The first time I met Emma, she didn’t say hello.

She didn’t even pretend to.

She just leaned back in the private room like she owned the air, fluttered her lashes, and gasped loud enough for the whole table to hear.

“Lucas… why is your girlfriend wearing so much makeup?”

Her hand flew to her mouth in fake shock, like she’d caught me committing a felony instead of wearing eyeliner. Then she blinked those big, innocent eyes and delivered the punchline with the sweetness of poison.

“Not like me. I’m naturally beautiful. I never wear makeup.”

I paused with my bubble tea halfway to my lips, already calculating whether it was worth responding—or better to let her embarrass herself. But Lucas didn’t even hesitate. He looked at her like she’d just tried to eat soup with a fork.

“That’s because you’re too stupid to know how to put on makeup,” he said flatly, then turned to me like the world made sense again. “Look at my baby. She’s smart.”

The room froze.

Emma’s perfect little expression cracked at the edges. Red, then white, then red again—like her face couldn’t decide what mask to wear.

And that’s when I realized something important.

This wasn’t a “friend group dinner.”

This was a power struggle.

And Emma had just declared war—right in front of the people she expected to cheer for her.

—————————————————————————

1

I didn’t grow up in a house where women apologized for taking up space.

My mom ran a nail salon with three employees and the kind of backbone that made men lower their voices without knowing why. She wore red lipstick to clean bathrooms. She told me, “If someone tries to shame you for looking good, it’s because they’re scared you’ll realize you can.”

So when Emma did her little performance, it didn’t make me insecure.

It made me bored.

The routine was ancient. The delivery was amateur. The goal was obvious: make me defend myself so she could play innocent and let Lucas’s friends decide I was “too sensitive.”

I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I just lifted an eyebrow, took a slow sip of my bubble tea, and let the tapioca pearls slide down like punctuation.

Lucas’s hand was draped over the back of my chair in that casual, possessive way he had. He wasn’t aggressive—he was protective. There’s a difference, and Emma didn’t like either.

Across the table, Jake—blond, loud, the type who always acted like he was running the group chat even if nobody asked—cleared his throat, already leaning toward “fix this for Emma” mode.

“C’mon, Lucas,” Jake said, laughing too hard. “Emma was just joking.”

Emma sniffled instantly, eyes going glossy. “Yeah… I was just joking. I just think girls look prettier natural.”

She didn’t look at me when she said it. She looked around the table, scanning for sympathy like she was taking attendance.

Lucas didn’t move an inch.

“Joking,” he repeated, voice cold. “Making jokes about my girlfriend. Who does she think she is?”

That line hit the table like ice water. Even the guy on my left—Miguel, who had been midway through cutting his steak—paused, fork hovering in midair.

Jake forced another smile. “Bro, you’re taking it too seriously.”

Lucas turned his head, slow. “And you’re making excuses,” he said. “If you’re going to call her my girlfriend, do it properly. Don’t call her that and then act like she should take disrespect.”

The room stayed silent.

Emma’s tears started falling one by one, perfectly spaced. Like she’d practiced in a mirror.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered. “I just… I thought—”

“You thought you could test her,” Lucas cut in. “Wrong.”

I watched Emma’s face flicker. She didn’t expect resistance. Not from him. Not here. Not in front of the audience she’d trained for years.

Lucas leaned closer to me and squeezed my shoulder lightly, the way you do when you’re reminding someone you’re on their side.

And I realized something else.

Lucas didn’t just dislike fake people.

He hated them.

2

On the drive home, the city lights blurred into streaks across the windshield. Lucas’s jaw was tight, the muscle in his cheek jumping.

“Sorry,” he said after a long silence. “I warned you she was… not very bright.”

I laughed softly. “She’s not dumb.”

Lucas glanced at me. “No?”

“She’s calculated,” I said. “That’s different.”

Lucas exhaled hard. “Yeah. That.”

He tapped the steering wheel once. “She’s done it before.”

I looked at him. “Before?”

He nodded, eyes on the road. “She ruins relationships. Like it’s a hobby. She needs to be the center of attention for all the guys. Any girl who takes that attention becomes… enemy number one.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “So she’s a repeat offender.”

Lucas’s mouth flattened. “We’ve always been too lazy to deal with it,” he admitted. “It was easier to roll our eyes and keep moving.”

I stared at the passing streetlights. “But you dealt with it tonight.”

Lucas’s voice softened, but his words sharpened anyway.

“Because you’re different,” he said. “You’re mine.”

I hate how effective that line was.

My chest warmed like someone poured sunlight in my ribs. I turned my face toward the window so he wouldn’t see how much it got to me.

Lucas reached over and intertwined our fingers at the red light, squeezing once.

Then his phone rang.

Caller ID: Jake.

Lucas frowned, ready to decline. I caught his wrist.

“Answer it,” I said. “Just in case.”

