elyn

oot, in just a slip, I was a ghost in the vibrant, unforgiving metropolis, my desperate flight from Chace' s penthouse etching itself into my memory with eve

ke everything I had believed about my life with Chace. I saw him in the rearview mirror of a passing cab, his arm draped around Celina Mcneil, their faces illuminated by the flash of paparazz

old, unforgiving bench in a dimly lit park. The snow, recently fallen, was melting into a slushy mess, soaking through my thin slip. I curled into a

in my rage. It was gone. Everything was gone. My past, my present, my future. It felt like I was shedding not just clot

forget them. Now, it felt like a mocking reminder of a girl who dared to dream. I ripped out a page, uncapped a pen, and meticulously wrote down Chace's last words to me: "Everything you own, the clothes on your back, the ro

left. With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. A small, nondescript ramen sho

g. I finished it, feeling a tiny spark of warmth return to my core. Outside, the city roared on, indifferent to my plight. I

t little body heat I had. The thought of finding shelter, any shelter, became paramount. I wandered aimlessly for w

a blessing, a temporary reprieve from the gnawing cold. I ordered a cheap cup of coffee, nursing it in my tremblin

a street vendor who gave me a free hot dog, and the brutal reality of sleepless nights on park benches, c

d. Meanwhile, the tabloids were ablaze with pictures of Chace and Celina, their public displays of affection growing more extravagant with each pas

a secret tenderness for me, now radiated a polished charm directed solely at her. It was as if our five years, our secret vows, our shared d

erased me. He no longer cared about my existence, my suffering. I was a casualty in his game, a stati

T!" My blood ran cold. Imminent. This wasn't a "facade" anymore. This was real. He was going to m

ture of me from the night of my arrest. The comments section, which I foolishly scrolled through, was a cesspool of hate. "Good riddance t

cipation, truly believed I was a delusional, opportunistic stalker. My identity, my dignity, had been systematical

iced everything for a love that was nothing but a cage, meticulously crafted by the man who claimed to protect me. But I wasn

g point. I would find a way to prove my existence, to prove my marriage to Chace Bentley. I was his wife, and I would make sur

unexpectedly. A message from an unknown number. My heart leaped, then sank. I

bench, taken days ago. Below it, a single word: "Gracelyn?" And then, mo

childhood friend. The cinnamon roll, the protector I hadn' t seen in years. He was the only one who had ever truly seen me,