Chapter 8

~CLAIRE’S POV~

I had always dreamed of breaking the internet, but I never imagined it would be this intoxicating.

"Holy shit, Claire," Sophia squealed through my phone speaker, her Swiss accent making the swear sound almost elegant.

"Have you seen T*****r? I*******m? The group chat is literally on fire!"

I was sprawled across my new silk sheets in my Manhattan penthouse, laptop balanced on my knees, scrolling through the social media outbreak that had blown up since my engagement announcement hit the newsstands three hours ago.

‘OMG is that Claire Blackwood???’

‘Girl said "watch me glow up" and MEANT IT’

‘Alexander Hayes is FINE fine’

‘That engagement ring could feed a small country Richard Blackwood fumbled the bag’

‘Wait is this the same woman who used to post sad quotes about heartbreak?’

But my absolute favorite response was from my old college roommate Jessica: ‘Claire, I don't know what kind of revenge body program you've been on, but PLEASE share the workout routine because WOW’

"The best part," I said, accepting the champagne flute Marcus offered as he brought me a stack of newspapers, "is that I'm having fun reading these."

A year ago, any mention of my name online would have sent me into a spiral of anxiety. Now? I was practically purring with satisfaction.

"Miss Winfred," Marcus announced, his British accent as crisp as the morning paper, "you've received forty-seven interview requests, three book deal offers, and apparently someone wants to buy the rights to your 'transformation story' for a N*****x series."

I nearly choked on my champagne. "N*****x?"

"They're calling it 'a modern Cinderella story with better clothes and more revenge.'" Marcus's expression remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the hint of amusement in his eyes.

"There's also a rather persistent reporter from Page Six who insists she went to high school with you."

"Sarah Martinez," I groaned. "She used to copy my homework in chemistry."

"Shall I tell her you're unavailable?"

"Tell her I'm busy being fabulous." I gave a sign to the newspapers spread across my bed like a feast of gossip. "What's the coverage like?"

Marcus consulted his tablet. "The Times called you 'Manhattan's most stunning transformation,' the Post went with 'From Heartbreak to Hayes,' and Vogue wants to do a feature on your style evolution."

"And the business papers?"

"The Wall Street Journal mentioned Alexander's 'striking new fiancée' in their market report. Forbes is doubting the meaning of your engagement." Marcus paused.

"And the Financial Times... well, they seem to know exactly who you are."

He handed me the paper, folded to the reasonable section. The headline made my pulse quicken: "Alexander Hayes' Fiancée: The Ex-Wife Who Came Back Swinging."

The article was respectful but thorough, chronicling my marriage to Richard, the divorce, and my dramatic return to New York society.

But the tone was admiring rather than pitying—they had positioned me as the heroine of my own story, not the victim of someone else's.

"They make me sound like a badass," I mused.

"You are a badass, Miss. You've simply reminded the world of that fact."

While I was basking in my media victory, across the city, Richard was having what could only be described as a breakdown.

I knew this because my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Turn on Channel 7 news. You will want to see this. - D

David. Richard's younger brother, who had always been kind to me even when Richard wasn't.

I grabbed the remote and flipped to the local news, just in time to catch the entertainment piece.

"...and in other news, former Manhattan socialite Claire Winfred has announced her engagement to British billionaire Alexander Hayes. You might remember Claire as the ex-wife of Blackwood Industries CEO Richard Blackwood..."

The screen showed a photo of me and Alexander from last night's announcement—him looking devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, me glowing in that red dress that Richard had always hated.

We looked like we had stepped off the cover of Town & Country.

Then they cut to a clip of Richard leaving his office building this morning, clearly caught off guard by the reporter's question.

"Mr. Blackwood, any comment on your ex-wife's engagement?"

Richard's face went through several expressions in quick succession—shock, something that might have been pain, and finally a forced smile that looked more like a scowl.

"I wish Claire all the best," he said stiffly. "Now if you will excuse me….."

"How does your wife Monica feel about the announcement?"

"My wife and I are very happy together. We don't concern ourselves with... past chapters." His voice was clipped, professional, but I caught the tension in his jaw.

"Is it true that Claire's engagement ring is worth more than…."

"No further comments." Richard practically fled into his waiting car.

I rewound the clip and watched it again, studying his face frame by frame. The Richard I had known had been smooth with the press, comfortable with attention.