Lucas put it on speaker.

Jake’s voice came through fast and panicked. “Bro. Come quick. Emma’s at Central ER. She—she hurt herself. There was blood. Like, a lot. She keeps saying your name.”

Lucas and I stared at each other.

The air in the car changed.

Not because we believed it.

Because we knew exactly what it was.

A hostage situation—wrapped in fake tragedy.

Lucas’s voice went flat. “Where?”

“Central Hospital. Please. Hurry.”

Lucas hung up and gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened.

I took a slow breath.

“Go,” I said calmly. “It’s life-or-death—if it’s real.”

Lucas turned to me, guilt and fury tangled in his eyes. “I don’t want to leave you with this.”

“I’m not fragile,” I said, voice steady. “Go. Handle it. Then come home.”

Lucas leaned over and kissed my forehead like he needed the contact to breathe.

Then he drove.

3

The second the door shut behind him, my calm face vanished.

I wasn’t jealous.

I was offended.

Because Emma wasn’t just trying to steal attention. She was trying to teach Lucas—and everyone around him—that she could control the room with pain.

And I’ve seen that tactic before.

Not the self-harm part—don’t get it twisted. That’s not a joke. That’s serious. But manipulative people know exactly how to weaponize other people’s compassion.

They don’t need to be dying.

They just need you to think you might be responsible.

I opened my phone and tapped a group chat titled MAGIC CASTLE—the unofficial emergency hotline for every woman I knew who had ever been underestimated.

Bestie A: entertainment PR, knows everyone.
Bestie B: private investigator, scary smart.
Bestie C: lawyer, the kind who never raises her voice because she doesn’t need to.

Me: Need a quick check. Central Hospital ER. Girl named Emma claims she cut her wrist. Is it real? Severity? Report if possible.

The chat lit up instantly.

Bestie A: Ooooh tea. Give me 5.
Bestie B: Send full name + DOB if you have it. Ten minutes.
Bestie C: If cops get involved, call me immediately. Do not speak without counsel if anyone accuses you.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Bestie B: Got the triage note + nurse station photo. It’s… hilarious. Superficial abrasion. No arterial damage. Cleaned + bandaged. Patient demanded anesthesia. Denied.

I stared at the report, then at the photo.

Emma was lying in a hospital bed with a bandage wrapped like a dramatic stage prop, pale foundation three shades too light, lashes still on, lips still glossy—looking like she’d survived a shark attack.

And yet the note said the cut was small enough to be handled with antiseptic and a dressing.

Bestie B added: Also, she called three other guys before Lucas picked up. And she ordered Uber Eats.

I laughed once—cold, sharp.

Then I did something Emma wasn’t prepared for.

I didn’t rush in like a worried girlfriend.

I went to war like a CEO.

I removed my makeup, put on a hydrating mask, then changed into a fitted black trench coat dress and heels sharp enough to puncture egos. I pulled my hair back. I looked expensive, composed, and absolutely unimpressed.

If Emma wanted a scene, she was going to get one.

Just not the one she wrote.

4

Central Hospital’s ER hallway looked like chaos in fluorescent lighting.

Jake paced like a man auditioning for “concerned best friend.” Two other guys from dinner leaned against the wall whispering. Lucas stood by the window, rigid, staring out like he wanted to punch the glass.

When I said his name—softly—he turned.

Relief washed over his face so fast it almost hurt to see.

“Jessica,” he breathed, crossing the space and pulling me into a hug. “I told you not to come.”

I held him for one second, then stepped back and raised my voice just enough for the audience.

“She’s your childhood friend,” I said. “Of course I came.”

Jake scoffed. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have let Lucas talk to her like that. You pushed her to this.”

Lucas’s head snapped toward Jake. “Shut up.”

“No,” I said calmly, stepping forward. “Let him talk.”

Jake looked surprised I wasn’t crying. People like him expect women to perform emotions on demand.

“She could’ve died,” Jake insisted. “There was blood everywhere.”

“Interesting,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Because according to the ER admission report, she needed a Hello Kitty Band-Aid, not a transfusion.”

Jake froze.

His eyes darted to the screen.

“What—how did you—”

“I have friends,” I said sweetly. “Unlike Emma, who seems to have… enablers.”

Then I pushed past him and opened the door to Emma’s room.

5

Emma’s eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell dramatically. Her mouth was slightly parted like she was starring in a soap opera.

When she heard the door, her lashes fluttered.

She expected Lucas.

“Lucas…” she whispered weakly, extending her bandaged wrist like she was offering him her suffering.

“It’s Jessica,” I said, closing the door behind me.

Emma’s eyes snapped open.

The frail act evaporated instantly, replaced by a glare sharp enough to peel paint.

“Get out,” she hissed.

I dragged a chair closer—not to sit, just to place my purse like a punctuation mark.

