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Instead of comfort, he gave me a warning because I’d dared to mention my dead Mom. A threat, thinly veiled as concern. He couldn’t stand facing the truth, which is that we were a fractured family, broken beyond repair, and he had no intention of piecing it back together.

That was the real version of him, not the polished magnate with the winning grin, but the man who understood image and silence as survival.

And now he’s gone. No handlers. No legal team. No one to spin the story. No final lesson. No parting strategy.

Just absence. It’s like he wants me to burn. And maybe I am. But goddamn it, I’m going to do it on my terms.

Because they love it when we fall. Just not when we jump.

And I’m about to jump. Or maybe detonate. But either way? Everyone will remember my name.

XXX

The cigarette has long since burned out, stubbed against the railing like a last nerve. The wind snatches the remaining smoke, and for a second, I imagine it’s taking the pressure of everything with it. But I know better.

The backup phone buzzes weakly in my hand. It’s hot now, overworked from relogging into apps. I haven’t used this device in forever. There are no messages from Silas. No messages from my father. No missed calls from anyone who matters.

But there are messages. From the ghosts.

I scroll aimlessly at first, then compulsively.

I find Harper’s texts from a year ago—fake warmth oozes between rehearsed punctuation and compliments designed like currency. “You looked so fire last night. You need to tag the designer, babe.” “Love how you’re owning the narrative right now.” “You made that brand, don’t let them forget it.”

Thin. Saccharine. Pre-scripted.

Reading them now makes my skin crawl. I feel like I’ve been feeding sugar cubes to a snake for the last two years.

I scroll further.

Declan’s old DMs are still there, buried beneath months of silence like landmines I forgot to defuse. His charm was slick and intentional, and every message of his was wrapped in wealth, but weighted with something colder.

“You know you drive men crazy, right? But none of them deserve you.”

“Come over. Let someone who knows what they’re doing take care of you.”

“What are you wearing tonight? Bet it’s something wasted on the crowd.”

“You always pretend you’re in control. I kind of love that about you.”

Back then, I thought it was harmless flirtation. A little arrogant, maybe, but I was still flattered. I mistook the hunger in his words for admiration and praise. I didn’t realize he was testing boundaries, watching to see how far I’d let him go before I pushed back.

He cloaked it all with compliments and twisted little gifts. Possessive, entitled, and almost sweet, if you didn’t read them twice.

I see it clearly now.

He was already circling.

And I was too far above the wreckage to notice the vultures gathering.

I’m starting to hear everyone’s words differently now. Harper, Declan, Eric. All of them. The compliments that were really daggers, the concern laced with quiet delight. So many people, smiling as they waited for me to slip. People who were never on my side, just silently rooting for my fall.

Then I find it. A video, buried in my iCloud backup. It starts playing before I can stop it.

It’s Zara, laughing and completely drunk. Her hair is tangled in a top knot, her gold dress slipping off one shoulder as she twirls on a rooftop in some forgotten corner of the world. One hand is clutching a champagne bottle, and the other is holding the phone.

“You’re invincible, E!” she screams through her laughter. The video isn’t stable because she keeps moving, but I can feel the warmth through the screen. “You’re the fucking sun!”

My throat closes. God, I remember that night. We were in Positano. A rooftop party after a brand shoot. I was lit up from the inside, alive and thriving. Everyone wanted to be us, and we were too drunk to care.

Right now, Zara’s radio silent. Her name sits grayed out in my messages—no reply, no read receipts. She hasn’t blocked me, but the silence feels just as loud. She’s my best friend. I want to believe she’s just overwhelmed, or waiting for the right words.

But the truth is, I’m still too raw to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Right now, I don’t think I can afford to think well of anyone.

And Harper? I don’t even want to think of that backstabbing bitch. She’s gone. She ghosted me and disappeared the minute the temperature dropped below perfect.

I don’t blame Zara. Not really. She was always the one who felt things too deeply. She must be worried sick and probably pacing her ridiculous Tribeca loft, debating whether she should call. But she hasn’t.

So I’m alone. Utterly.

Except for him. Silas.

The one man I trust, and the one who won’t even meet my eyes anymore. Not since the video leaked. I know he watches me like I’m fragile glass and he’s trying to decide whether to catch or let me shatter.

And fuck, maybe I need to shatter.

I walk back inside, and the air tastes like regret. I stop at the vanity and stare at the cracked mirror. The fracture cuts across my face like a scar, permanent and imperfect.

It belongs there now. Like a crown.

I lean in closer until I can see every shattered inch of myself—my bloodshot eyes, the split in my bottom lip that I didn’t even feel happen, and the mascara smudges that never washed off completely.

They want me to disappear. They want me ruined. They want the good girl to bleed out quietly on satin sheets.

But that’s not who I am anymore.

“I’ll give them a monster in heels,” I whisper to my reflection.

My lip curls, sharp and wicked.

Hours pass.

Then I hear Silas’s footfalls on the stone path outside, heavy like thunder rolling in before a storm.

I don’t go to the window, but I don’t close the curtain either.

I’m not hiding anymore. I don’t even have the strength to pretend.

Let him see me. Let the world see.

There’s nothing left to protect.