Scarlett's POV
I can't stop staring at his photo.
It's two in the morning. I'm sitting on my apartment floor with Adrian's file spread around me like evidence at a crime scene. My laptop glows in the darkness, showing article after article about him.
Adrian Blackwell announces engagement to Victoria Ashford.
Blackwell Industries stocks soar under new CEO leadership.
Manhattan's most eligible bachelor off the market.
Every headline is a knife. Every photo is a reminder that he moved on while I was bleeding out in a hospital bathroom.
My phone rings. Emma. My little sister who's supposed to be sleeping because she has a twelve-hour shift at the hospital tomorrow. But she always knows when I'm spiraling.
Don't, I say the moment I answer.
It's two AM and you confirmed a meeting with him. Emma's voice is sharp with worry. She's using her doctor voice, the one that says she knows I'm making bad decisions. Lettie
Don't call me that. The name feels like broken glass in my throat. That girl is dead.
No, she's not. She's just hurt and angry and about to make a terrible mistake.
I close my eyes. Emma doesn't understand. She wasn't there that night. She didn't watch me transform from a person into a punchline. She didn't hold my hand while I miscarried our baby in a public hospital because I couldn't afford anything better.
I can handle this, I lie.
You haven't slept properly in three years. You have nightmares about him every night. How are you going to sit across from Adrian Blackwell and not fall apart?
Good question. Great question, actually.
He won't recognize me, I say. I'm not Lettie anymore. Different hair, different name, different everything. To him, I'm just another professional he's hiring.
And when he finds out the truth?
He won't. Not until I'm ready. My voice hardens. Not until he's as destroyed as he made me.
Emma is quiet for a long moment. Then: What happened to you wasn't fair. But revenge won't bring her back. It won't bring Lettie back.
I don't want her back. My chest aches. She was weak. She believed in fairy tales. She thought love could save people.
She thought love could save him, Emma corrects softly. There's a difference.
I hang up before I start crying.
The truth is, I don't want to remember who I was. Lettie Morgan with her thrift store clothes and big dreams. Lettie who volunteered at shelters because she wanted to help people. Lettie who met a handsome stranger at a charity gala and actually believed when he said she was special.
I was so incredibly stupid.
I pull up the photos from that night the night everything ended. Someone posted them on social media three years ago. I saved them. Don't know why. Maybe to remind myself never to be that girl again.
There I am in a simple dress I borrowed from Emma, standing in Adrian's penthouse surrounded by people in designer everything. I look lost. Out of place. So painfully young.
Adrian is in the photo too, but he's not looking at me. He's talking to someone else. Someone important, probably. Someone who mattered more than the charity case he was slumming with.
The next photo is worse. It's me alone by the elevator, clutching my purse, tears streaming down my face. The caption below: When you realize you're not Cinderella Three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments laughing at the poor girl who thought she belonged.
I slam the laptop shut.
Tomorrow at three PM, I'll see Adrian Blackwell again. The man who taught me that love is a weapon people use to hurt you. The man who proved that fairy tales are just lies we tell ourselves to feel less alone.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark window. Platinum blonde hair. Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. I barely recognize myself sometimes.
Good. That's exactly the point.
I practice my professional smile in the mirror. The one that says I'm in control even when I'm screaming inside. I practice my handshake firm, confident, brief. I practice saying his name without my voice shaking.
Mr. Blackwell.
Adrian.
Pleasure to meet you.
All lies. Everything about me now is a lie. But lies kept me alive when the truth would have killed me.
My alarm goes off at six AM. I didn't sleep. Not even a little. Just lay in bed staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios, preparing myself for the moment I'll have to look Adrian Blackwell in the eyes and pretend I don't know him.
Pretend he didn't destroy me.
I shower and put on my armor a black power suit that cost more than my old monthly rent. Heels that make me tall enough to look him in the eye. Makeup that hides the dark circles and makes me look untouchable, unreachable, unbreakable.
Scarlett Monroe doesn't get hurt. Scarlett Monroe does the hurting.
Devon arrives at my office at noon with coffee and concern written all over his face.
You look terrible, he says, setting the coffee on my desk.
Thanks. You're fired.
No, I'm not. He sits down across from me. You need me. Who else is going to stop you from committing murder this afternoon?
He's not entirely wrong.
I have a plan, I tell him, trying to convince myself as much as him. Professional. Clean. Strategic. He'll never know who I really am.
Until he does. Devon crosses his arms. Then what? What happens when Adrian Blackwell figures out that Scarlett Monroe is actually Lettie Morgan? What's your exit strategy for that?
I don't have an answer for that question. Haven't let myself think that far ahead.
The hours crawl by. One PM. Two PM. Each minute feels like a year. I can't focus on work. Can't return emails. Just sit at my desk, staring at Adrian's file, second-guessing every decision that led me to this moment.
At 2:45, Devon sticks his head in my office. His face is pale. He's early. Waiting in Conference Room B.
My heart stops. Then races. Then stops again.
This is it. The moment I've been dreading and preparing for since I saw his name yesterday.
Give me five minutes, I say.
Scarlett. Devon's voice is gentle. You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now. I'll tell him you had an emergency. No one would blame you.
I would blame me.
Five minutes, I repeat.
Alone, I check my reflection one last time in the mirror behind my desk. Smooth my platinum hair. Straighten my jacket. Take a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs.
This is it. Three years of planning, building, becoming someone new. Three years of preparing for a moment I never really thought would come.
All for this.
I grab Adrian's file and walk to Conference Room B. My heels click on the marble floor. Each step is a countdown.
Ten steps.
Five.
Two.
I reach for the door handle. My hand is steady. That's good. I've practiced this a thousand times in my mind.
But then I hear his voice through the door. Low and familiar and exactly the same as it was three years ago.
He's on his phone, talking to someone.
I know this seems sudden, he's saying. But I can't do this anymore. I can't marry someone I don't love. I need help ending this the right way. Before I hurt her more than I already have.
My hand freezes on the handle.
He sounds tired. Sad. Guilty.
Not like the cold bastard who left me without a word. Not like the monster I've built up in my head for three years.
For one dangerous second, I remember the Adrian I fell in love with. The one who laughed at my jokes and held my hand in art galleries and made me feel like I was the only person who mattered.
No. That Adrian was never real. He was a performance. A lie.
I straighten my spine. Plaster on my professional smile. Become Scarlett Monroe completely.
Time to meet my ghost.
I open the door.
And Adrian Blackwell looks up from his phone.
Everything stops.