“I saw the report,” I said, calm as glass. “You scratched yourself. What was it—an eyebrow razor?”

Emma sat up, angry now. “You don’t understand him. We have a bond. You’re just… temporary.”

I tilted my head. “A bond doesn’t involve faking emergencies to control someone.”

Her lips curled. “He came, didn’t he?”

“He came because he’s decent,” I said. “Not because he’s yours.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “He chose me over you tonight.”

I leaned in, voice low. “Here’s the reality check. You played your ace card. You can’t keep using this. People get numb to manipulation.”

Her face flickered—panic, then rage.

“And now that I know what you are,” I continued, “the gloves are off.”

The door handle turned.

Emma’s face transformed in half a second—tears swelling, shoulders shaking, voice collapsing into helplessness.

“Jessica, please,” she sobbed.

Lucas walked in.

He looked at Emma, then at me.

“Jessica didn’t say anything cruel,” Lucas said immediately, like he’d already learned which one of us lied.

“She did!” Emma wailed. “She said I should’ve cut deeper!”

Lucas didn’t even blink. “You always lie,” he said flatly.

Emma froze.

Lucas stepped closer to the bed, voice cold and tired. “I spoke to the doctor.”

Emma’s mouth opened.

“He said you were fit for discharge twenty minutes ago,” Lucas continued. “You refused to leave.”

“I—I feel dizzy,” Emma stammered.

Lucas grabbed my hand gently. “We’re leaving.”

Emma’s voice rose, desperate. “Lucas—don’t—please—”

Lucas turned back once, eyes like winter. “If you ever pull this again,” he said, “I won’t come. I’ll call psych. Because this isn’t love. It’s control.”

And then we walked out.

Emma’s sobs followed us down the hallway.

For the first time, they sounded… real.

Not because she was heartbroken.

Because she was losing power.

6

The next few weeks went quiet.

Lucas distanced himself from the group. Jake tried to call. Lucas ignored him.

We went on dates like normal people. Movies. Late-night tacos. Lazy Sundays where Lucas cooked risotto in my apartment while I sat on the counter stealing bites.

It should’ve been peaceful.

But I knew Emma’s type.

Rats don’t leave a ship because you kicked them once.

They hide in the cargo hold and wait for you to turn your back.

One afternoon, Bestie A—the paparazzi PR queen—sent a screenshot to our group chat.

A burner account. A long emotional post.

A story about a “controlling girlfriend” who “forced a man to abandon his sick childhood sister.”

No names, but enough details that anyone in Lucas’s social circle could connect the dots.

The comments were already flooding in:

That girl sounds toxic.
Poor Emma.
Save him before it’s too late.

My stomach dropped—not because I cared what strangers thought.

Because I knew exactly where Emma would aim next.

Not Lucas.

His mother.

7

I found out at a coffee shop, of course—because gossip always travels through people who pretend they’re concerned.

An old acquaintance named Sarah slid into the chair across from me like we were close.

“Jessica,” she chirped. “Long time.”

I smiled politely. “Hey.”

Sarah’s eyes scanned my face with morbid curiosity. “I heard things.”

“Oh?” I stirred my coffee slowly. “Do tell.”

She lowered her voice. “People are saying you made Lucas cut off his best friend and this girl who’s basically his sister. And that she ended up in the hospital.”

I smiled. “People talk a lot.”

Sarah frowned, disappointed I wasn’t unraveling. “Just… watch out. I saw Emma at the country club yesterday. She was crying to Mrs. Halloway.”

My blood went cold.

Mrs. Halloway.

Lucas’s mother.

I called Lucas immediately.

He answered cheerful. “Hey, baby.”

“Has your mom called you recently?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “She invited me to dinner this weekend. Said she misses me.”

My stomach tightened. “Emma’s going to be there.”

A pause.

Lucas exhaled, heavy. “She didn’t mention Emma. But… yeah, my mom has always had a soft spot for her.”

“She’s poisoning the well,” I said. “She’s going for the matriarch.”

Lucas’s voice hardened. “I’ll handle my mother.”

“No,” I said, the plan forming fast. “We handle her together.”

“Jessica—”

“We go to dinner,” I said. “We’re perfect. We’re calm. We let Emma dig her own grave.”

Lucas went quiet for a beat, then said, low, “God, I love you.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you’re going to need that energy this weekend.”

8

The Halloway estate looked like old money had built it out of intimidation.

Manicured hedges, long driveway, a front door that could’ve belonged to a museum. The kind of house designed to make you feel like you should apologize for your existence.

Emma’s white Mini Cooper sat in the driveway like a smug little threat.

“She’s here,” Lucas muttered.

I squeezed his hand. “Remember the plan.”

Inside, Mrs. Halloway—Eleanor Halloway—waited in the drawing room.

Regal. Steel-gray hair. Eyes that missed nothing. The kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice because her disappointment alone could collapse a room.

