Chapter 3
I never thought I’d be afraid to open my eyes.
Terrified that when I did, there’d be nothing but darkness.
The sound of glass exploding against the wall finally jolted me awake.
After ten minutes of pure chaos, they dragged my barely-functioning body into the living room.
The entire family had gathered. Wes stood among them, face unreadable.
Butler Morris entered with his findings: “We’ve identified the perpetrators—Miss Rosalie’s fan club. They’ve been radicalized by online rumors suggesting Miss Willow was unfaithful, so they took it upon themselves to deliver some ‘street justice.'”
Morris had watched me grow up from a toddler. He’d always treated me like his own daughter.
After shooting me a sympathetic glance, he added pointedly: “I’ve also traced these rumors directly back to Miss Rosalie’s personal social media accounts.”
The room went deadly silent as accusing eyes pivoted toward Rosalie.
She bit her lower lip in mock innocence.
Dad rushed to her defense: “Someone must have hacked her accounts—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rosalie snapped, cutting him off with a dismissive wave. “Yes, I leaked those stories. What about it? Her pathetic little fanbase was calling me a homewrecking bitch, so I gave them something real to cry about!”
I barely had the strength to keep my head up, but I couldn’t let that slide. “They… weren’t… wrong,” I whispered.
Rosalie shot to her feet and turned to me. “Excuse me? I’m the homewrecker? If you hadn’t been playing dress-up in MY life all these years, I would’ve been the one with the ring on my finger! Wes was meant for ME!”
“The Holts and Blakes… don’t have… arranged marriages,” I managed, each word sapping what little energy I had left.
Her perfect features contorted with rage, finding no immediate comeback.
Her lips twisted into a snarl as her face flushed crimson before—right on cue—tears began cascading down her cheeks. Oscar-worthy performance, as always.
Mom immediately swooped in, wrapping her in a protective embrace, then turned to me: “What’s done is done. We have no choice now. If we don’t frame it this way, Rosalie will forever be branded the villain. But if you were the cheater first, well… that changes the narrative completely.”
Perfect. If I’m the unfaithful bitch, then Wes dumping me for the prodigal Blake daughter becomes the ultimate karma story that tabloids and social media would devour.
Mom’s expression flickered with something resembling guilt, but she pressed on: “For now, Rosalie’s reputation takes priority. Willow, you’ll just have to… take the fall.”
Dad sighed heavily, avoiding my eyes. “Compared to the hell Rosalie endured all those years, this little sacrifice is nothing. Let the public say what they want—we’ll shield you from any real damage. Are you seriously worried about a few angry fans throwing rocks?”
A violent coughing fit suddenly seized my body.
It ripped through me like wildfire.
My deathly pale face gained a haunting flush—a grotesque mimicry of health that anyone in medicine would recognize as the final surge before shutdown.
Wes stared at me, his frown cutting deeper lines into his forehead.
That’s when Rosalie positioned herself directly in my line of sight, looking down with pure contempt: “Still milking the sick girl act, aren’t you? You think a few theatrical coughs and everyone will drop to their knees for precious Willow? You want to know what real suffering looks like, you privileged little fraud?”