This man looked rattled, defensive.

Perfect.

My phone rang before I could fully process Richard's awkward television moment.

"Claire, darling, you must tell me everything!" Eleanor Blackwood's voice was warm with genuine affection.

Richard's mother had always been kind to me, even after the divorce.

"Hello, Eleanor. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm wonderful now that I've seen the papers. You look glowing, dear. That Alexander Hayes is quite the catch."

I smiled, settling back against my pillows. "He's... special."

"I'm sure he is. And that ring! My goodness, it's stunning." Eleanor's voice dropped conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I never thought that Monica girl was right for Richard.

“Something about her eyes... too calculating."

"And how is Monica handling the news?"

Eleanor's laugh was pure delight.

"Oh, she's beside herself. Posted six I*******m stories this morning, each one more defensive than the last. She's also scheduled an emergency lunch with her little society friends—damage control, I suspect."

While Eleanor and I gossiped, Alexander appeared in my bedroom doorway, his tablet in hand and a wicked grin on his face.

"You need to see Monica's latest post," he mouthed.

I put Eleanor on speaker as Alexander showed me his screen.

Monica had posted a professionally shot photo of her and Richard at some charity event, her clinging to his arm while he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

The caption read: "So grateful for my amazing husband and our incredible life together. Real love doesn't need flashy announcements or desperate attention-seeking. Some of us prefer authenticity over theatrics. #blessed #reallove #authentic #notseekingattention"

"She hashtagged 'not seeking attention,'" I said incredulously.

"While very obviously seeking attention," Eleanor added dryly.

"The irony is delicious." The comments were even better.

Monica's friends were loyally supporting her with generic praise, but everyone else was reading between the lines:

‘Girl, this seems a little defensive...’

‘Who hurt you? 👀’

‘The lady doth protest too much’

‘Subtweeting much? Is this about Claire Hayes? Because honey...’

"She's making herself look desperate," I observed.

"Exactly what we want," Alexander murmured.

After saying goodbye to Eleanor, I stretched luxuriously and announced, "It's time to make my first official public appearance as Alexander's fiancée."

"Where did you have in mind?" Alexander asked, though from his expression, I suspected he already knew.

"Le Bernardin. One o'clock reservation. The table by the window—the one with the perfect view of the street."

Le Bernardin was Richard's favorite restaurant for business lunches. It was also where Monica held her monthly society lunches with her circle of Upper East Side wives.

"You're diabolical," Alexander said approvingly. "I love watching you work."

An hour later, I was dressed in a stunning cream-colored wrap dress that hugged every curve I had spent months perfecting.

My hair fell in perfect waves, and my makeup was flawless—the kind of effortless glamour that took two hours to achieve.

The maître d' recognized Alexander immediately. "Mr. Hayes, how wonderful to see you again. And you must be the beautiful fiancée we've been reading about."

"Claire Winfred," I said, stretching my hand with a smile that was pure confidence.

"It's an honor, Miss Winfred. Your usual table, Mr. Hayes?" As we were seated at the special window table, I felt the slight shift in the restaurant's environment.

Conversations paused, heads turned, and I heard the telltale sound of phones being discreetly positioned for photos.

"You realize," Alexander murmured as he held my chair, "that by tomorrow morning, photos of this lunch will be in every gossip column in the city."

"That's the entire point."

We ordered champagne—Dom Pérignon, because subtlety was overrated—and settled in to enjoy the show.

Within twenty minutes, I had spotted at least four people I recognized from Richard and Monica's social circle, all stealing glances at our table.

"Miss Winfred?" A perfectly coiffed blonde approached our table. "I'm Jennifer Walsh from the Met Museum board. We met at the Whitmore Gallery opening."

"Of course, Jennifer. How lovely to see you again."

"I just wanted to say congratulations on your engagement. You look radiant." Her eyes darted to my ring, and I watched her add up its worth in real time.

"Alexander, you're incredibly lucky."

"The luckiest man in New York," he agreed, raising his champagne flute.

As Jennifer walked away, I noticed her immediately texting. No doubt updating her group chat with real-time intelligence.

"That's three more photos in the last five minutes," Alexander reported quietly.

"Excellent. I want Richard to hear about this lunch from seventeen different sources."