Chapter 4 The Exit Statement

Zoey’s POV 

The room clapped. At first, it was polite, then it grew louder, then louder, until it turned into something that made my skin crawl. I stood there frozen, my heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my throat, my ears, and my fingertips. The applause rolled over me like a wave I never asked for, and every single clap sounded like a spotlight burning into my back.

Julian stood on that stage, smiling that polished, untouchable smile with his hand still extended in my direction like this was some sweet reunion and not a calculated move to drag me into public humiliation. My stomach twisted. I did not move. My fingers were still in Christian’s, but I felt my grip loosen without me deciding to let go. People around us were turning, curious faces searching for me and whispering under their breath: “Is that her?” “She looks familiar.” “Why isn’t she going up?”

Julian waited- too calm, too composed. The applause continued. I felt my chest tighten, my breath coming too fast now. Christian leaned closer to me and murmured, low enough that only I could hear, “Zoey, you should go.”

I whipped my head toward him. “Are you insane?”

He met my glare steadily. “If you stay here, this becomes worse.”

“If I go up there, it becomes worse,” I shot back.

He squeezed my hand gently. “You can control the narrative if you walk up there with your head high.”

I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Control? You think I have control right now?”

The applause did not stop. Julian lifted his free hand slightly, encouraging the crowd without even looking away from me. My pulse pounded in my ears. I felt heat rise up my neck, my face, and my entire body, mixing anger with humiliation in a way that made me want to scream.

“I’m not doing it,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Zoey…”

“No,” I snapped. “I am not walking onto that stage like a puppet he can call whenever he wants.”

Christian searched my face, clearly weighing his next words carefully. “Running makes you look weak,” he said quietly.

Something inside me cracked. “I am tired of being told how to look,” I hissed. “Tired of being told how to act. Tired of being polite while men like him get to rewrite my life however they want.”

Julian’s voice cut in again, smooth and deliberate. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, still smiling, “let’s keep that applause going until my dear friend Zoey joins me.”

Gasps, murmurs, and more clapping followed. My nails dug into my palms. The room felt suddenly too big, too bright, and too loud. Christian’s hand tightened on mine again. “Don’t let him win like this.”

I looked at him- really looked-and for a moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes: not control, not composure, but something closer to concern. It was too late. I ripped my hand out of his. Then, without saying another word, I turned and walked.

I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks, the whispers, and the outstretched hands like people wanted to stop me or ask questions I was not prepared to answer. My heels clicked hard against the marble floor as I stormed toward the exit, my vision blurred with frustration. Behind me, the applause faltered, then died. Silence rippled through the ballroom like a crack in glass.

I did not look back. I burst through the doors into the corridor, the sudden quiet almost painful after the noise inside. My chest heaved as I walked, hands shaking slightly.

“Zoey.” Christian’s voice came from behind me. I stopped but did not turn. He caught up to me, standing a few steps away.

“Are you satisfied?” I snapped.

He studied me, his expression unreadable. “You made a scene.”

“I made a statement,” I shot back. “There’s a difference.”

A beat passed between us. I ran a hand through my hair, my composure unraveling now that there were no cameras, no eyes, and no stage. “I want to go home,” I said again, quieter this time.

He did not argue this time; we left. The ride back to my apartment was mostly silent, the tension hanging thick between us. Christian stared out the window, his profile sharp and distant, while I stared at my hands in my lap replaying Julian’s voice over and over in my head: “Zoey Aguilar… a good friend of mine.” Liar.

When we arrived, Christian walked me to my door like this was part of the job. I did not invite him in. At the threshold, I turned to him. “Thank you for tonight,” I said, though my tone was flat.

He inclined his head slightly. “You’re safe.”

I almost laughed. “Safe? My life just went viral again.”

His gaze softened just a fraction. “You handled it.”

I scoffed. “If running counts as handling.”

He did not argue. We stood there in an uncomfortable pause that felt heavier than it should have. Finally, he spoke. “Call me if you need anything.”

I searched his face. “Are you still my fake fiancé?”

A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you still need me.”

I swallowed. “Good night, Zoey,” he said, then turned and left before I could respond.

The moment my door closed, I leaned against it, sliding down until I sat on the floor with my back pressed to the wood and my breathing uneven. My phone buzzed in my hand; it was Lina. I answered immediately.

“You stormed out?” she yelled before I could even say hello.

I let out a shaky laugh. “You saw?”

“Girl, it’s everywhere,” she said. “Everywhere. People are posting clips. Julian calling your name. You walking out. The silence after. It’s chaotic.”

I groaned, burying my face in my free hand. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Obviously,” Lina said. “But why did you just leave like that? That man practically dared you in front of the whole city.”

“Because I am not his trophy,” I snapped. “Because I am not going to stand there smiling while he pretends we’re ‘good friends’ like he didn’t shatter my life six months ago.”

There was a pause on the other end, then Lina’s voice softened. “Okay. That, I get.”

I exhaled shakily. “Christian tried to make me go.”

“Of course he did,” she said. “He’s got a stick between his legs. His gender thinks everything is a chess game.”

I snorted. “He said running made me look weak.”

Lina scoffed. “Men who say that have never been publicly humiliated at their own wedding.”

I let out a small laugh despite myself. “So what happened after?” she asked.

“He followed me. Walked me home. Said I was safe.”

Lina gasped. “Oh my God. That’s kind of hot.”

“Lina!”

“What? You hired him to be your fiancé, not your bodyguard. Yet here he is, escorting you like a brooding hero.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.” There was a moment of silence, then she spoke again, more serious now. “Are you okay?”

I stared at the dark living room around me, the silence pressing in. “I don’t know,” I admitted quietly. “I feel… exposed. Angry. Tired. Like I just ripped open a wound I thought was finally healing.”

Lina sighed softly. “You did nothing wrong tonight.”

“I walked out on a stage in front of hundreds of people.”

“You walked away from a man who tried to control your narrative,” she corrected. “That’s power, Zoey.”

I leaned my head back against the door, closing my eyes. “Maybe,” I murmured.

My phone buzzed again. Not Lina. A new message popped up on my screen from an unknown number. My heart skipped. I opened it to one line: ‘We need to talk.’