Chapter 8
By morning, the story was everywhere.
Every gossip site. Every social feed. Comment sections overflowing with venom.
*"She can't even TALK—what does she bring to this marriage?"*
*"Serena's the real victim here. Imagine watching the love of your life marry your disabled sister."*
*"Gold-digger with a sob story. Classic."*
I sat on Ezra's couch, scrolling through the destruction with a face carved from stone.
Inside? Fury so hot it could've melted the phone screen.
"Serena. You miserable, cowardly, conniving little cockroach. You couldn't win face-to-face so you ran to the tabloids? With WHAT evidence? A staged photo and your own crocodile tears?"
Ezra walked in. Suited. Jaw set.
"We're going to the Durant Foundation gala tonight," he said. "Serena will be there. Half the city will be there."
He looked at me. "How loud do you want to be?"
I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" he adjusted his cufflinks, "—I can repeat what you think. Word for word. To anyone in that room."
The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.
He wasn't just offering to defend me.
He was offering to BE my voice.
My chest swelled. My eyes burned—but I refused to cry.
"Every. Single. Word," I thought.
He nodded once. "Done."
That evening, I walked into the gala on Ezra Wolfe's arm.
The whispers started immediately—heads turning, eyes judging.
And there was Serena, center of a sympathetic cluster, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
The moment she spotted us, her face rearranged into wounded grace.
"Iris! You came!" She rushed over, clasping my hands. "I'm so relieved you're okay. After that story leaked—I was so worried people would misunderstand—"
I stared at her, unblinking.
Inside, I let loose.
"Misunderstand? YOU leaked it, you delusional psycho. Everyone in this room is crying for you right now because you manufactured a sob story about a love that never existed. Ezra never wanted you. Not once. Not ever. And the fact that you're standing here in a white dress at MY husband's event like some jilted bride is so pathetic I'd feel sorry for you—if you hadn't literally tried to lock me in a room three days ago."
Ezra turned to the nearest cluster of guests—influential, wealthy, watching—and spoke.
His voice carried the same icy command it always did. But the words—
"Miss Serena Blackwell leaked that story herself," he said calmly. "There was no relationship between us—not now, not ever. What she failed to mention in her tearful interview is that three days ago, her family locked my wife in a room against her will. That the 'disabled sister' narrative exists because the Blackwell family refused to fund medical treatment that could restore Iris's voice—treatment that Serena personally blocked."
The room went silent.
Every word he said—every single one—was exactly what I'd been screaming in my head.
He didn't soften it. Didn't rephrase it. Didn't flinch.
Serena's face turned the color of ash.
---
Every gossip site. Every social feed. Comment sections overflowing with venom.
*"She can't even TALK—what does she bring to this marriage?"*
*"Serena's the real victim here. Imagine watching the love of your life marry your disabled sister."*
*"Gold-digger with a sob story. Classic."*
I sat on Ezra's couch, scrolling through the destruction with a face carved from stone.
Inside? Fury so hot it could've melted the phone screen.
"Serena. You miserable, cowardly, conniving little cockroach. You couldn't win face-to-face so you ran to the tabloids? With WHAT evidence? A staged photo and your own crocodile tears?"
Ezra walked in. Suited. Jaw set.
"We're going to the Durant Foundation gala tonight," he said. "Serena will be there. Half the city will be there."
He looked at me. "How loud do you want to be?"
I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" he adjusted his cufflinks, "—I can repeat what you think. Word for word. To anyone in that room."
The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.
He wasn't just offering to defend me.
He was offering to BE my voice.
My chest swelled. My eyes burned—but I refused to cry.
"Every. Single. Word," I thought.
He nodded once. "Done."
That evening, I walked into the gala on Ezra Wolfe's arm.
The whispers started immediately—heads turning, eyes judging.
And there was Serena, center of a sympathetic cluster, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
The moment she spotted us, her face rearranged into wounded grace.
"Iris! You came!" She rushed over, clasping my hands. "I'm so relieved you're okay. After that story leaked—I was so worried people would misunderstand—"
I stared at her, unblinking.
Inside, I let loose.
"Misunderstand? YOU leaked it, you delusional psycho. Everyone in this room is crying for you right now because you manufactured a sob story about a love that never existed. Ezra never wanted you. Not once. Not ever. And the fact that you're standing here in a white dress at MY husband's event like some jilted bride is so pathetic I'd feel sorry for you—if you hadn't literally tried to lock me in a room three days ago."
Ezra turned to the nearest cluster of guests—influential, wealthy, watching—and spoke.
His voice carried the same icy command it always did. But the words—
"Miss Serena Blackwell leaked that story herself," he said calmly. "There was no relationship between us—not now, not ever. What she failed to mention in her tearful interview is that three days ago, her family locked my wife in a room against her will. That the 'disabled sister' narrative exists because the Blackwell family refused to fund medical treatment that could restore Iris's voice—treatment that Serena personally blocked."
The room went silent.
Every word he said—every single one—was exactly what I'd been screaming in my head.
He didn't soften it. Didn't rephrase it. Didn't flinch.
Serena's face turned the color of ash.
---