This is AI

Olivia’s Pov

The faint, rhythmic hum of central air conditioning woke me.

I blinked against the harsh morning light filtering through unfamiliar sheer curtains, my head pounding with a heavy hangover. I shifted under the crisp white duvet, my body aching with a deep, unfamiliar soreness.

I sat up fast, clutching the sheet to my chest as panic sparked in my veins. The room was massive, bathed in golden morning light. 

The cedarwood scent was still faint in the air, but Ethan was gone.

I rubbed my temples, the hazy memories of last night slowly flooding back—my desperate threats, his icy gaze, and the dark fire that had consumed the room.

As I turned toward the bedside table to grab my phone, my breath hitched.

Stacked on the mahogany nightstand were five thick bands of crisp hundred-dollar bills—at least twenty thousand dollars. Right next to the cash lay a sharp, heavy piece of cream cardstock.

I picked up the note with a trembling hand. Written in dark, razor-sharp cursive were just seven words: Never speak of this, or I'll ruin you.

I stared at the note, a cold ache settling in my stomach. Ruin me? He thought I was just some gold-digger or a blackmailer looking for a payday. 

A heavy, bitter lump formed in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down.

"Whatever," I whispered, my voice shaking as I threw the note and the cash back onto the table.

I didn't touch a single dollar. I had gotten my revenge, even if it felt hollow now. I was completely done with the Blackwood family. I would never see Ethan again, never speak to Kelvin again, and finally move on with my life.

I threw on my clothes from yesterday, rushed back to my tiny rented room at Maya's, showered in record time, and put on a crisp beige blazer and trousers. It was already 8:30 AM. If I didn't hurry, I’d be late for my shift at Tiffany&Co Jewelry, where I worked as a senior line designer.

I sprinted through the glass doors of Tiffany&Co Jewelry at 8:58 AM, out of breath, smoothing down my lapels. "Morning, Sarah—"

My assistant didn't return my smile. She quickly ducked her head, shuffling papers on her desk.

As I walked down the main hallway toward my cubicle, the silence was deafening. Whispers broke out like wildfire. Colleagues leaned over computer screens, shooting me cold, disgusted side-eyes. 

Two junior designers I usually ate lunch with turned their backs the moment I passed them.

My heart began to race. What was going on? 

"Olivia!"

I whirled around. Mr. Gable, the branch manager, was standing in his office doorway, his face hard as stone. "My office. Now."

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. I followed him inside, closing the door behind me. "Mr. Gable, I'm sorry if I was two minutes late, the traffic—"

He didn't let me finish. He slid an official white envelope across his desk.

I blinked. "What is this?"

"Your termination letter," Mr. Gable said flatly, crossing his arms.

"Termination?" The word felt like a physical slap.

"Mr. Gable, I’ve hit every design quota for three years straight! My performance reviews are stellar—"

"Tiffany&Co Jewelry built its reputation on luxury, elegance, and purity," he interrupted, his tone chillingly professional. "We do not retain staff whose public morals bring disrepute to our brand."

"Public morals?" Panic flared hot in my chest. "I don't understand!"

"You've been unfaithful to your husband, Olivia," he said, turning a tablet on his desk toward me. "It’s currently the top trending article on every corporate tabloid in the city. Kelvin Blackwood filed for an emergency divorce yesterday after catching you in an affair."

A violent jolt of pure terror hit my chest. Did someone see me at Majestic Lounge? Did Ethan leak something?! Did they catch me with Ethan?! Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, my breath catching in my throat as absolute dread paralyzed me.

"The evidence speaks for itself," Mr. Gable barked, tapping the screen.

I forced my trembling eyes down to look at the tablet.

A grainy video was playing. It showed a woman in a low-cut red sequin dress inside a flashy hotel room, kissing a blurred-out man against a wall. The headline above it screamed: BLACKWOOD HEIR BETRAYED: OLIVIA BLACKWOOD EXPOSED IN HOTEL TRYST.

I stared at the screen, my mouth hanging open. The horror melted away, replaced by utter shock and disbelief.

The woman in the video had my face and my hair, but I had never owned a red sequin dress in my life. I had never been to that hotel room. It wasn't last night at Majestic Lounge. It wasn't Ethan.

It was a complete fabrication.

"This... this isn't real," I stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the screen as the truth hit me. "This is AI!”