Prologue: The night the world burn

The first thing Amara Collins felt was pain. Not the sharp, stabbing kind—no, this was deeper. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through her skull with every heartbeat, as though her brain had been liquefied and poured back into her skull with jagged glass mixed in. Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked, and her tongue felt too thick, like a stranger's. She tried to swallow, but her throat constricted, refusing to cooperate.

She blinked once. Twice.

The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—high, vaulted, painted in soft golds and grays, with a chandelier that looked like frozen raindrops suspended in midair. The sheets beneath her were cool and impossibly soft, like silk spun from moonlight. A faint scent lingered in the air—cedar, sandalwood, something faintly metallic beneath it all, like the aftermath of a storm.

Where am I?

She tried to sit up, but her body protested violently. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she’d been drugged. Her muscles ached, especially between her thighs. A sharp pang shot through her lower abdomen, and she gasped, clutching her stomach.

That’s when she realized she was naked.

Her breath hitched. Her hands flew to her chest, then down to her hips, as if confirming the truth of her own skin. Yes. She was bare. No clothes. No underwear. Nothing.

Panic surged through her like wildfire.

She looked around frantically. The room was opulent—too opulent. A king-sized bed with black satin sheets, a fireplace carved from marble, floor-to-ceiling windows veiled by sheer gray drapes. A glass coffee table held a single crystal tumbler, half-full of amber liquid. No sign of her dress. No purse. No phone.

What happened?

Her mind was foggy, fragmented. She tried to piece together the night before—her bridal shower. That’s right. It was supposed to be a celebration. Her last night as a single woman. Champagne, laughter, her closest friends surrounding her, dancing, singing, showering her with gifts and love.

But now… now there was nothing but silence. And this unbearable ache.

A memory flickered.

Laughter. Bright lights. Music thumping through the floor. Her best friend, Lila, grinning at her, holding out a pink cocktail in a tall glass. “One more, just one more, Amara! You’re getting married tomorrow—live a little!”

Amara reached for the glass. Lila’s smile was wide, too wide. Her eyes sparkled—not with joy, but something darker. Something hungry.

Then—blackness.

Another flash.

She was dancing. Not just dancing—writhing. On a pole. In front of a crowd. Men cheering, women laughing. Her dress was gone. She was in a red corset, fishnets, heels so high she could barely stand. But she didn’t care. She felt weightless. Free. Wild. Lila was beside her, clapping, egging her on. “That’s it, baby! Show them what you’ve got!”

But that wasn’t her. That wasn’t Amara. She didn’t dance like that. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She was poised, elegant, careful. She had a reputation to uphold. She was an actress—on the rise, yes, but still fighting for every role, every audition. She didn’t do strip teases. Not ever.

Was it real?

Another memory, sharper this time.

Hands. Rough. Everywhere. A man’s body pressing into hers. A bedroom—smaller than this one, dim, lit only by a flickering lamp. The scent of sweat and cheap cologne. She was on her back. He was on top of her. She tried to push him away, but her arms wouldn’t move. Her body wasn’t hers. She was trapped inside it, watching, screaming silently as he took her—violently, carelessly.

And then… pleasure. Twisted, unwanted, but real. A wave of heat that made her arch against him, despite herself. Her first time. Gone. Stolen.

She gasped, bolting upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged animal.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

She scrambled off the bed, her bare feet hitting cold marble. She stumbled to a full-length mirror on the far wall and froze.

The woman staring back at her was a stranger.

Her hair was a tangled mess, half-up, half-down, streaked with glitter. Her makeup was smeared—mascara under her eyes like war paint, lipstick smeared across her cheek. There were bruises on her neck. A red mark on her collarbone, like a brand.

And her eyes—wide, bloodshot, haunted.

She turned, looking over her shoulder. More bruises. On her hips. On her thighs. Faint finger-shaped marks.

She had been with a man.

She had lost her virginity.

And she didn’t remember his face.

A sob tore from her throat.

She clutched the edge of a nearby dresser, her knees threatening to give out. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare. A sick, twisted dream.

But the pain between her legs was real. The taste of bile in her mouth was real. The shame—burning, suffocating—was real.

She needed answers.

She spotted her phone on the nightstand—her real phone, not a stranger’s. She snatched it up, fingers trembling as she unlocked it. 37 missed calls. 87 messages. Most from her publicist. Her manager. Her mother. And one from Lila.

She didn’t call her mother. She didn’t call her manager.

She called Lila.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, a click.

“Amara,” Lila said, her voice smooth, almost amused. “You’re awake.”

“What the hell did you put in that drink?” Amara hissed, her voice raw. “What did you do to me?”

Lila laughed—a light, tinkling sound, like wind chimes. “Oh, sweetie. Don’t be dramatic. You had fun, didn’t you? Everyone saw you. You were amazing.”

“I don’t remember!” Amara shouted, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t remember anything! I was raped, Lila! I don’t even know who he was!”

“Oh, relax,” Lila purred. “You weren’t raped. You wanted it. You were begging for it. You don’t remember because you were wasted. But trust me, you were into it. Everyone saw. The videos are already online.”

“Videos?” Amara’s stomach dropped. “What videos?”

“You’ll see,” Lila said. “Congratulations, by the way. You’re trending. #SluttyBride. Cute, right?”

The line went dead.

Amara dropped the phone as if it had burned her.

Videos.

She couldn’t breathe.

She scrambled for the device again, hands shaking so badly she could barely type. She opened a browser, typed her name.

Amara Collins pole dance viral video

Her stomach twisted.

There it was.

