Chapter 5
1384words
Emma and I didn't attend in person but watched the live broadcast through internal channels on my laptop, like gamblers awaiting results.
Vincent and Diane, the unfailing "model couple" of years past, once again appeared hand-in-hand on the red carpet. He wore a high-end custom black suit, handsome and elegant; she stunned in a burgundy velvet gown, noble and graceful. They smiled, embraced, and kissed under the flashing lights, as if nothing had ever happened.
"Such good acting," Emma sneered, holding her wine glass. "Hollywood owes her an Oscar."
I remained silent, staring intently at the screen. I knew this was just the calm before the storm.
Halfway through the banquet, the host announced enthusiastically: "Next, let's welcome our most loyal supporters, Mr. Vincent and Ms. Diane to the stage with the warmest applause, to share their charitable insights!"
The applause was thunderous. Vincent, with a perfect smile, gentlemanly took Diane's hand as they walked onto the stage together. He accepted the microphone, preparing to deliver his formulaic speech.
Just then, Diane suddenly reached out and took the microphone from his hand.
Vincent's smile froze momentarily before quickly returning; he probably thought this was just a playful joke between spouses.
The entire venue fell silent, all eyes on this eternally graceful lady of wealth.
"Sorry, darling," Diane gave Vincent a gentle smile, then turned to the guests. "Before Vincent shares about his great charitable work, please allow me a moment to announce a personal matter."
Her voice carried clearly throughout the banquet hall, resonating with undeniable force.
"Mr. Vincent and I will be getting divorced."
The announcement dropped like a stone in still water, creating a thousand ripples.
The audience erupted into gasps and murmurs, everyone whispering frantically, faces filled with shock.
Vincent's face turned ashen. He stepped forward, trying to snatch the microphone, hissing: "Have you lost your mind? Do you know what you're doing?"
Diane nimbly sidestepped, evading his grasp. She looked at the astonished faces below, her smile still elegant, but her words sharp as poison-tipped blades.
"What you may not know," she paused, savoring the satisfaction of cornering her prey, "is that my seemingly flawless husband has had multiple affairs during our marriage."
The crowd's commotion grew louder. Countless phones aimed at the stage, recording this moment destined for social media infamy.
Diane raised her hand, gently pressing it down to quiet the crowd. Her gaze swept the room before landing on Vincent's pale face without a trace of warmth.
"And," she drew out her tone, each word crystal clear, "both genders... are included."
The banquet hall exploded with reaction.
Moments ago there was only shock—now expressions transformed into a mixture of excitement, contempt, and frenzied disbelief. Some recalled the scandalous wedding video, instantly connecting the dots. The looks directed at Vincent shifted from seeing a cheater to seeing a monster.
Amidst the chaos, Diane gently placed the microphone on the podium and, like a queen, elegantly walked off the stage without looking back, leaving behind a resolute and proud silhouette.
Vincent stood frozen alone on stage, subjected to countless probing, mocking gazes that cut him to pieces.
"Well done!" Emma shouted excitedly, downing her glass of red wine in one gulp.
I couldn't help but feel my lips curl into a smile as intense satisfaction washed over me.
This "divorce declaration" storm spread through the upper social circles at viral speed. Less than ten minutes after Diane left, my phone vibrated frantically as gossip and videos exploded across chat groups.
Vincent was utterly disgraced.
I was scrolling through my phone, watching former flatterers now kick Vincent while he was down, when a call from an unknown number came through.
I hesitated before putting it on speaker. From the other end came Alex's voice, tearful and nearly breaking down.
"Mia... Mia, I'm begging you..." he sobbed incoherently, sounding utterly miserable. "Can you ask Diane to stop? Please... I can't take it anymore..."
I could imagine how he looked—probably discovering all his credit cards frozen, his expensive sports car towed away, creditors lining up outside his door. Vincent, once a mighty tree, could barely protect himself now, let alone shelter a clinging vine like Alex.
"Vincent canceled all my cards," he cried more hysterically, sensing my silence. "Those lenders call me every day—they say if I don't pay back the money, they'll go to my parents... Mia, do our three years together mean nothing to you? I beg you, for the sake of what we had, please help me..."
For the sake of our past?
I let out a cold laugh.
Should I be sentimental about how he planned our future while rolling in bed with his boss?
I said nothing, hung up directly, and blocked his number.
The world instantly became peaceful.
Emma came over and patted my shoulder. "Well done. For people like him, even the slightest sympathy is wasted."
I nodded, tossed my phone aside, and gazed at the dazzling city lights outside the window, feeling nothing. Alex's breakdown was merely an insignificant, jarring note in our symphony of revenge.
The true main melody had only just begun.
That same week, I participated in a highly anticipated designer exhibition in the city.
This was an event I'd long planned to attend, and even when I was being attacked across the internet, I never considered withdrawing. This was my battlefield, and I had to stand my ground.
My exhibition piece was titled "The Truth."
It wasn't a painting or furniture piece, but a striking installation. In the center of the exhibition hall, I'd torn a pristine white wedding dress and crisp groom's suit to shreds, with tattered fabric scattered chaotically on the floor like battlefield remains.
Upon these tattered garments, a projector continuously displayed large, bright red words—"Lies," "Betrayal," "Hypocrisy," "Desire," "Mask."
The exhibit description contained only one cold line of text:
"Dedicated to those who think they can hide the truth forever."
My work dropped like a bomb into a calm lake, instantly causing a huge stir in the design community.
Everyone tacitly understood what this work alluded to. Given recent events, no one believed those online claims about my "vengeful actions out of unrequited love" anymore.
A highly respected senior designer told the media: "Mia is an exceptionally talented and sincere designer. Her work never lies. This piece is her most powerful response to recent false rumors."
Public opinion completely reversed.
Clients who had previously terminated contracts out of fear now eagerly called back, hoping to restore our relationship. Many new clients, attracted by my work, also reached out. Overnight, my studio's inbox filled with collaboration requests.
With my professionalism and talent, I fought the most beautiful comeback battle.
The evening the exhibition ended, I received a one-sentence message from Emma that made me unable to suppress a smile.
"Vincent has been suspended pending investigation; the board received an anonymous report about his misappropriation of funds."
I knew this was Diane's second "gift."
I leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of my studio, watching the endless flow of traffic below, filled with an unprecedented sense of control.
Just then, from the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure below.
It was Alex.
He was no longer that spirited financial elite but wore a thin, worn coat, his hair disheveled, stubble on his face—looking like a drenched stray dog. He stood in the cold autumn wind, constantly rubbing his hands, eyes fixed unblinkingly toward my studio.
I frowned, hesitating for a moment.
After the satisfaction of revenge had ebbed, a complex, indescribable emotion washed over me. I didn't want to see him again, but something still drove me downstairs.
I wrapped my coat tightly and walked out of the building.
When Alex saw me, his eyes immediately brightened. He staggered toward me, his face wearing a strange expression mixing desperation and hope.
He stopped two steps away, his lips trembling, seemingly wanting to speak.
Finally, under my gaze, he made a gesture I never expected.
His knees buckled, and with a thud, he fell straight to his knees on the cold, hard cement in front of me.
"Mia," he looked up, his face covered in tears, "please, save me... I can't go on living..."
