Chapter Thirteen

Elena did not take humiliation lightly, especially not in public.

She sat alone in her apartment, the soft glow of vanity lights reflecting off the glass table before her. Her phone lay there, screen flickering with comments she had read countless times:

“She needs to move on.”

“Why is she so clingy with a married man?”

“Respect the wife.”

The wife.

Elara.

Her jaw tightened. That world should have been hers, that position, that life—absolutely hers.

She leaned back slowly, fingers tapping against the armrest. Years of meticulous planning had brought her close to Aaron—careful, strategic, patient—waiting for everything to fall into place: the name, the wealth, the spotlight.

Her modeling career was on the brink of skyrocketing. She had been so close.

Then—Elara.

Quiet, unremarkable, easily dismissed—or so she thought.

Smirked evilly while her eyes darkened slightly.

“Not anymore."

She reached for her phone and dialed a number.

It rang twice.

“Finally,” a male voice chuckled. "You remembered I exist.”

“Don’t start,” Elena replied flatly.

A pause, then a teasing chuckle.

“I’m offended already.”

“Leon, I need a favor.”

Another pause, capturing his attention.

"This sounds serious.”

“It is.”

Silence lingered a moment.

“I’m listening.”

Leaning forward, Elena spoke firmly.

“I need you to get close to someone."

Across the city, Leon smiled to himself—exactly the kind of challenge he thrived on: charming, smooth, dangerously perceptive.

“Let me guess,” he said lightly. “This involves your billionaire problem.”

Elena didn’t deny it.

“There’s a woman,” she said.

“His wife.”

Leon whistled softly.

“You want me to flirt with a married woman?”

“I want you to do more than flirt.”

His smile widened.

“Define more.”

Lowering her voice, Elena clarified.

“I want people to think she’s unfaithful.”

Silence. Then—Leon laughed.

Not surprised, not shocked—just entertained.

“That’s messy.”

“I know. And risky."

“And you want me involved because...?"

Her tone sharped slightly.

“Because you’re good at gaining people’s trust."

Leon reclined, considering.

“And what’s my cut dear cousin?"

Elena didn’t hesitate.

“Visibility.”

He paused.

“Go on.”

“I’ll connect you to the right people—events, campaigns, exposure."

A beat.

“I know you've been trying to get a gig from

Kratos Designs for a while now. Plus I know someone who can help with your situation”

Leon smiled, intrigued.

"And if this works?” he asked.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile.

"She’s out of the picture, and I get Aaron back.”

"And I get access to Kratos and help?”

"Exactly."

A pause—then, finally:

“Alright, I’m in."

Elena exhaled softly, relief and resolve washing over her.

"Don’t rush it,” she advised.

“I won’t.”

“She’s not like the women you usually deal with."

Leon raised an eyebrow.

“That’s precisely why it will work."

The call ended.

Elena gazed at her reflection—calm, composed, in control.

“This time,” she whispered, “you won’t come back from this."

Meanwhile, Elara sat quietly on her balcony, the evening air soft and still. Her phone rested beside her, untouched. For once, she wasn’t obsessively checking comments, bracing for impact, just existing.

Thoughts drifted, not to Aaron at first—then unexpectedly, to how he had looked at her at the gala, that fleeting moment of silence, almost insignificant but impossible to forget.

She exhaled softly, shook her head, and resolved not to cling to crumbs anymore.

Not anymore.

Inside the house, Aaron stood in his study, phone in hand. New comments appeared—different, more flattering:

"They actually looked good together.”

“Maybe we judged her too harshly."

“She carried herself well.”

His jaw tensed—more than anger, something sharper, possessive and unfamiliar. He didn’t like the attention she was attracting, the way people looked at her, talked about her—as if she had always been part of his world, and he’d just missed it.

He gripped the phone tighter, then loosened, setting it down and exhaling.

But the unease lingered.

Elara, in front of her mirror again, was simply observing—touching the fabric of her dress, recalling the gala moment without fear or whispers, just the quiet strength of walking in and holding herself together.

A small, genuine smile played on her lips.

Elsewhere in the city, Leon scrolled through photos of Elara: studying, analyzing, understanding—not the surface but the gaps, the emotional spaces he could exploit. His smile was slow, measured.

"This won’t be difficult," he murmured.

And without Elara knowing, without her noticing, the next phase had already begun—carefully planned, perfectly timed, designed to break her in a way she hadn’t yet experienced.