unstable. Dramatic. A known liar according to several unnamed sources.

None of it is true. None of it. But seeing it written out so convincingly makes doubt crawl beneath my skin. Not doubt about my experiences, but doubt about the world. About how quickly people will believe anything as long as it comes wrapped in the right tone.

Who wrote this? Who is pushing this narrative so deliberately?

I think of the failed interviews. The nervous receptionist. The recruiter who admitted that someone influential warned them not to hire me.

Pieces begin to click together in a way that makes my stomach turn. Someone is orchestrating this. Someone powerful enough to twist the story. Someone who benefits from destroying my credibility. Someone who watched me in that courtroom with eyes that felt like cold steel.

I scroll to the bottom of the article, breath trembling. The comments section is full of strangers dissecting my life. Calling me names. Assigning motives to me I never had. I keep scrolling until one comment in particular freezes my blood.

The username is simple.

DT.

Two letters.

And the comment reads:

She is a professional victim.

My mouth goes dry. I stare at those two small letters for a long moment, feeling the room tilt slightly.

DT.

My mind immediately goes to the only person who fits.

Damian Thronton.

Could it really be him? Would he publicly involve himself even in something as subtle as two initials? Does he want me to see it? Does he want me to know he is behind this?

A chill spreads through me, slow and deliberate.

I remember the way he looked at me during the trial. Not with fury. Not with disbelief. With calculation. Like he was already planning what would come next. I thought Adrian’s threats were the ones I needed to fear.

But Adrian shouted his promises of revenge. He made noise. He demanded attention. He wanted the world to know he was furious.

Damian said nothing at all. He spoke quietly to his lawyer, and the man smiled. Now every piece of my life is slowly being dismantled. Every door closing. Every friend stepping away. Every whisper turning my story into something poison.

I look at the comment again.

DT.

Professional victim.

Whether it is him or not, someone wants me to believe it is. Someone wants me to feel watched. Controlled. Silenced.

Someone wants me isolated enough that I cannot fight back. I lower my phone and press a hand over my heart, trying to slow its frantic rhythm. This is not coincidence. This is a campaign.

And the scariest part is that it has only just begun.