The moment the elevator doors closed behind her, Clara's composure cracked like fine porcelain struck by a hammer.
Her breath hitched painfully in her throat, shoulders trembling, fingers white-knuckled around her designer handbag. The weight of the rejection, the whispers, the disgust in Adrian's voice—it pressed down on her chest like a slab of marble, suffocating and immovable.
He threw her away.
Everything she'd worked for—the dinners, the carefully curated image, the long hours pretending she cared about his boring hedge fund plans—it was supposed to be worth something.
But now? She wasn't a fiancée.
She was a headline.
The second she stepped out of the lobby into the bright glare of mid-morning sun, a few bystanders lifted their phones. Cameras clicked. A flash burned behind her eyelids. She barely registered it. Their muffled whispers drifted toward her like smoke curling around her throat:
"That's her—Clara Marquez."
"She's the one who slapped Ella at the gala."
