CHAPTER 3
✧༺✰༻✧
The Scandal
ONE WEEK LATER~
The week that followed was quiet. Too quiet.
Salma spent most of her days trapped in Sophia's small apartment, the curtains drawn against the world outside. The city bustled beyond the thin walls, but for her, life had shrunk into a single living room, a borrowed couch, and endless hours of silence.
She scrolled through her phone for distraction, thumbing past old photos, fashion campaigns, and unread messages from modeling colleagues who buzzed with fake concern. Her notifications lit up constantly, yet she never posted, never replied. She muted everyone. The silence was strange, but she welcomed it.
It was easier to vanish than to face the world.
Sophia, however, was restless. That afternoon, the sun painted long streaks of light across the dusty floorboards, and Sophia sat curled up across from her on the couch. She kept biting her nails until her fingers looked raw, her face pale and tight with something unsaid. Her foot tapped nervously against the rug.
Salma finally frowned. "What is it? You've been twitching for hours."
Sophia's eyes darted away, then back again, as if she were forcing herself. And then the words slipped out like poison.
"I'm pregnant."
The silence that followed was so sharp it cut the air.
Salma blinked, her throat tightening. She almost thought she misheard.
"Pregnant?" she raised a brow.
Sophia nodded stiffly, her arms wrapping around her stomach as if she could shield herself from her own confession.
"Yes. For that useless man ex husband of mine," Her voice dripped with venom.
"God, I hate him. I hate that I'm tied to him now. Do you know what it feels like to carry something that connects you forever to a mistake?"
"I thought you and Michael ended things a yeah ago. How? How did you get pregnant?" Salma raised a brow.
"Ehn...well same night of your wedding I went to his place and we hooked up." Sophia said lowering her gaze in guilt.
Salma's chest constricted. For a second, she couldn't breathe. She reached across the couch, placing her hand gently over Sophia's trembling ones.
"I know he hasn't been kind to you," she said softly. "But… a baby is still a blessing. Congratulations."
The word left her lips before she could stop it.
Sophia's eyes snapped up, furious.
"Congratulations?" she repeated, pulling her hand away as though burned.
"Don't you dare make this sound like some gift, Salma. You don't know what it's like to look in the mirror and see chains you can never break. You're free. You always get to choose. Unlike me—" her voice cracked, sharp and bitter, "I'm stuck carrying his blood."
Salma recoiled, stunned. The anger in Sophia's eyes didn't belong to the gentle friend who once nursed her after sleepless nights or whispered encouragement before runway shows. This was someone darker, heavier.
But before Salma could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Sophia frowned. "Who could that be?"
Salma's stomach dropped. No one knew she was here. She rose slowly, dread prickling down her spine, and cracked the door open.
Two men in black suits filled the doorway. Their cold eyes met hers.
"Miss Rodriguez?" one said.
Her breath hitched. She knew those faces. Her father's men.
"No," she whispered, backing away. "Not here—"
But they didn't wait. Rough hands closed around her arms, firm and unyielding.
"Your father requests your presence."
"Let me go!" She struggled, panic flooding her chest. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
Her cries were useless. They dragged her down the stairs as neighbors peeked from doors, whispering. Sophia stood frozen in the living room, her pale face unreadable.
Within minutes, Salma was shoved into a black car, the windows tinted, her wrists aching from their grip.
MALIBU_THE RODRIGUEZ MANSION~
The Rodriguez mansion was enormous, sitting on a hill that overlooked the city. Its white stone walls gleamed in the sun, and tall iron gates guarded the entrance. From the street, it looked untouchable, a house built to impress and to show power.
The driveway was wide and long, lined with palm trees, and luxury cars were always parked neatly near poo poo the front. The garden was perfect, trimmed hedges and fountains that sparkled in the light. Every corner was clean, every detail polished.
Inside, the rooms were large and full of expensive furniture. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, throwing light across marble floors. Paintings and sculptures filled the walls, each one chosen to show taste and wealth. The furniture was rich and heavy, made of dark wood and soft leather, all carefully arranged.
The study was massive, with shelves full of books and awards, a desk big enough to hold meetings with powerful men. The smell of polished wood and leather filled the air. Every room had a sense of control, of money, of authority.
Even the little things showed power: servants moved quietly through the halls, doors opened automatically, and cameras watched every corner. The mansion wasn't just a home—it was a statement.
To step inside was to remember who ruled here. Mr. Rodriguez's wealth wasn't just in money. It was in the way the house demanded respect, in the way it made everyone feel small, and in the air of power that seemed to hang in every room.
The mansion loomed as the car pulled into the driveway. The sight of it—the tall gates, the polished marble, the servants pretending not to stare—filled Salma with a bitter ache. It wasn't home. It had never been home.
Inside the study, the air felt heavy with smoke and fury.
Mr. Rodriguez stood by the fireplace, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes stormy.
"Do you know the shame you've brought upon me, Salma?" His voice thundered against the walls.
"Running away from your marriage like some cheap street girl? Do you know how much I lost to Lukas ?"
Salma forced herself to stand tall, though her knees shook. "I will not marry him, Papa. I'd rather live on the streets than—"
The slap came so fast she barely saw it. A loud crack split the room, and pain bloomed hot across her cheek.