A thumbnail. Her—her body, her face—wrapped around a silver pole, grinding, arching, smiling like a madwoman. Millions of views. Thousands of comments.

“She’s a freak.”

“Who knew the sweet actress was a dirty slut?”

“No way she’s marrying James after this.”

James.

Her fiancé.

She dialed his number before she could think.

He answered on the third ring.

“Amara,” he said, his voice calm. Too calm.

“James, please,” she begged, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what happened. I think I was drugged. I don’t remember anything. I need you. I need you to come get me. Please.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then—laughter.

Low at first. Then louder. Then full-on, gut-wrenching laughter.

Amara froze.

“James?” she whispered.

“Oh, Amara,” he said, still chuckling. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“What are you talking about? What’s so funny?”

He sighed, as if explaining something obvious to a child. “We planned it, Amara. Lila and I. We’ve been planning it for months.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“What?”

“You heard me. We wanted to teach you a lesson. You’ve been so holier-than-thou lately. Acting like you’re too good for everyone. Too good for me. You’ve been distant. Cold. Like marriage to me is some kind of burden.”

“That’s not true!” she screamed. “I love you! I was excited! I was—”

“Save it,” he cut in. “You were never excited. You were just waiting for your big break. And guess what? Now you’ve got one. Just not the way you thought.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lila’s taking over your roles,” he said, almost gleeful. “All of them. The studio loves the drama. They’re rebranding her as the real star. And you? You’re the cautionary tale. The girl who couldn’t keep it together before her wedding. The slut who cheated on her fiancé with some random guy.”

“I didn’t cheat!” she sobbed. “I was drugged! I didn’t even know who he was!”

“Doesn’t matter,” James said coldly. “Intent doesn’t matter. Perception does. And right now, the whole world thinks you’re a whore.”

The bedroom door opened.

Amara looked up, trembling.

James walked in, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the charming leading man he played on screen. Behind him, Lila followed, wearing a sleek black dress, her hair perfect, her smile triumphant.

“You’re awake,” James said, stepping inside. “Good. We wanted to see your face when you realized you’ve been canceled.”

“You bastards,” Amara spat, pulling the sheet around her. “You drugged me. You set me up. You ruined me!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Lila said, strolling over to the mirror and adjusting her hair. “You were going to leave him anyway. We all know it. You were only marrying James for the publicity. And let’s be honest—you weren’t even a good actress. I’m better. I deserve this.”

“You deserve prison!” Amara screamed.

James laughed again. “No one’s going to believe you. You were seen with that guy. You were filmed. You wanted it. And now, you’re nothing. No endorsements. No roles. No career. Just a joke.”

As if on cue, her phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Glamour Luxe—Brand Manager.

She answered, her voice shaking. “Hello?”

“Amara,” the voice on the other end said, cold and professional. “This is Vanessa from Glamour Luxe. We’re terminating our contract with you immediately.”

“What? Why?”

“Your conduct last night violates the morality clause in our agreement. Associating with disreputable behavior. Public indecency. We cannot align our brand with someone who’s been exposed as a—” she paused, then said it—“slut.”

“I was drugged!” Amara cried. “I didn’t consent! I didn’t even know what was happening!”

“I’m sorry, Amara. The decision is final. All assets will be returned. You will not receive your final payment. Goodbye.”

The line went dead.

One by one, the calls came.

LuxSkin. Canceled.

Elegance Watches. Canceled.

PureLife Fitness. Canceled.

Every brand, every sponsor, every contract—gone.

Her career—erased.

She dropped the phone onto the floor and screamed—a raw, guttural sound of rage and despair. She grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy glass vase—and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, shards scattering like stars.

Lila and James didn’t flinch.

In fact, they smiled.

“You should’ve stayed humble,” Lila said, turning to leave. “Now the world knows the truth about you.”

James followed, pausing at the door. “Oh, and don’t bother suing us. We’ve got NDAs. And the videos? They’re everywhere. You’ll never recover from this.”

Then they were gone.

Silence.

Amara collapsed onto the bed, sobbing, her body wracked with pain and grief. She curled into a ball, the sheet clutched around her like a shield.

She was ruined.

Her reputation. Her career. Her love. Her future.

All gone.

She stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down her temples, soaking into the pillow.

She had trusted them. Lila—her best friend since college. The one who held her hair back when she was sick, who stayed up all night helping her memorize lines, who swore she’d be her maid of honor. And James—the man she loved, the man she was going to spend her life with, the man who had whispered promises of forever into her ear just days ago.

And they had done this.

Not out of passion. Not out of anger.

Out of envy.

Out of greed.

They had taken everything—her dignity, her body, her future—and handed it to someone else like it was nothing.

And the worst part?

They were right.

No one would believe her.

The world had already seen the footage. The narrative was set. The hashtags were trending. The memes were spreading.

Amara Collins: The Bride Who Cheated.

She was no longer an actress.

She was a punchline.

Her phone began to ring again, a new number this time. She ignored it, letting it buzz on the cold marble floor. Another brand. Another cancellation. Another confirmation of her new reality.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony, of a soul being ripped in half. She pushed herself up, stumbling to her feet, and lunged for her phone. Her fingers, still trembling, snatched it up from the floor. She stared at the screen, at the countless notifications, the missed calls, the messages from people who once called her a friend. Her breath hitched. She slammed the phone against the marble wall, once, twice, a third time. The screen splintered, then shattered, a final, definitive end. She dropped to her knees, clutching the ruined device, and the sobs returned, a flood of grief, rage, and shame that finally consumed her. She was ruined. They had won. And as she knelt there, broken, the morning light did nothing but illuminate the wreckage of her life.