Emma sat beside her in a pastel dress, pouring tea like she was auditioning for “perfect daughter-in-law.”

“Lucas,” Eleanor said, standing.

Then her gaze slid to me, cooling by ten degrees. “And Jessica.”

I smiled warmly and handed her a gift bag. “Mrs. Halloway. Lucas mentioned you love rare teas. I found a blend from a private reserve in Yunnan.”

Her eyes flicked—interest despite herself. Tea was her weakness. She took it. “That’s thoughtful.”

Emma’s voice chimed in, sweet as syrup. “I didn’t know you were bringing guests. I thought it was just family.”

“Jessica is family,” Lucas said firmly, sitting and pulling me beside him.

Emma lowered her eyes. “Of course. I just meant… we have so much history.”

Dinner was exactly what I expected: Emma dropping inside jokes like landmines, trying to make me feel like an outsider.

“Remember when we got lost in the woods, Lucas?” she giggled. “You held my hand the whole way back. You promised you’d always protect me.”

Lucas cut his steak. “I was seven. I also promised I’d become a dinosaur.”

I stifled a laugh. Eleanor’s lips twitched.

Then Eleanor turned to me, assessing. “Emma tells me you work in PR. Stressful. Does it leave you enough time to take care of a household?”

There it was.

Old-school test.

I set my fork down gently. “I run a brand consultancy firm,” I corrected. “And Lucas and I believe in partnership. He’s actually an excellent cook.”

Eleanor blinked. “Lucas cooks?”

Lucas looked at his mother without apology. “I learned because I wanted to make Jessica happy.”

Emma’s knuckles went white around her fork.

Then Emma leaned forward, eyes bright with malice disguised as concern.

“Jessica,” she said softly, “is it true you banned Lucas from seeing Jake? He’s really hurt.”

Eleanor frowned. “Is that true? Isolating a man from his friends is not a good sign.”

I set my napkin down.

It was time.

“Mrs. Halloway,” I said calmly, “I would never ban Lucas from seeing anyone. Lucas distanced himself from Jake because Jake enabled behavior that was dangerous.”

Eleanor’s brows pulled together. “Dangerous?”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “Mom—”

“The suicide stunt,” I said clearly.

The table went silent.

Emma went pale.

Emma’s voice trembled. “I told Mrs. Halloway it was an accident…”

“It wasn’t,” Lucas said, voice flat. “She texted me she was going to kill herself because I had a girlfriend. We rushed to the hospital. It was a scratch. She used it to manipulate me.”

Emma jumped up, shrieking. “They’re lying!”

Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip. “Sit down, Emma.”

Emma’s eyes flashed. “You can’t believe her. She’s an outsider.”

Eleanor stood slowly, and the room seemed to shrink around her authority.

“I raised Lucas to be a gentleman,” Eleanor said, voice icy. “But I also raised him not to be a fool. I have treated you like a daughter. If you are using self-harm as a tactic to control my son—”

Emma sobbed, loud. “I just love him!”

Eleanor didn’t flinch. “Then you need help,” she said. “Not attention.”

Emma looked around wildly, realizing her usual audience wasn’t clapping.

And for the first time, she had nowhere to hide.

When we left, Eleanor walked us to the door.

Her expression softened—just a fraction—when she looked at me. “The tea smells lovely,” she said. “Perhaps next time… just the two of you.”

I smiled. “I’d like that.”

Round two: ours.

But even as I buckled my seatbelt, I knew—

Emma wasn’t done.

And if she couldn’t win socially…

She’d go nuclear.

PART 2

9

If you’ve never been in a room full of old money that’s decided you’re “acceptable,” you don’t know how loud silence can be.

Lucas drove us home from his mother’s estate with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine like he was anchoring himself. The whole drive, the city lights slid past the windows in soft blurs, and the adrenaline from dinner slowly drained out of my body until what was left was… awareness.

Emma hadn’t lost. Not really.

She’d been forced to retreat. There’s a difference.

A predator doesn’t stop hunting because you smacked its snout once. It just learns to wait until you’re not looking.

Lucas must’ve felt the shift in my breathing because he glanced over.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said.

“I’m calculating,” I corrected.

Lucas’s mouth twitched. “You really are a CEO.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But spiritually? Absolutely.”

He laughed, and for a moment the tension eased. Then his phone buzzed.

Jake.

Lucas didn’t answer.

Jake texted immediately after:

Bro please. Your mom’s mad. Emma’s not okay.

Lucas tossed the phone onto the passenger seat like it was a dead bug. “Not my problem.”

I looked at him. “You sure?”

He exhaled. “I’ve been babysitting her drama since we were thirteen.”

“And now?” I asked.

Lucas’s voice went flat. “Now I’m done.”

