(Aria's POV)
The elevator doors slid open—
—and chaos swallowed me whole.
Flashes detonated like gunfire. Reporters surged forward, shouting my name.
"Aria Hale!"
"Is it true you're Leo Blackwell's mistress?"
"Was it an affair?"
"Are you pregnant?"
Each question hit like a slap. My throat locked. I couldn't breathe—just flashes, heat, and the metallic taste of panic.
A hand clamped around my arm—security.
He pulled me through the storm of microphones and lenses while I kept my head down, heart pounding loud enough to drown the noise.
But when I looked up—
I saw him.
Leo Blackwell.
Standing behind the glass wall of the lobby, perfectly still.
No emotion. No reaction.
Just watching me drown in the mess he created.
I wanted to scream his name. Beg him to stop it.
But before I could, the car door slammed behind me.
Silence.
The sudden stillness was worse than the noise.
I sat frozen, chest heaving, the faint hum of the engine filling the space where my sanity used to be.
Then my phone started buzzing.
Once. Twice. Then endlessly.
Notifications exploded across the screen—hundreds of messages, missed calls, news alerts. My name trending everywhere.
BREAKING: Leo Blackwell Confirms Relationship With Employee Aria Hale.
"Mr. Blackwell will not deny his relationship with Miss Aria Hale,"—official PR statement from Blackwell Enterprises.
My stomach dropped.
He made it official.
Without me. Without my consent.
The phone slipped from my hand.
A single tear rolled down my cheek, cutting through the foundation and lies I'd tried to hold together.
⋯
Hours later—
My apartment was dark. The only light came from my phone screen, filled with hate.
Comments. Memes. Conspiracy threads.
Everyone had an opinion on the woman who'd "seduced" a billionaire.
Someone had edited my picture onto a wedding dress. Another turned me into a meme.
I laughed—a short, broken sound.
Then the tears came again.
Everything I'd worked for—gone. My job. My reputation. My peace.
And he was out there somewhere, untouchable, ruthless, winning.
A knock jolted me.
I hesitated before opening the door.
No one was there—just a sleek black box sitting neatly on the doormat.
Inside, a diamond ring glittered under the dim light—cold, sharp, too bright to be beautiful.
Next to it, a note.
Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Blackwell.
Move into the penthouse tomorrow.
—L.B.
My hands trembled. The ring felt heavy, poisonous, real.
Outside, camera flashes still burned faintly through my window—ghosts from earlier, haunting the walls.
And I sank to the floor, clutching the ring, whispering to no one,
"It's already begun."