Fractures

The night after the gala was a blur.

Amira had taken off the silver gown in silence, folded it neatly on the dressing chair, and slipped into bed without removing her earrings. She hadn’t cried. Even pouring herself a drink felt exhausting.

By morning, the Westwood estate felt colder, the air heavy with secrets.

A sharp knock rattled her door.

“Miss Amira,” the butler said when she opened it, bowing slightly. “Your father requests your presence in the study. Urgently.”

Marcus never summoned her this early unless disaster was near.

Amira slipped a velvet robe over her silk slip and hurried down the hall. Eli leaned against the banister, phone in hand. His eyes followed her, sharp and unreadable, but he said nothing.

When she entered the study, Marcus sat rigid behind his desk, Giselle lounging on the sofa with a crystal glass in hand, already playing queen of the ruin.

“Sit,” Marcus said roughly.

Amira sat, heart pounding. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s about the company,” Marcus said. “The Feds are investigating. Assets frozen. There’s talk of… insider trading.”

“What?” Her fingers gripped the chair’s armrest. “But that’s impossible—”

“It’s not impossible if someone you trusted sold you out,” Giselle interrupted smoothly.

“Who would—”

“Not important right now,” Marcus snapped. “What matters is keeping the company alive long enough to clear my name.”

His hand trembled as he rubbed his face. “I’ve worked my whole life for this. And now…” His voice broke.

“We’ll fight it,” Amira said fiercely. “We have lawyers—”

“Lawyers can’t undo a scandal overnight,” Giselle cut in, her tone like ice. “We need to control the narrative. Otherwise, the press will bury us.”

Marcus looked up, eyes hollow. “The stock has already dropped twenty percent. Clients are fleeing. We can’t afford another distraction. Not from anyone.”

His gaze lingered on Amira. The message was clear: she had to be flawless while he fought to survive.

Her throat tightened. “What do you need me to do?”

“You’ll make appearances,” Giselle said smoothly. “Charity events, interviews, anything that reminds people the Westwoods are symbols of grace, not scandal.”

Marcus nodded. “The gala helped. More of that.”

Amira almost laughed. More of that. Pretending. Smiling for cameras while everything burned.

“Tell me the truth,” she said quietly. “How bad is it?”

“Worse than you think,” Giselle replied. “If we don’t move carefully, you’ll lose more than Marcus’s fortune. You’ll lose the Westwood name.”

Marcus’s voice dropped to a plea. “Stay out of trouble, Amira. No gossip. No personal drama.”

Her fists clenched. Darren’s face flashed in her mind. And Camila’s.

“Fine,” she said tightly.

Marcus exhaled like she’d given him air. “Good. We’ll get through this.”

Somewhere down the hall, Eli’s voice carried low and urgent on a phone call before cutting off abruptly. Unease prickled Amira’s skin.

Marcus’s phone rang, slicing through the tension. He waved her away as he answered.

Amira left, brushing past Eli.

“Rough morning?” he asked casually.

She ignored him, but his voice followed her.

“You might want to watch your back.”

She stopped. “Is that advice or a threat?”

“Both.”

---

Upstairs, Amira sat on the edge of her bed, sketchbook open on her lap. The half-finished design stared back at her, mocking her dream of freedom.

Her phone buzzed. Darren.

She let it ring, then ring again.

Darren: Morning, babe. Didn’t hear from you when you got home.

Darren: Thought maybe we could grab lunch later. Missed you yesterday.

Her chest constricted. Images of last night seared her mind—Darren’s hand on Camila’s thigh, their mocking laughter.

Another buzz. Camila: Mira, where’d you run off to last night? Call me.

Amira’s stomach turned. Both of them pretending innocence.

A knock at her door.

“Ten minutes, darling,” Giselle’s voice cooed. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Amira asked.

“Charity brunch. Press will be there. Smile.”

---

The rooftop garden buzzed with photographers, flashes blinding as they shouted questions.

“Miss Westwood! Comment on the investigation!”

“Did Marcus falsify accounts?”

“Don’t respond,” Giselle whispered, her smile never wavering.

Inside, laughter rang too loud, perfume choking the air.

Amira froze.

Darren and Camila sat together at a corner table—brazen, shameless.

“Amira!” Camila’s voice was sugary sweet.

Darren stood, grinning. “Babe, you made it.”

Her heart thudded painfully. His arm brushed Camila’s chair like a claim.

“Amira,” Camila said smoothly, “you look… rested.”

Amira tilted her head. “Rested? Interesting choice of words.”

Darren’s grin faltered. “You’ve been dodging my calls. What’s going on?”

“I’m great,” she said lightly. “Just busy. Distracted, no.”

Camila leaned closer, faux concern dripping. “We were worried about you. You left so suddenly last night.”

Amira’s gaze turned to ice. “Maybe I just got tired of watching a performance I wasn’t meant to see.”

The table went still.

“Amira,” Darren warned. “Don’t do this here.”

“Why not?” Her voice rose. “You had no problem doing it there.”

Gasps rippled. Several phones were raised, recording.

“What are you talking about?” Darren asked, pale.

“I’m talking about you,” Amira spat, pointing at Camila, “and her. I saw you. Last night. Don’t you dare lie to me.”

Camila’s mouth opened, closed.

“You were supposed to be my sister,” Amira said, voice shaking with fury.

“And you,” she turned on Darren, “were supposed to be mine.”

“Babe, please—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “You lost the right.”

Whispers spread like wildfire. Eli, watching from the bar, arched a brow. Giselle sipped champagne, amused.

“You made your choice,” Amira said coldly. “Now live with it.”

She stormed toward the exit. Darren chased her into the corridor.

“Please, Amira, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” She spun on him. “That my best friend was too easy to resist? That you laughed at me behind my back?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he stammered. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” She laughed bitterly. “I heard you, Darren. Every filthy word. That wasn’t a mistake—that’s you.”

Camila appeared in the doorway, pale and trembling.

Giselle stood at the hall’s end, calm and calculating.

“Amira—” Darren reached for her.

She stepped back, her voice like ice.

“You’re both dead to me.”

---

The oak doors burst open.

Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing.

“Miss Westwood, did Darren cheat on you?”

“Are you ending the engagement?”

“Is this tied to Marcus’s investigation?”

Amira didn’t answer. She walked through the chaos like a storm, head high.

Behind her, Darren faltered at the doorway, as pale as Camila beside him.

By the time Amira slid into the black car, her chest was heaving. Giselle followed, unbothered, lips curved.

“Well,” she murmured, swirling her champagne, “that will be the next headline.”

Amira turned to the window, jaw clenched.

Deep down, she knew Giselle was right.

Her storming out hadn’t ended the scandal.

It had just begun.