Camera shutters exploded like fireworks in a confined space. The sharp sting on my left cheek burned, a physical brand captured in high-definition by a dozen live feeds.

"Get a close-up of her face!" a cameraman yelled, shoving past a waiter.

"Blake, is this true? Did your assistant try to trap you?" a reporter jammed a microphone toward the table.

I kept my eyes pinned on Blake. My chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts.

"Tell them, Blake," I demanded. "Tell them right now."

He didn't step between me and the flashing lights. He didn't shield me. Instead, he raised his hands, palms outward, playing the perfect, besieged celebrity.

"Everyone, calm down," Blake announced, his voice projecting his practiced PR tone.

Mia let out a loud, theatrical sob. "She's trying to ruin our lives, Blake! She's obsessed with you!"

I stepped forward. "We have lived together for five years."

Blake’s arm shot out. His hand planted firmly against my collarbone, shoving me backward. The force sent me stumbling until my hip hit the edge of the mahogany table.

"Back off, Scarlett," he ordered.

I stared at the hand that had just pushed me. The same hand that held mine every night.

"You're pushing me away?" I asked.

Blake turned his back to me and faced the wall of lenses. "I need to make a statement. There is a massive misunderstanding here. I am not, and have never been, in a relationship with this woman."

The private dining room erupted into chaos.

"Then who is she?" a journalist shouted from the back.

"She is a subordinate," Blake declared smoothly. "Scarlett is a junior assistant on my payroll. She handles my travel logistics and fetches my gear. That is the entirety of our connection."

My fingers curled into fists. "You're lying to them to save your endorsements."

He didn't even glance over his shoulder. "Tonight was a routine work meeting. We were discussing my charity schedule for next month. I have zero private involvement with her."

"What about the baby?" Mia shrieked, pointing at the ultrasound photo on the floor. "She brought a scan!"

Blake shook his head, offering the cameras a pitying smile. "I can't explain her delusions. Sometimes, people who work near the spotlight lose their grip on reality. They mistake professional proximity for personal affection."

"A delusion?" I repeated. "I bought you the watch on your wrist for our third anniversary."

"You bought it with the company credit card I gave you," he shot back, his voice rising. "I am done entertaining this desperate behavior."

He moved away from me entirely. He crossed the ruined space and stopped right beside Mia.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her softly.

Mia buried her face in his chest. "I was terrified, Blake. She attacked me."

"I know, babe. I've got you," he murmured, stroking her hair. He looked up at the press. "Mia Thorne is my only girlfriend. I apologize that my staff caused her, and all of you, such distress tonight."

Staff. Distress.

The man I loved had just erased half a decade in three sentences. He nailed me to a cross of public humiliation just to keep his fan-favorite title intact.

"Blake," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "If you walk out that door with her, there is no coming back."

He finally met my gaze. His eyes were flat, devoid of the charm I had funded for so long.

"You're fired, Scarlett," he said coldly. "Don't ever contact me again."

He wrapped his arm securely around Mia's waist. "Let's go. You need to rest."

Mia paused just before the exit. She looked back at me, a victorious smirk cutting through her fake tears.

"You heard him," Mia sneered. "Get help, you psycho."

"Make way!" a security guard yelled, finally breaching the room.

The sea of reporters parted for the golden couple. Blake guided Mia through the corridor, their heads close together, ignoring the wreckage they left in their wake.

I stood entirely alone in the center of the room.

The second Blake disappeared, the media swarm turned their full, predatory attention back on me.

"Scarlett! How long have you been stalking him?"

"Did you fake the pregnancy, or is it another man's?"

"Do you feel any shame trying to ruin a superstar's relationship?"

Microphones jabbed toward my face. Flashes blinded my vision. They mocked me, their questions laced with venom and ridicule. I was the joke of the internet, the delusional maid who tried to climb into the king's bed.

I looked down. The ultrasound photo lay crumpled under a reporter's heavy shoe.

