Chapter 2

ELENA’S POV

“Leave?” My mother repeated in a surprise tone. She obviously wasn’t expecting that. But that was all I honestly needed.

“Yes. I need to leave this city. I can’t stay here.” I replied, without looking at her, but fully aware of her worried looks fixed on me. Then she sighed.

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. Somewhere no one knows me.”

My mother looked like she wanted to argue, but she just nodded. “Okay. When?”

“Now,” I said. “I need to leave now.”

“Elena, it’s eight o’clock at night—”

“I don’t care. I’ll get a hotel somewhere, drive until I’m far enough away that I can breathe again.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“Elena—”

“Mom, please. I need to do this alone.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then got up, walked to where I sat and pulled me into another hug. This time I just stayed, too weak to cry.

“Call me when you get there,” she said. “Wherever there is. Just call me so I know you’re safe.”

“I will.” I promised.

I threw some clothes into a suitcase, and grabbed my laptop and charger. My mother stood in the doorway watching me pack.

“What about the wedding?” she asked. “All the vendors, the venue, the guests—”

“I’ll handle it,” I said. “Tomorrow. Or the day after. I just need tonight.” I said, dragging my things out of the apartment.

But I didn’t handle it tomorrow. Or the day after.

I drove three hours north to a small town I’d never heard of and checked into a motel that charged forty-five dollars a night. I turned off my phone. Slept for fourteen hours straight. When I woke up, I walked to a diner down the street and ordered coffee and pancakes and sat in a corner booth where no one looked at me. I stayed in that town and lived that way for two weeks.

When I finally went back to the city, it was only to pack up in my apartment. I quit my job over email, broke my lease, and put everything I owned into a storage unit.

My amazing mother already cancelled the wedding. She ensured to call the venue, the florist, the caterer, and the photographer. She sent messages to all two hundred guests. She returned gifts and deposits and handled everything I couldn’t bring myself to face.

I moved to Philadelphia, changed my phone number, and deleted all my social media accounts. I started over with a new email address, a new apartment, and a new job at a smaller firm where no one knew my name. I had googled about it and when I had found it, I knew it was perfectly where I needed to work. And for two years, I strived to rebuild myself again.

For the first few months, I was numb. I went to work, came home, ate and slept, and repeated routine. I cut my hair and dyed it darker. Then I started going to the gym every day, sometimes twice a day. I needed to exhaust myself just to sleep. I took boxing class. I became overwhelmed with the need to hit something without getting arrested.

As I did so, I began to imagine faces on the punching bag. Daniel’s face, Karen’s face and scaringly, sometimes my own. I realized I was always angry. I flared up easily and would suddenly burst into tears for no reason. I knew I needed to heal properly. And I couldn’t do it on my own. So I went to therapy. And that was where I met Dr. Kimberly. I called her Dr. Kim. She was pleasant and she really helped me heal and build the better part of me.

“What are you most angry about?” she had asked during our third session.

“That they did it at all.”

“Is that all?”

I thought about it. “No. I’m angry that they were stupid enough to do it in front of an open window. I’m angry that someone filmed it and posted it online. I’m angry that I had to find out the same way millions of strangers found out. I’m angry that I trusted them. Both of them.”

“What else?”

“I’m angry that I still think about it every single day. That I can’t move on. That they’re probably fine and I’m still here, two years later, paying you a hundred and fifty dollars an hour to talk about my feelings.”

Dr. Kim smiled. “That’s good. The anger is good. What are you going to do with it?”

I didn’t know yet. I was probably going to keep punching bags to exert all my anger out. But as my sessions progressed, I got better.

Two years later, I was sitting in my apartment in Philadelphia, scrolling through job listings, when I saw something that made me sit up straight on my bed.

“Senior Financial Analyst – Hart Global Enterprises”

That name “Hart” struck a chord. I clicked on the posting before I could talk myself out of it. The job description was exactly what I’d been doing at my current firm, but with more responsibility. And this was coming with better pay. And it was in Washington DC. And just when I thought I was no longer angry, a vengeful thought settled in my mind that instant.

Hart Global Enterprises. That was Jonathan Hart’s company. Jonathan Hart was Daniel’s father. I sat there staring at the screen for a long time. Then I opened a new document and started writing my cover letter. I was going to walk straight into the Hart family’s empire. I was going to make Jonathan Hart notice me, trust me and want me. And then I was going to marry him and become Daniel Hart’s stepmother. As I finalized the thought, a genuine smile fell on my lips. One that made my heart swell.

Three weeks after I had applied, I had an interview scheduled. As I stared at the mail , a wider smile played on my lips again. Game on.