The next morning, Ella awoke to the chaos of a dozen missed calls and three trending hashtags.
#BillionaireOnHisKnees#EllaShenTheHeartbreaker#WhoReallyHurtWho
Her phone buzzed violently, messages pouring in like a tidal wave.
"Is it true?""Why did he cry like that?""You ruined him."
Ella's hands trembled as she dropped the phone onto the counter.
Outside her apartment window, camera flashes already danced on the street below like fireflies with teeth.
They weren't here to capture beauty.
They were here to feast on blood.
She had walked away with her pride intact.
And now, they wanted to rip it from her.
It didn't matter what he'd done.
All they saw was a man on his knees.
And a woman walking away.
They didn't see the cage. The gaslight. The years it took to find her voice again.
They didn't want the full story.
Just the prettiest tragedy.
And she?
Was cast as the villain.
It was like drowning in perfume—sweet on the surface, suffocating underneath.
The world loved to romanticize pain…
As long as it wasn't theirs.
And now, her trauma was a headline.
Her silence, a scandal.
Her name, a weapon.
Her manager called.
"Ella," she said breathlessly, "they're demanding a statement. If you don't speak soon—"
A knock.
At her door.
She froze.
And then—
"Ella."
His voice.
Through the wood. Through her spine.
Leon.
"I'm not here to beg."
A pause.
"I'm here to tell them the truth. All of it."