"You dare talk back?" her father roared.
His chest heaved with rage. "From this moment on, you are no daughter of mine. You're stripped of property, inheritance, every privilege that bore my name. You will walk out with nothing."
Salma swallowed her tears, her cheek throbbing. She lifted her chin with trembling defiance.
"If this is the price of freedom, then I'll pay it."
From the shadows, laughter rippled.
She turned.
Alisha leaned lazily against the wall, her elder sister's lips curled in a cruel smirk. Her eyes glittered with satisfaction, as though she had been waiting years for this downfall.
Salma's stomach twisted.
"Get her out of my sight," Mr. Rodriguez snapped.
The guards yanked her away. Past the servants who looked down. Past the portraits of ancestors glaring from gilded frames. Past the childhood halls that had once been filled with dreams.
The heavy gates clanged shut behind her, sealing her exile.
Salma stood in the cold night air, her face stinging, her chest hollow. And yet, as the stars burned faintly above, she felt something else stir—something lighter. For the first time, her chains were broken.
She walked. For hours. Until her legs trembled, at last, she collapsed onto Sophia's couch, drained but breathing.
BEVERLY HILLS, AIDEN'S MANSION_
Aiden's mansion rose like a fortress above the city, its glass walls reflecting the sky in sharp, perfect angles. From the road below, it looked untouchable, impossible, a palace built not just to live in, but to be admired. Every line, every corner screamed precision.
The driveway was wide enough for 100 cars, paved with black marble that glinted even under the faintest light. Luxury vehicles were parked in neat rows—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys—like trophies in a museum. Two massive gates opened at a flick of his hand, guarded by men who seemed more like shadows than people, their presence enough to make anyone hesitate before stepping inside.
Inside, the ceilings stretched impossibly high. Chandeliers made of crystal hung like frozen waterfalls, scattering light in every direction. The floors were polished white stone, so bright that they reflected the enormous artworks that decorated the walls—originals, of course, by the kind of artists whose names alone cost millions.
The living spaces were vast, yet precise. Furniture wasn't just bought—it was curated. Chairs sculpted for comfort and power. Sofas that swallowed you whole but reminded you at the same time that you were a guest in someone else's world. Every surface gleamed, every shadow was placed, every scent in the air—clean, expensive, deliberate.
From the windows, the city spread below like a map, lights twinkling like stars trapped on Earth. The pool stretched along the edge of the property, crystal clear, perfectly still, reflecting the night sky as if it were another universe. Beyond it, gardens sculpted into geometric perfection hinted at private art exhibitions, outdoor concerts, and parties that would make the headlines.
Even the technology in the house whispered power. Security cameras everywhere, sensors beneath the floors, doors that opened at a word, screens embedded in every wall. It wasn't just a mansion—it was a kingdom, a fortress, a statement. Whoever entered felt small, like an ant invited into a palace of gods.
Everything in Aiden's world said one thing loud and clear: wealth, control, and influence beyond measure. Here, decisions were made, empires were shifted, and lives bent around the orbit of his power. To step inside was to step into a reality where money could buy almost anything, and where Aiden himself was untouchable.
Inside the living room, Aiden scrolled through his own phone, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.
The headlines about Salma flashed across his screen.
Another celebrity scandal. Another model torn apart by the media. He almost ignored it—he usually did—but something made him stop.
Her picture.
That face.
Something inside him clenched, sharp and unexplainable.
He frowned, leaning closer. Why did she feel so familiar?
He remembered only fragments from that wild night: heat, perfume, the taste of whiskey, a woman's silhouette tangled with his. A mystery that haunted him still.
Could it be her?
He shook his head roughly, setting the phone aside. No. He didn't even remember what she wore, only the faintest trace of her scent. It could be anyone.
And yet…
His chest tightened.
He stared out the window, city lights burning in the dark, and whispered to himself.
"I'll find her. Whoever she is."
---
That night, Salma opened her phone again.
A headline screamed back at her.
Breaking News: Salma Rodriguez Exposed – Plastic Surgeries, Secret Abortions, and Affairs With Wealthy Men.
Her photo filled every feed. Her comments section overflowed.
"She's fake."
"Knew she was sleeping her way up."
"Disgusting."
Her fingers trembled violently, scrolling through the filth.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, this isn't true. None of this is—"
Her stomach churned violently. She dropped the phone, rushed to the bathroom with the an uncontrollably urge to vomit. She fell to her knees, retching.
"Salma?" Sophia's voice came from the doorway, anxious. She knelt beside her, holding her hair back.
"You okay?" Sophia asked
Salma wiped her lips with trembling hands. "It's just… indigestion."
But Sophia's eyes narrowed. Not with anger this time, but something sharper.
"You sure it's indigestion?" she murmured.
When Salma didn't answer, Sophia left the room and returned moments later. A small, white stick rested in her hand.
Salma froze.
"A pregnancy test?" she whispered.
Sophia pressed it into her hand.
"Take it. Just to be sure."
Minutes crawled by like hours. Salma sat on the cold tiles, staring at the small device as though it could decide her future.
Two lines.
Her vision blurred.
"No," she whispered hoarsely.
"No, it can't be. I'm...i'm...pregnant?" she said louder with wide eyes.
🖤𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅... 🖤