Chapter 3 – The World Knows

When I opened my eyes the next morning, the light was too bright. It sliced through the blinds like it was angry at me. For a second, I forgot everything that happened. There was a brief, fragile moment where my brain whispered it was just another day before the wedding.

Then I saw the bouquet lying crushed in the kitchen bin. The pieces of the ripped wedding invitation on the floor. And my chest tightened like someone had reached inside and squeezed it.

The world hadn’t ended. But mine had.

My phone was blinking on the nightstand. I stared at it like it was a bomb. Then I picked it up. There were thirty-seven missed calls, twelve voicemails, and more messages than I could count. Some were from Damien. Some from my wedding planner, Layla. A few from Maggie. And then there were the news notifications.

The headlines were everywhere.

Golden Couple in Trouble?

Damien Whitlock Seen Without

Fiancée Hours Before Wedding Rumors Swirl Around Missing Brideto-Be

I pressed my palm against my forehead. I wasn’t missing. I was hiding. There was a difference.

I scrolled down and saw pictures of me taken weeks ago, holding Damien’s hand, laughing like a fool in love. Next to them were paparazzi shots of Damien getting into his car last night. He looked pale and messy, like someone who had spent the night trying to do damage control.

I threw the phone on the bed.

My apartment smelled like rain and stale flowers. I got up, padded barefoot into the bathroom, and turned on the sink. The cold water stung my face. It didn’t wash the heaviness away, but it helped me breathe.

The intercom buzzed suddenly, making me jump. My heart raced as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

“This is Elara,” I said softly.

“Elara, it’s me. Layla. Please, can I come up?”

I hesitated for a full ten seconds before I pressed the button. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Layla swept in like a storm dressed in beige silk. Her hair was perfect, as usual, and she smelled like expensive roses. She was the kind of woman who treated weddings like Olympic events.

Her eyes landed on me, and her perfect face faltered just slightly.

“Honey,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

“I know,” I said.

She looked around the apartment like she expected to see a disaster zone. In a way, she did. Torn invitations. Unwashed dishes. A forgotten engagement gift still wrapped on the counter. She set her giant tote down and lowered her voice.

“Sweetheart, the press is going wild. You need to give me something to work with. Damien isn’t saying a word.”

“Good,” I muttered.

“Elara,” she said carefully. “The wedding is tomorrow.”

“Not anymore.”

She blinked at me, like I’d said something in a foreign language. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not marrying him,” I said, voice steady. “It’s over.”

Layla’s mouth opened, then closed. She pulled out her iPad like she could fix my heartbreak with bullet points and mood boards. “You can’t just… call it off. We have five hundred guests. A live-stream contract. The Whitlocks already—” “I don’t care,” I cut her off.

She stared at me. Really stared. “This is about the rumors.”

I didn’t answer.

“Elara,” she said softly. “I don’t know what happened, but walking away like this—”

“He slept with my mother.”

The silence that followed was thick and cold. Layla froze like someone had pressed pause on her. Her iPad slipped a little in her hands.

“Oh,” she finally said. Not the elegant kind of “oh.” More like the

“what the hell did I just hear” kind.

“Yeah,” I said flatly. “Oh.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Then, quietly, “Jesus, Elara.”

“I’m not marrying him,” I repeated.

She nodded slowly, like someone handling glass. “Okay. Okay, we can… we can work with this.”

I almost laughed. Work with this. As if this was a last-minute cake emergency, not my entire life shattering in public.

“I need you to know,” she continued, “the press is already circling. Someone leaked that you’re not answering calls. People are assuming cold feet.”

“Let them.”

“Elara, the Whitlocks will spin this.

They have the kind of power that can turn a scandal into a fairytale.”

“I don’t care what story they tell,” I said. But my voice wavered at the edges.

Layla gave me a look. The one that said, Oh, but you will. Because she was right. I hated that she was right.

Before she could say more, my phone buzzed again. This time it was my mother.

I stared at the screen, bile rising in my throat.

Layla glanced at it too. “Are you going to—”

“No.”

She nodded once. “Good.”

The phone buzzed again. And again. My mother never liked being ignored.

When I didn’t pick up, a message popped up. Short. Sharp.

Elara, we need to talk. This is not what you think.

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

She didn’t even bother apologizing. Not once. No I’m sorry. No explanation. Just control. Just like always.

Layla began pacing, muttering to herself about contracts and headlines and how the hell she was going to keep reporters away from the rehearsal venue that no longer existed.

“Elara,” she said finally, “what do you want me to do?”

The question sat between us like a loaded gun. What did I want? To erase last night. To forget what I saw. To go back to the girl who believed in love stories. But I couldn’t.

“Cancel everything,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “Everything?” “Yes.”

She inhaled sharply. “You understand this will go public.”

“I want it to.”

Her head snapped toward me. “What?”

“I want them to know,” I said, my voice low. “I want them to see what kind of man he really is. What kind of woman she is.”

There it was. Not a cry. Not a whisper. Something harder. Colder.

Layla exhaled and nodded slowly. “All right. Then we burn the fairytale.”

I almost smiled.

As soon as she left, the phone rang again. This time, it wasn’t Layla or my mother. It was Damien.

I should have ignored it. I should have thrown the phone into the nearest river. But my thumb betrayed me, and before I could stop myself, I answered.

“Elara,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Like someone who hadn’t slept.

I didn’t say anything.

“Please, listen to me. It’s not like that.”

I laughed. A small, empty sound. “Not like what, Damien? Not like you were naked in bed with my mother? Not like I stood there and watched?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Wow,” I said. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“Elara, please. It’s complicated.” “Then explain it,” I snapped.

He hesitated. I heard him exhale, the sound catching in his throat.

“Your mother… she came to see me. She said she was worried about

you. Things just… got out of control.”

I closed my eyes, gripping the phone tighter. “You expect me to believe you tripped into bed with her?”

“No,” he said softly. “I expect you to forgive me.”

I almost dropped the phone. “You are unbelievable.”

“Elara, I love you.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare use those words.”

Silence. Then, “We can fix this.”

“I don’t want to fix it.”

“Elara—”

“I said no.”

The silence stretched out. I could almost picture his face. The confident, charming man who always got what he wanted. Except now, he didn’t.

“If you do this,” he said finally, voice hardening, “if you walk away, you’re going to regret it.”

I almost laughed at that. “No, Damien. The only thing I regret is saying yes to you in the first place.”

I hung up before he could say another word.

The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was electric. My heart was pounding, not from fear anymore, but from something else. Anger. Resolve.

My phone vibrated again almost immediately. A new message.

Mom: You’re being dramatic. Let’s talk like adults.

Mom: You’re not thinking straight. Don’t ruin everything.

I didn’t reply.

I walked to the window and pushed the blinds open. Down below, there were already two black cars parked near the corner. Photographers. Their long lenses glinted in the sunlight. I saw a flash go off. They’d found me.

The world knew.

And somewhere out there, Damien was probably trying to shape the story. The perfect groom. The runaway bride. Poor, foolish Elara who got cold feet.

But this time, they weren’t going to get away with it. Not him. Not her.

I took a deep breath and whispered to my reflection, “If they want a story, I’ll give them one.”

My hands didn’t shake anymore.