My jaw unclenched. A strange, absolute calm washed over my mind. I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I bent down, ignoring the shouting journalists, and pulled the dirty photo from under the man's boot. I dusted it off and placed it carefully in my pocket.

"Are you crying, Scarlett?" a woman taunted, shoving her phone in my face.

I looked directly into her camera lens.

"No," I answered.

I pushed past her, shoving my way through the suffocating crowd. I ignored the insults hurled at my back. I stepped out into the cool night air, leaving the circus behind.

My phone vibrated in my hand. It was my Chief Operating Officer.

"Ms. Scarlett," he said, his voice crisp. "The PR disaster is trending globally. Do you want us to scrub the internet?"

I watched Blake's sports car peel out of the valet lane in the distance.

"No," I replied. "Let it trend."

"But ma'am, he just destroyed your reputation."

"He destroyed the assistant's reputation," I corrected. "Tomorrow morning, call a press conference at Apex Capital headquarters. It's time the world meets the owner of the franchise."

"Understood. Should I prepare the legal filings?"

"Draw up the breach of contract papers," I instructed. "I want his assets frozen by noon."

I ended the call and stepped off the curb. Headlights swept across the pavement as a sleek black SUV pulled up, blocking my path.

The rear window glided down.

"Need a ride, fiancée?" a deep voice asked.

I stared at the man in the backseat. The man I had left at the altar three years ago.

"Need a ride, fiancée?" the deep voice asked.

I met Julian Pierce’s gaze through the open window of his SUV. Three years hadn't changed the sharp cut of his jaw or the cold authority in his eyes.

"Not tonight, Julian," I said, taking a step back from the curb.

"You're bleeding on your cheek, Scarlett," he noted, his tone dangerously calm. "Get in the car."

"Drive away."

"Don't be stubborn. The press is going to swarm this street in less than two minutes."

"I said no."

I turned my back on him and flagged down a passing yellow cab. I yanked the door open, slid inside, and locked it.

"Westcliff Estates," I told the driver.

Julian’s SUV didn't move as my cab sped away, leaving him in the rearview mirror.

I stared out the window as the city lights blurred into streaks of neon. My phone buzzed in my palm. It didn't stop. A continuous, violent vibration.

I tapped the screen. Social media alerts stacked up by the tens of thousands.

I read the top headline out loud to the empty backseat. "Delusional Assistant Tries to Trap Hockey King."

I swiped down. An entertainment blog featured a side-by-side photo of me and Mia. They had chosen a picture of me carrying Blake’s gym bag, looking exhausted, placed right next to a glamorous red-carpet shot of Mia.

"Look at this pathetic gold-digger," I read the top comment, my voice hollow. "She actually thought Blake Lawson would marry a glorified maid."

"Stalker alert," another comment read. "I heard she stole his underwear from the locker room. Total psycho."

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Everything okay back there, miss?"

"Keep your eyes on the road," I commanded.

I scrolled further. The PR machine was working at lightspeed. Fake press releases flooded the feeds.

*Sources confirm the assistant repeatedly harassed Blake Lawson.*

*Security had to remove her from his hotel room last month.*

*Mia Thorne left in tears after vicious attack by deranged fan.*

Not a single person defended me. Five years of absolute loyalty, millions of dollars invested in his career, erased and rewritten into a psychotic obsession. The entire internet cheered for my destruction.

The cab pulled up to the massive iron gates of the villa. I tossed a fifty-dollar bill over the seat and stepped out into the biting wind.

I pushed the heavy oak door open. The house was pitch black. Silent. Empty.

"I bought this house for us," I said to the darkness.

I walked into the massive marble foyer. My phone vibrated again. Another alert. Another joke at my expense.

I hurled the device across the room. It smashed against the granite kitchen island, the screen cracking into a spiderweb of glass.

"Five years!" I screamed at the vaulted ceiling.

