The Fiancé's Treachery: A Dancer's Vengeance

Thom

Cyrus Carter and carefully placed the phone back on the bedside table, my movements slow and delib

n, grieving victim. I closed my e

wn, his familiar scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne now turning my stomach. He

ear to look at him, to see

h," Douglas murmured from

e a blur of faux sympathy. Douglas brought me flowers, their vibrant colors a mockery of my gray existence. Connor read to me f

arranged for private transport, but the paparazzi were waiting like vultures. As he care

mured, shielding my face wi

a physical ach

ctively around my shoulders. "We'll

almost

ike a museum of a life I no longer lived. My mother, a woman more concerned with social standing than her daughter's we

we'll have to find a way to

m, his movements practiced and gentle. He laid me on t

s voice thick with e

were like rain on a stone. I was numb, a hollowed-out ver

. "Just some fresh air," he'd pleaded. "We can

t told me he loved me. Th

n pointed. I could feel their pity and morbid curiosity like a physical touch. The su

ed openly, her eyes fixed on

rled, stepping in front of my wheelcha

on his arm before turning to me, his eyes soft with feig

, a violent shudder of pure, unadulterated rage and grief. They saw it as a symptom of my trauma. They had no idea it was

s some coffees, leaving me by the park en

hot dog stand, their backs to me. Their voices were lo

The 'tragic victim' narrative is getting old. They're starting to ask quest

od ran

esting?" Connor as

e of the chorus boys from her show... they were close. We can spin it. A sordid affair. Leak some doctored photos, a few fabricated text messages. 'Broadway Diva's Secret Sex

y had broken my body. Now they were going to systematic

umbled with the wheels of my chair, trying to turn, to flee. My h

g through me. The chair lurched forward, spinning sideways, and I tipped,

the chaos

is!" a vo

ras flashing like machine-gun fire. Reporters, the

e you were having an af

gone wrong lead

your promiscuous

ne thrown at my already broken spirit. I tried to cov

journalists. She looked like a crazed fan. "You whore!" she screamed, her f

ripped, exposing the pale skin of my shoulder and the top of my surgical bra. The catheter bag, my secret shame, was yanked

f disgust. The pity was gone, replaced by revulsion. I was no l

, stinging the fresh scratches. The salt burned, a

pr

ls. Douglas threw his jacket over me, his face a mask of righteous fury. Connor knelt beside m

rms, to shield me from the pry

ed shock and concern, I saw it. The flicker of calculation in

thing else" they had arranged. The rabid fan, the reporters, the p

my tragedy into a tabloid headline, a sordid cautionary tale, so tha

was supposed to protect me, now cradling me

broken sob escaping my lips. It was th

ard certainty solidifying in my

r