The gala had ended in glitter and applause, but the following morning delivered a knife to the heart.
Serena woke to the sound of her phone buzzing. Still tangled in silk sheets, she reached for it, blinking at the flood of notifications. A single headline screamed from every news outlet:
"Exclusive: Isabelle Reveals Moreau Marriage Is a Contract."
Her breath caught. She scrolled down, each word another blow. Isabelle had told a glossy magazine everything—how Serena and Elias had signed a one-year deal, how it was never meant to be love, how Elias was using the marriage to secure his inheritance. And there, attached for the world to see, was a photograph Serena had never known existed: her copy of the contract, signed in her own hand.
Her chest tightened. Only two people had access to that document—her and Elias.
The bedroom door opened, and Elias entered, his jaw tense, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar as if he'd dressed in a hurry. "You've seen it."
"You knew?" Her voice cracked, a mixture of anger and betrayal.
"I knew she was trying something," he said. "I didn't think she'd get the contract."
Serena rose from the bed, the silk slipping from her shoulders. "Didn't think? Or didn't care?"
His eyes flashed. "Care? Everything I've done—" He stopped, running a hand over his face. "I care, Serena. Too much. That's the problem."
"Then tell me the truth. Did you give it to her?"
Silence. Heavy, suffocating.
"That's all I needed," she whispered, moving past him.
She spent the rest of the day at her bakery, her hands moving automatically over dough and frosting while her mind replayed every moment of the past months. The way he'd touched her. The way his eyes had softened when he thought she wasn't looking. The promises—spoken and unspoken—that now felt like lies.
By evening, the damage was done. Reporters camped outside the bakery. Social media swirled with accusations, some calling her a gold digger, others painting her as a victim.
And then Elias arrived. No driver, no security—just him, standing in the doorway of the bakery as if it were the only place he had left to go.
"Serena," he began, his voice low, almost raw. "I didn't give her the contract. But I think I know who did."
She stared at him, torn between wanting to believe him and wanting to protect what was left of her heart.
"Then you'd better fix it," she said, turning away. "Because if you don't, this ends here."