I grabbed a crystal vase from the console table. Blake gave it to me last year for our anniversary. I slammed it onto the floor. Shards exploded across the tile like ice.

"You coward!" I yelled.

The anger evaporated, leaving nothing but absolute, crushing humiliation. My chest caved in. I dropped to my knees amidst the broken crystal.

"Why?" I sobbed, wrapping my arms around my ribs. "Why do this to me?"

The tears finally broke free. Hot, fast, and bitter. I gasped for air, my throat burning with every jagged inhale. The fake smiles, the hidden dinners, the sacrifices I made to build his empire—all of it rewarded with a public execution. I was utterly alone.

Then, a sudden, vicious cramp ripped through my lower abdomen.

"Ah!" I cried out, doubling over.

The pain spiked. It felt like a serrated knife dragging across my insides. I clutched my stomach, my fingers digging into the fabric of my dress.

"No," I whimpered. "No, please."

I tried to push myself up. My legs shook violently. A warm, terrifying rush of fluid soaked through my underwear.

I looked down. Dark crimson blood stained the light fabric of my skirt. It pooled onto the pristine white tile, mixing with the shattered crystal.

Panic seized my chest, choking the air from my lungs.

"My baby," I gasped.

I collapsed onto my side. The tearing sensation intensified, sending shockwaves of agony through my pelvis. I dragged myself across the floor, my nails scraping the grout, inching toward the kitchen island.

"Phone," I muttered. "Need the phone."

I reached up, my hand trembling wildly, and knocked the cracked phone off the counter. It hit the floor beside me.

The screen still worked. I tapped the emergency contact list. I bypassed my COO. I bypassed security.

I hit Blake’s private number.

The line rang. The sound echoed in the dead silence of the house.

"Pick up," I begged the dial tone. "Blake, pick up."

Ring. Ring.

"What do you want now, Scarlett?" Blake's voice snapped through the speaker. He sounded annoyed, impatient.

"Blake," I cried, my voice cracking. "Help me."

"I told you never to contact me again. Are you insane?"

"I'm bleeding," I gasped. I curled into a tight ball, pressing both hands against my stomach to stop the agonizing cramps. "There's so much blood."

"Stop playing games."

"I'm not playing!" I screamed into the receiver. "I'm at the villa. I'm losing our baby. Please, Blake. Come home."

Silence stretched on the other end. I heard the faint sound of traffic in the background. He was still in the car.

"Take me to the hospital," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "I'm in so much pain."

"You really don't quit, do you?" Blake sneered.

"Blake, I swear to God—"

"Mia is having a panic attack because of your little stunt tonight," he interrupted, his tone turning vicious. "The press is camped outside her apartment. I am not leaving her to deal with your fake medical emergencies."

"It's not fake! I am miscarrying right now!"

"You were never pregnant, Scarlett. We both know that."

"I showed you the ultrasound!"

"A piece of paper you printed off the internet," he scoffed. "If you're really bleeding, call an ambulance. Don't call me."

"Blake, please! It's your child!"

"Do not call this number again. If you show up near me or Mia, I will have you arrested for stalking."

"Don't hang up!" I shrieked.

"Goodbye, Scarlett."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen. The dial tone buzzed, a flat, mechanical hum that mocked my dying hope.

Another wave of agony tore through my uterus. I arched my back, screaming until my vocal cords gave out. The puddle of blood widened beneath me, soaking my legs, stealing the warmth from my skin.

"Help," I whispered to the empty room.

My vision blurred at the edges. The opulent kitchen cabinets faded into gray shadows. The cold tile seeped into my bones. I was going to die here, bleeding out on the floor of the house I bought for a man who didn't care if I lived.

Suddenly, the heavy oak front door crashed open.

Heavy footsteps pounded across the marble foyer, rushing straight toward the kitchen.

"Scarlett!" a man's voice roared.

I forced my heavy eyelids open. A tall figure dropped to his knees beside me, his large hands immediately pressing against my freezing cheeks.

It wasn't Blake.