It should’ve comforted me more than it did. But people like Emma don’t accept “done.” They treat it like a challenge.

I stared out at the night. “When toxic people lose control,” I said quietly, “they don’t get sad. They get creative.”

Lucas squeezed my hand. “Let her.”

I turned toward him. “Lucas—if she escalates, don’t underestimate her.”

He glanced at me, eyes steady. “Baby, I watched her ruin three relationships without lifting a finger. I’m not underestimating her.”

I swallowed. “Good.”

Lucas pulled into my apartment parking lot and turned the engine off. The car went quiet except for the ticking sound of heat cooling.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For being smarter than everyone in that room,” he said. “And for not making me choose between being polite and protecting you.”

My chest warmed—annoyingly, inconveniently.

“I’d never ask you to choose,” I said softly. “I’d ask you to show me where you stand.”

Lucas’s eyes darkened with something honest. “I’m standing with you,” he said.

And for a second, I believed him so completely it scared me.

Because when you finally trust someone, you finally have something worth losing.

10

Emma didn’t attack the way I expected.

Not at first.

She went quiet for two weeks—no hospital stunts, no dramatic posts, no crying texts.

Just absence.

That’s what made me nervous.

Then the rumors started—soft and sticky, like syrup that gets everywhere.

A girl I barely knew at a coworking space approached me at the coffee machine and said, “Oh, you’re Jessica?”

I smiled politely. “Yeah.”

She hesitated. “You’re… dating Lucas Halloway?”

I didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Her eyes flickered with that fake-neutral expression people use when they’ve already decided. “I heard you’re… intense.”

I laughed. “Define intense.”

She laughed too, uncomfortable. “Like… controlling. Like you made him abandon his childhood friend after she had a mental health crisis.”

My smile stayed in place, but something cold slid into my veins.

I knew the playbook now.

Emma wasn’t trying to win Lucas back by being desirable.

She was trying to make me unlovable.

She wanted the world to look at me and say, Yeah, she’s the problem.

Because if I became the villain, Emma could become the victim.

And if Lucas was “rescued” from me, he’d come crawling back to the role Emma had carved out for herself: the fragile princess in the center of the group.

I went straight from work to my office—my actual office, not the cute coworking space—because if Emma wanted a PR war, she picked the wrong profession to fight.

My brand consultancy firm wasn’t huge, but it was mine. I built it from scratch, one client at a time, one campaign at a time, one sleepless night at a time. I didn’t survive startup chaos and corporate sharks to be taken down by a manipulative girl with a pastel dress addiction.

I called Bestie A.

“What’s the tea?” she answered immediately, already excited.

“It’s rancid,” I said. “Emma’s pushing a narrative. I need to know how far it’s spread.”

Bestie A’s keyboard clacked. “Give me ten minutes.”

While she worked, I pulled up social media. There were subtle posts—no names, but enough hints.

“Some girls isolate men from their support systems.”

“Some people weaponize ‘boundaries’ to control.”

It wasn’t public enough to sue.

Yet.

But it was building.

And I knew where she was aiming next.

Not just Lucas’s mom.

Lucas’s company.

Because if she could mess with his reputation, she could force him into a crisis—one where he might need the comfort of familiar “friends.”

Where Emma could swoop in like the loyal childhood sister and say, I’m still here.

That thought made my stomach turn.

11

The invitation to Lucas’s company gala arrived in early summer.

Annual charity event. High-profile. Media present. Investors present. The kind of night where reputations were polished like silver.

Lucas handed me the envelope like it was a weapon and a gift.

“You’re coming,” he said, more statement than question.

I tilted my head. “You sure? Your coworkers might faint.”

Lucas smirked. “Let them.”

Then his expression tightened. “Also… it’ll make her mad.”

I blinked. “Still on that?”

He shrugged. “I’m petty.”

“Noted,” I said dryly. “I’ll dress accordingly.”

I didn’t tell him I’d already been planning.

Not out of vanity—out of strategy.

If Emma wanted to paint me as a jealous, controlling girlfriend, then my public presence needed to be calm, polished, unshakeable. No emotional reactions. No messy scenes.

You don’t fight rumors with tears.

You fight them with receipts—and composure.

The night of the gala, I chose an emerald silk gown that hugged my body like it had been poured on. Backless, elegant, dramatic without being loud. Hair swept to one side. Makeup flawless—yes, makeup, because if Emma was still clinging to “natural beauty” as a personality trait, then I’d happily be her nightmare in eyeliner.

Lucas watched me come down the stairs and went still.

“You look…” he started, then stopped like his brain couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Expensive?” I offered.

Lucas’s laugh was low. “Dangerous,” he corrected.

I stepped closer and adjusted his tie. “Good,” I murmured. “Stay behind me.”

Lucas blinked. “That’s my line.”

“Not tonight,” I said sweetly. “Tonight I’m the PR department.”

