The morning after her viral confession, Isabelle woke not to silence, but to the sound of her own voice echoing from a nearby television.
News anchors dissected her story.
Pundits debated her "tactic."
Bloggers called her brave.
Others called her broken.
Everyone was watching — but not everyone was listening.
"Elijah?" she called out, stepping into the kitchen.
He wasn't there.
No note.
No text.
Just an empty coffee cup on the counter — still warm.
She checked her phone. One message.
Unknown Number:
> You should've listened when I told you he was just like me.
Her stomach dropped.
Not Lucian again.
He wouldn't dare…
She grabbed her coat and stormed out.
—
The city buzzed with her name.
Every billboard seemed to mock her, every passing glance too aware.
But Isabelle didn't hide. She marched straight into the heart of her own firestorm — back to the gallery, the place that birthed her newest life.
She wasn't prepared for what she found.
Crowds. Cameras. Protest signs.
And smack in the center of the chaos — Elijah.
Standing before a microphone, suit crisp, voice calm… betraying her.
"I care deeply for Isabelle," he said, "but she's emotionally unwell. Her accusations against Lucian Devereux have no legal foundation. I regret supporting her public campaign."
Isabelle's breath hitched.
He didn't see her in the crowd.
But Lucian did.
He was beside Elijah, smirking.
Their eyes locked — and Lucian winked.
The blood in her veins turned to acid.
Elijah. Her Elijah. The one who held her through panic attacks, kissed her bruises, whispered promises in the dark. Now he stood before the world erasing her truth, painting her as a fragile artist undone by her own fantasy.
Isabelle backed away before she tore the whole street apart.
She disappeared before the questions started.
—
Back at her loft, she was trembling.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She painted.
Nude, raw, trembling with rage, she dragged black streaks across a white canvas with her bare hands. Then red. Then gold. Her nails broke skin. Paint smeared across her chest, her thighs. The canvas bled, just like she was bleeding.
It was art.
It was war.
It was survival.
—
Night came.
And with it — Elijah.
He entered quietly, closing the door behind him like it wasn't a battlefield. She stood there, splattered in pigment and betrayal, eyes hollow.
"You lied," she said.
"I protected you."
"From what?"
"Elisabelle, they were going to bury you. Lucian had lawyers. PR teams. Threats you haven't even seen. This… this was the only way I could keep you safe."
"You sided with him."
"I handled him."
"You sold me."
He moved toward her.
She stepped back.
"Elijah," her voice cracked, "don't touch me. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again."
His jaw tensed. "You think I wanted this? I've been fighting for you since day one."
"No. You were fucking managing me."
He looked like he'd been punched.
Silence burned between them.
Until Isabelle whispered:
"I was in love with you."
He flinched.
"I still am," she said. "But I'd rather be alone than silenced again."
And she walked away — not out of weakness, but power.
—
A few hours later, a package arrived at her door.
No name.
No label.
Inside: a dress.
Not just any dress.
The dress — the one Lucian had once forbidden her from wearing. Crimson silk, slit to the hip, sheer at the waist. The one that made her feel like a goddess and a threat at the same time.
And with it, a note:
> "Wear this to the Fire & Flesh Gala tomorrow. I've saved you a seat beside me. Let's end this, together. Or burn everything down in the process."
– L.D.
She stared at it.
A trap.
A dare.
An invitation into the dragon's mouth.
She ran her fingers across the silk.
And smiled.
---
The Fire & Flesh Gala was the most debauched event in the art world — exclusive, provocative, and dangerous. Attendees wore little but arrogance and diamonds. Boundaries were for the poor. Everyone wanted to be seen. Most forgot they were watching predators feed.
Isabelle arrived late.
All eyes turned.
The crimson dress clung to her like sin.
She owned every stare.
Lucian stood by the main stage, wine in hand, surrounded by art critics and celebrities. When he saw her, something flickered in his gaze — pride, lust, control.
She walked straight to him.
"You came," he said.
"You summoned."
"Drink?"
"No."
"Dance?"
She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear.
"I'm here for the kill."
He chuckled, low and dark.
"You haven't figured it out, have you?" he whispered.
"Figured what?"
"You're still playing my game."
She pulled back.
"I made you famous, Isabelle. I trained you. Molded you. You're just a louder echo of my desires."
"Then let me scream something new."
She stepped onto the center stage.
The music stopped.
The room went still.
She grabbed the mic.
"My name is Isabelle Solane. I'm not your muse. I'm not your scandal. I am not your fucking victim."
Gasps. Camera flashes. Whispers like a tidal wave.
"I loved a man who broke me. I trusted one who silenced me. But tonight, I speak without permission."
She turned to Lucian.
"You taught me how to seduce the world."
She smiled darkly.
"Now watch me seduce it against you."
The crowd erupted — some in awe, some in rage.
Lucian's mask slipped — just for a second. Enough to show the fury beneath.
She left the stage, past him, past Elijah who had just arrived, stunned by what he'd witnessed. His eyes full of regret.
But she didn't look back.
Not anymore.