Chapter 4 – A Quiet Storm

The sky was painfully blue the next morning. It shouldn’t have been. It should’ve been gray and stormy, matching the way my chest felt. But no — the sun poured through my windows like the universe didn’t care about broken hearts or ruined weddings.

The kettle on the counter whistled, sharp and shrill, dragging me back from another spiral of thoughts. I poured hot water over the teabag, watching the steam rise like smoke from a fire. Sleep hadn’t come easily, and when it did, it brought me dreams of gold rings slipping off fingers and laughter turning into whispers.

My phone was still buzzing. Calls.

Messages. Notifications. Headlines. I had stopped looking at them. Instead, I stared at my kitchen table where a single wedding magazine lay face down. I didn’t even remember putting it there. Damien’s smile was on the cover, his arm around my waist, the headline screaming out: “THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR.”

Not anymore.

A knock echoed through the apartment. Not a frantic one this time. Slow. Steady. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

My stomach turned. It wasn’t Maggie—she would’ve called first. It wasn’t Layla—she would’ve pounded like a woman with a mission. That left only one possibility.

I didn’t open the door at first. I just stood there, listening. Then I heard her voice.

“Elara. Open the door. We need to talk.”

My mother.

I tightened my grip on the mug until the ceramic pressed painfully against my palm. She knocked again, a little firmer. Not desperate. Never desperate. My mother didn’t plead; she commanded.

“Elara, I know you’re in there.”

I swallowed, forcing my voice to

stay even. “Go away.”

“Elara, don’t be childish.”

That word again. Childish. She’d used it my whole life. Whenever I cried. Whenever I questioned her. Whenever I dared to want something she didn’t control.

She sighed through the door, the kind of sigh that was supposed to make me feel guilty. “We can talk this through. I’ll explain everything.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” I called back.

“Yes, there is,” she said sharply. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I walked in on you with my fiancé.” Silence.

She didn’t deny it. That told me everything.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was softer. Calculated. “Elara, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It was… complicated.”

I pressed my forehead against the door, feeling the cool wood against my skin. “Then tell me. What’s complicated about sleeping with your daughter’s fiancé?”

Another long silence. Then, with the same cold poise she always carried, she said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Something inside me cracked. Not loudly. Quietly. Like thin ice under a heavy step.

“I understand enough,” I whispered. “You wanted what was mine.”

“I wanted what’s best for you,” she corrected, her voice smooth as silk.

That almost made me laugh again. Best for me. She had a way of twisting everything into something noble. She probably even believed it.

“Damien and I have a… connection,” she went on. “We didn’t plan this. It happened. But I can fix this for you.”

My fingers clenched around the doorknob, but I didn’t open it.

“Fix this?” I repeated. “How exactly do you plan to fix this, Mom? Give him back to me like a borrowed dress?”

“Elara,” she said in that tone that used to make me fall silent as a child, “don’t be dramatic. Damien loves you.”

“Does he?” My voice shook, but not from weakness this time. From anger. “Because I don’t think people who love each other end up naked with their fiancée’s mother.”

“You’re young. You’re emotional. But you can still have everything we planned. The wedding. The future. The name.”

The name. That was what it was about. Not love. Never love. She wanted power, status, the Whitlock family’s shine. She’d spent months planning this union as if it were a business deal. And in a way, it was.

I suddenly saw it all so clearly.

“This isn’t about me, is it?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. And that silence was louder than anything.

“It’s about you,” I said. “About what you want.”

“Elara, don’t do this to yourself.”

I took a breath. A long, steady one. “I’m not the one who did anything.”

Her tone hardened again. “This tantrum isn’t helping anyone. You’re humiliating yourself.”

I let go of the doorknob and stepped back. “Get out of my hallway.”

“Elara—”

“I said leave.”

For the first time, there was a crack in her voice. “You’re making a mistake.”

I almost smiled. “No. You did.”

Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked away. Precise. Elegant. Just like always. I stood there for a long moment after the elevator doors closed, letting the quiet settle in.

She thought she could talk me back into being the perfect daughter. The perfect bride. The good little piece on her chessboard.

She didn’t know me anymore.

I spent the next hour in silence, sitting on the kitchen floor with my knees pulled up. I wasn’t crying this time. The ache was still there, but it wasn’t raw anymore. It was simmering. Controlled. A quiet storm building under my skin.

My phone buzzed again. Maggie this time.

Mags: Still alive?

I typed back.

Me: Barely.

Mags: Media’s going crazy. You okay?

Me: My mom came.

Mags: Oh hell. What did she say? Me: That I’m dramatic. That she can fix this.

Mags: She’s delusional. Me: I know.

She replied almost instantly.

Mags: El, you don’t owe them your silence. Or your shame.

I stared at that message for a long time. Then I set the phone down and got up.

The sun was starting to move across the kitchen wall, catching on the edge of my discarded wedding veil on the counter. I’d brought it home last week after the final fitting. I picked it up now, ran my fingers over the delicate lace. A few days ago, I’d imagined walking down the aisle wearing it. Now it felt like someone else’s dream. Someone I used to be.

In the middle of that thought, the TV in the living room flickered on. I hadn’t touched the remote. It was the news feed that auto-played sometimes when my cable restarted.

And there he was.

Damien. Standing in front of a sleek black car, wearing his favorite navy suit. Talking to reporters. Smiling like nothing had happened.

My stomach dropped.

“We’re just working through a few misunderstandings,” he said to the microphone. “Elara’s a wonderful woman. She’s just overwhelmed.

Weddings can be stressful, right?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

He was already rewriting the story.

The interviewer leaned forward. “So the wedding is still on?”

He smiled wider, that same smile that had once made me say yes. “Of course. She’ll come around.”

I felt the blood rush to my face. Not from heartbreak this time. From fury.

I grabbed the remote and muted him before I threw something at the screen. My hands shook, but not because I was weak. Because something inside me was finally waking up.

He wasn’t just a liar. He was arrogant enough to think I’d crawl back.

And my mother was arrogant enough to think she could make me.

No one was going to fix me into their story. Not anymore.

Maggie called a few minutes later, and this time I answered.

“El?” she said gently.

“Did you see the news?” I asked.

“I did. I wanted to punch him through the TV.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “You and me both.”

“You don’t have to stay quiet, you know,” she said. “You could tell the world exactly what happened.”

I leaned back against the counter, staring at the muted screen. “No. Not yet.”

Her voice softened. “Then what are you going to do?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because for the first time since it happened, I wasn’t just reacting. I was thinking. Really thinking.

“I’m not going to run,” I said slowly.

“Elara…”

“I’m not hiding anymore.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “What are you planning?”

I exhaled, the sound steady.

“Something they won’t see coming.”

She was quiet for a beat. “God, I love it when you get that tone.”

I smiled faintly, for the first time in days. “They took everything I believed in. The least I can do is make them regret it.”

“You’re terrifying,” Maggie said, a grin in her voice.

“Good.”

When the call ended, the apartment felt different. The air wasn’t as heavy. I stood at the window again, watching the photographers below. They were still there, waiting for me

to fall apart in front of their cameras.

But I wasn’t falling apart anymore. I was pulling myself back together.

Piece by piece.

I didn’t know exactly what the plan was yet. But I knew the feeling blooming inside me wasn’t despair anymore. It was sharper than that. Colder. Something that would eventually cut.

The kettle whistled again. I made another cup of tea. The city kept moving outside. Somewhere out there, Damien and my mother thought they were controlling the story.

They had no idea the story had just changed hands.