His eyes darkened with amusement. “God help everyone.”

12

The ballroom was exactly what you’d expect: crystal chandeliers, champagne, velvet ropes, photographers flashing like lightning. People wearing money like perfume.

Lucas’s hand rested at my lower back as we entered, not because he needed to prove anything—but because he was proud.

We were the “it” couple before we even reached the check-in table. I could feel eyes tracking us. I could hear whispers.

Then the air shifted.

The crowd near the entrance went quiet.

I followed the direction of their stares.

And there she was.

Emma.

Not invited.

Standing on the arm of a man in his fifties—Mr. Henderson, one of Lucas’s business rivals, a man known for being charming in public and predatory in private.

Emma wore a floor-length white lace gown.

White.

At someone else’s gala.

A lace dress that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress.

Lucas went rigid. “Is she insane?”

“No,” I said calmly. “She’s desperate.”

Emma spotted us instantly. Her face lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

She steered Henderson toward us with a beaming smile that made my skin crawl.

“Lucas!” she said brightly, as if the last few months hadn’t happened. “Guess what? Mr. Henderson was kind enough to bring me as his plus one. Isn’t it exciting?”

Henderson smirked at Lucas like this was a chess move. “Good to see you, Halloway.”

Lucas’s expression didn’t change. “Henderson.”

Emma leaned closer to Henderson, giggling. “Lucas talks in his sleep,” she said loudly, with the exact tone of someone implying intimacy. “Or he used to.”

There it was.

Public humiliation. The classic “we’ve been together” insinuation.

I felt Lucas’s anger spike—hot, immediate. His hand tightened at my back.

I stepped forward before he could speak.

“Mr. Henderson,” I said, voice smooth, projecting just enough for nearby guests to hear. “It’s fascinating that you take financial ‘insights’ from someone whose only job experience is—what is it you do again, Emma?”

Emma’s smile faltered.

A couple people nearby chuckled.

Emma recovered fast. “I’m a—”

“Professional guest?” I offered sweetly.

The chuckles grew.

Henderson’s smirk twitched—annoyed now.

“And as for sleeping,” I continued, still calm, “Emma has a vivid imagination. We’ve established that.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed.

I turned my attention back to Henderson. “But I will say, be careful. The last time Emma didn’t get what she wanted, she faked a medical emergency to force a man to come running.”

Henderson’s eyes flicked to Emma, suspicion blooming.

Emma’s face tightened. “Jessica—”

“I hope you have good insurance,” I finished, smiling politely.

Henderson pulled his arm slightly away from Emma without even realizing it.

Emma saw it.

And that’s when her expression shifted—rage breaking through her mask.

She lifted her wine glass.

I saw the flick of her wrist a half-second before she moved.

She intended to “accidentally” spill it on my dress—ruin me in public, make me look messy, hysterical, ruined.

I didn’t step back.

I stepped sideways.

The wine splashed—not on me.

On Henderson’s pristine white tuxedo jacket.

Time slowed for a breath.

Emma’s mouth fell open. “Oh my god!”

Henderson looked down at his ruined jacket like it had personally betrayed him.

Emma turned instantly, eyes wide, voice shrill. “Jessica pushed me!”

I didn’t react. I just blinked slowly.

“I didn’t touch you,” I said calmly.

“You did!” Emma cried, looking around for allies.

She forgot one thing:

This was a gala.

There were cameras everywhere.

A voice cut through from behind us. “Actually…”

Bestie A stepped forward, holding a professional camera like it was a badge. “I got that on burst mode,” she said cheerfully. “Jessica was two feet away when Emma tripped over her own dress.”

Bestie A flipped the screen to show the photo sequence: Emma lunging, me stepping aside, wine flying, Henderson getting drenched.

The proof was undeniable.

Henderson’s face went purple. “You clumsy idiot,” he hissed at Emma. “Get away from me.”

Emma stammered. “But—”

“Leave,” Henderson barked. “Security!”

Security moved in.

Emma stood there, shaking, eyes darting around as the crowd whispered and laughed.

Then she looked at Lucas.

Pleading.

“Lucas,” she whispered. “Help me.”

Lucas’s face was stone.

“You came with him,” Lucas said flatly. “You leave with him. Or without him. Not my drama.”

Emma’s face crumpled.

She ran out of the ballroom, tears streaming.

And this time, I didn’t feel satisfied.

I felt alert.

Because desperate people don’t stop.

They escalate.

13

Two days later, the police knocked on our door.

I was in the kitchen in sweatpants, hair up, reading emails. Lucas was on a call in the living room.

The knock was loud. Official. Unfriendly.

Lucas muted his call and walked to the door.

Two officers stood there.

“Lucas Halloway?” one asked.

“Yes,” Lucas said cautiously.

“We have a warrant to search your premises,” the officer said. “Anonymous tip regarding illicit narcotics distribution from this address.”

