Chapter 3
1254words
The next morning I woke in Emma's apartment. The sky outside was a gloomy gray, as if foretelling disaster.
I picked up my phone. The moment the screen lit up, yesterday's information waterfall repeated itself, but this time, the content was completely different.
No longer Alex's begging and cursing—now overwhelming malice from countless strangers.
My social media accounts had been flooded.
"It's this woman, playing that filth at her own wedding. Desperate for attention, isn't she?"
"I heard she has a history of mental illness. This kind of person is capable of anything."
"Forging videos to frame her ex? Such a scheming mind. She looks so innocent—didn't expect her to be this twisted."
"She looks normal enough, but clearly she's deeply disturbed."
My photos, studio address, even my alma mater had been dug up and paired with these venomous comments, crafted into eye-catching memes spreading wildly across the internet.
The comment sections overflowed with unbearable abuse, every word like a poison-dipped needle piercing my skin.
Who was behind this?
The answer was self-evident.
Vincent hadn't even given me the promised twenty-four hours to consider. He'd gone straight for the fastest, dirtiest weapon—public opinion.
He wanted to nail me to the pillory of shame before I could even speak, turning me into a madwoman no one would believe.
"Stop looking at that." Emma appeared behind me, taking my phone and turning off the screen. "These are all paid trolls, hired to attack you."
Her voice was calm, but I could see the suppressed fury in her eyes.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "I know. Let's go to the studio."
Work was perhaps the only antidote that could help me find a piece of driftwood to cling to before being completely submerged.
However, I overestimated the healing power of work and underestimated Vincent's tactics.
Throughout the morning, my studio phone nearly rang off the hook.
"Miss Mia, regarding the South City villa project, our board has decided after careful consideration to put it on hold for now. We're very sorry."
The first call came from my most important client, delivered with formulaic coldness.
"Mia, for our new brand image design, we might need to find a more... reliable designer to collaborate with. Hope you understand."
The second call came from an old friend I'd worked with for three years, their voice filled with awkwardness and distance.
"Director Mia, we just received notice that your Christmas season design proposal for our mall has been rejected by headquarters. The reason is... the designer's personal image is controversial."
The third call... the fourth...
Each call hammered at the psychological defenses I'd barely constructed.
My assistant Amy brought a glass of water, carefully approaching my desk, her face even paler than mine. "Mia... property management just called about this month's rent and fees... our account balance..."
She didn't continue, but I understood everything.
I looked at the huge client tracking whiteboard, where the once-dense names and project timelines now had red lines crossing out more than half, indicating termination.
Those weren't red lines—that was my heart's blood, dripping away drop by drop.
An unprecedented sense of powerlessness engulfed me like a tide. It turns out destroying someone's career can be so simple—just a few phone calls, a few rumors.
The afternoon sunlight seemed particularly harsh. My phone rang again, with "Mom" flashing on the screen.
I hesitated for a few seconds but pressed answer. "Hello, Mom."
Immediately, my mother's suppressed crying came through: "Mia, what have you done? Neighbors, relatives, friends... they're all calling our home! They're asking about you causing trouble at the wedding, saying you have mental problems..."
"Mom, it's not like that, Alex was—" I tried to explain.
"Even if Alex was wrong! You shouldn't have done that at the wedding!" An angry male voice roughly interrupted—my father. His voice through the receiver was like a roar. "Do you know how much money our family spent on this wedding? How many connections we used? Now it's all become a joke! You've made us lose all face!"
I held the phone, feeling all the blood in my body turn ice-cold instantly.
"Mia, listen," my mother's tearful voice pleaded, "Please go... go apologize to Alex, and to Mr. Vincent. Calm things down, okay? Making a big scene won't do you any good..."
Apologize?
I could hardly believe my ears.
"You want me to... apologize to the person who betrayed me?" My voice shook, not from fear but from bone-chilling disappointment.
"I don't care who's right or wrong! I need you to be sensible!" my father roared. "You've blown this whole thing out of proportion. Do you still want to work in this industry? Do you still want to keep your studio open? Have you thought about this family for even a second?"
I stopped listening.
I silently hung up.
The world seemed muted in that moment—all sounds disappeared, leaving only a tremendous ringing in my ears.
So this is what it feels like to be abandoned by the whole world.
Career, reputation, love... even family ties—all destroyed beyond recognition in a single day.
I couldn't hold on any longer. My body slid down the wall to the floor, curling up in the cold corner of my studio. Tears burst forth like a broken dam. I bit down hard on my arm to prevent myself from making even the slightest sound.
Was I wrong?
Defending my dignity, exposing lies and betrayal—was I really wrong?
Why is it that I'm left with nothing, while those who do evil remain untouched?
The enormous grievance and despair gripped my throat like an invisible hand, making it impossible to breathe.
Just as darkness threatened to devour me, the studio door suddenly opened.
Emma rushed in and immediately spotted me curled in the corner.
In an instant, she was at my side, saying nothing—just holding me tightly. Her embrace was forceful, as if transferring all her strength to me.
"Enough, Mia." Her voice sounded above my head, firm and powerful. "We fight back."
I buried my face in her embrace, tears soaking her shirt, my voice broken beyond recognition: "How do we fight back... I have no money, no clients, even my parents want me to apologize... Emma, I have nothing left..."
"Did I really do something wrong..." I asked chokingly, the question cutting into my already wounded heart like a knife. "Maybe... maybe I shouldn't have done that at the wedding..."
"Listen!" Emma gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look up as she wiped away my tears with firm fingertips, her gaze sharp as an unsheathed sword.
"You did nothing wrong. You did exactly the right thing."
"The more frantically they try to suppress you, the more it proves you've hit their vulnerable spot! Vincent is using such despicable means because he's terrified! He's afraid of losing control, afraid his wife will discover more of the truth!"
Her words cut through the chaos in my mind like a beam of light.
"Mia, you're not left with nothing."
She leaned closer, staring into my eyes, enunciating each word with absolute clarity.
"You still hold the trump card they fear most—I've already contacted Diane, and she wants to see you."
I jerked my head up, my tear-stained face filled with shock.
Emma's lips curved into a cold, resolute smile.
"Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, Diane wants to meet with you. Mia, you are not fighting alone."