For a moment, my brain didn’t process the words.

Drugs?

We barely drank alcohol.

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ma’am, please step aside,” the officer said to me.

I didn’t argue—arguing never helps in a moment like this. I stepped back calmly, heart hammering.

They searched everything.

Couches flipped. Drawers opened. Closet inspected. Bathroom cabinets rummaged through.

Humiliation is quiet. It’s the sound of strangers touching your things like they don’t belong to you anymore.

Then—

“Found something,” an officer called from the guest bedroom.

My blood went cold.

The officer walked out holding a small bag of white powder taped under the nightstand.

Lucas went rigid, rage flashing. “That is not ours.”

The officer’s expression didn’t change. “We’ll need you to come down to the station.”

Lucas’s eyes snapped to me—apology, anger, and something darker: fear. Not of jail. Of damage. Of headlines. Of reputation.

“I’ll call my lawyer,” he said tightly.

As they led Lucas out, I saw a white Mini Cooper parked down the street.

Emma.

Watching.

My chest went ice-cold with rage so sharp it almost made me dizzy.

She planted it.

Not impulsively.

Not emotionally.

Calculated.

Because she didn’t want to embarrass us anymore.

She wanted to destroy us.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I went into the bedroom, shut the door, and took one steady breath.

Then I called Bestie C.

“Lawyer time,” I said calmly. “They arrested Lucas on a narcotics tip. Evidence was planted.”

Bestie C’s voice turned razor sharp instantly. “Say nothing to police without counsel. I’m on my way. Who planted it?”

“Emma,” I said. “I need proof.”

Bestie C didn’t hesitate. “Then we get proof.”

I called Bestie B.

“I need everything,” I said. “Security footage, fingerprint angle, where she bought that substance, any digital trail. She’s sloppy. She always is. I need you to prove it.”

Bestie B’s voice was almost cheerful. “I love when stupid people commit crimes,” he said. “Give me 48 hours.”

The next 48 hours were the longest of my life.

Lucas got released on bail, but the damage had already started.

Online blogs picked up the arrest scanner post.

“Tech exec linked to narcotics investigation.”

It didn’t name his company, but it didn’t need to. People love connecting dots.

Lucas sat on my couch that night, staring at his hands, jaw tight with fury he didn’t know where to put.

“This is my fault,” he muttered.

I sat beside him. “No,” I said calmly. “This is Emma’s fault.”

Lucas’s eyes flicked to me, rough and dark. “I should’ve cut her off years ago.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “You should’ve.”

Lucas flinched like he expected me to comfort him.

I didn’t coddle.

I squeezed his hand and said, “But we’re handling it now.”

He swallowed. “What if it sticks? What if—”

“It won’t,” I said. “Because she made one mistake.”

Lucas blinked. “What?”

“She thinks I’m just a girlfriend,” I said softly. “She doesn’t realize I’m the kind of woman who builds a case file while applying lip gloss.”

Lucas let out a rough laugh, then his face tightened again. “Jessica…”

I leaned in close. “Trust me,” I said. “I’m not losing you to a girl who Venmos her crimes.”

Lucas froze. “Venmos?”

I smiled without humor. “Oh, she did. She’s that dumb.”

14

Bestie B delivered exactly 46 hours later.

Not 48.

Because spite is a powerful motivator.

He sent me a folder titled: EMMA – RECEIPTS.

Inside:

Screenshots of a Venmo transaction to a low-level dealer with a heart emoji in the note.
A timestamped security clip from the Halloway estate dinner: Emma walking down the guest hallway, slipping into the guest bathroom, then briefly into the connected guest bedroom—long enough to plant something.
A photo of Emma’s fingerprints lifted from the tape used under the nightstand (thanks to a cooperative “source” in evidence processing who owed Bestie B a favor).
A text chain where Jake—yes, Jake—admitted Emma was “going to make Lucas pay” and told him to “watch what happens at the gala.”

My hands shook as I scrolled—not from fear.

From rage.

Emma didn’t just try to manipulate Lucas’s emotions.

She tried to take his freedom.

To put him in cuffs.

To put a permanent stain on his name.

Because he didn’t choose her.

Bestie C walked us into the police station with calm authority and a folder that might as well have been a weapon.

When the dealer realized he was looking at real jail time, he folded immediately.

He identified Emma without hesitation.

“She paid,” he said. “Said she needed it to ‘teach someone a lesson.’”

The detective’s face tightened, unimpressed.

A warrant was issued.

Emma was arrested at her parents’ house that afternoon.

Lucas got the call while he was sitting at my kitchen table, coffee untouched.

He listened, face unreadable.

When he hung up, his shoulders sagged slightly.

“It’s over,” he said quietly.

I watched him for a long moment.

“No,” I corrected gently. “It’s just switching chapters.”

15

We went to court.

We had to.

Not because we needed revenge.

Because we needed closure.

Emma sat at the defense table looking smaller than I’d ever seen her. No pastel dress. No lashes. No performance makeup. Just a girl stripped down to the reality of consequences.

Her parents sat behind her looking broken, the kind of broken that isn’t about money—it’s about realizing the child you raised became someone you don’t recognize.

Emma’s lawyer tried to frame it as obsession. Mental instability. Lovesick desperation.

The judge wasn’t amused.

“Miss Emma,” the judge said, voice sharp, “this was not a crime of passion. This was calculated. You planted a controlled substance. You attempted to destroy a man’s life and waste police resources. All because he did not return your affections.”

Emma started crying.

Not the pretty tears.

Real ones.

But it didn’t change anything.

She was sentenced to three years, followed by mandatory psychiatric treatment.

When they led her away, she looked at Lucas.

For a second, there was something empty in her expression—like the truth had finally found her, and she didn’t know what to do with it.

Lucas didn’t look back.

He held my hand, grip tight, and whispered, “Let’s go home.”

16

Recovery didn’t happen in a montage.

It happened in quiet steps:

Lucas’s company quietly issued a statement: investigation cleared, malicious tip, no wrongdoing.
Lucas’s team rallied around him, but I could still see the stress in his shoulders.
Jake tried to text an apology.

Lucas read it, then tossed his phone onto the couch.

“He knew,” Lucas said flatly. “He knew and he still played hero.”

“You don’t have to forgive him,” I said.

Lucas stared at the ceiling. “I’m not even angry anymore. I’m just… done.”

That was the theme of our year, honestly.

Done with enabling.

Done with pretending.

Done with shrinking to make other people comfortable.

Three months later, Lucas and I stood in an empty apartment we were thinking of renting—sunlight spilling on hardwood floors, a small balcony, a kitchen big enough for his risotto ambitions.

Lucas wrapped his arms around me from behind. “This one,” he murmured.

I leaned back into him. “You sure you’re ready?”

Lucas kissed the side of my head. “I’m ready to build a life that isn’t constantly being interrupted by someone else’s chaos,” he said.

My chest tightened. “Same.”

We signed the lease.

When we moved in, Lucas hung one framed photo on the wall before we even unpacked.

It was a candid shot Bestie A had taken at the gala—me in emerald green, Lucas beside me, both of us facing Emma’s mess with calm expressions.

The caption Bestie A had printed under it made me laugh:

CLASSY UNDER PRESSURE.

Lucas stepped back, admiring it. “This is our origin story,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a nerd.”

Lucas smirked. “Your nerd.”

That line still worked on me. Annoyingly.

17

Six months later, Lucas had a business trip in Paris.

“Come with me,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you bribing me with croissants?”

Lucas shrugged. “Maybe.”

I packed in ten minutes.

Paris in the spring felt like a movie—soft light, café chatter, river breeze. We stayed in a hotel with a balcony view of the Eiffel Tower, because Lucas is extra when he’s happy.

One night, we sat outside with champagne, the city glowing below us like someone spilled gold.

Lucas twirled the stem of his glass thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said, “I never realized how much energy I wasted trying to be ‘nice’ to toxic people until you showed me boundaries.”

I grinned. “I don’t like people touching my stuff.”

Lucas laughed, light and free. “And I am your stuff?”

“My favorite,” I confirmed.

He went quiet then—dangerously quiet.

I watched his expression shift into something serious.

“I have a question,” Lucas said.

My heart kicked.

Lucas reached into his pocket.

I swear my entire body stopped functioning.

He got down on one knee.

On a Paris balcony.

With the Eiffel Tower in the background like he was trying to win an award for romantic cliché.

My eyes stung instantly.

“Jessica,” he said, voice steady but rough around the edges. “You don’t need anyone to take care of you. You’re the strongest person I know. But I want to be the one who stands beside you while you conquer the world.”

He opened the box.

The ring was simple, elegant, timeless. Not flashy. Not loud.

Perfect.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

I blinked at him for a long second, then inhaled and said, dead serious:

“You do know I’ll ruin anyone who tries to ruin you.”

Lucas’s smile broke wide. “That’s why I asked.”

I pretended to think. “Hmm. You can cook. You can spot fake people. You can survive my attitude…”

Lucas’s eyes widened. “Jessica—”

I laughed through tears. “Yes,” I whispered. “That’s a definite yes.”

He slid the ring on my finger, stood up, and kissed me like the whole year of chaos had just evaporated into the Paris night.

Somewhere in a prison cell, Emma was probably still telling anyone who’d listen that she was the victim. That we “stole” something that was “hers.”

But it didn’t matter.

Her story ended the moment she tried to destroy someone’s life for attention.

Ours was just beginning.

And yes—my makeup looked absolutely flawless in the engagement photos.

THE END