Chapter 3

My last month at Cole & Vance Global was a special kind of hell.

Ethan avoided me, a wall of icy professionalism between us.

But Isabella made sure I suffered.

She' d swan into the office, all designer clothes and condescending smiles.

She' d pause by my drafting table, her eyes scanning my work.

"Still at it, Mia? Don' t you get tired of these... little buildings?"

Her voice, pitched just loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear, dripped with disdain.

Sometimes she' d "accidentally" bump my table, jostling my pens, or "borrow" a specific reference book she knew I needed, only to return it days later, coffee-stained.

Ethan never intervened. He' d either be "in a meeting" or would simply look the other way, a silent accomplice to her petty cruelties.

My colleagues, sensing the shift in power, kept their distance. Whispers followed me down hallways.

I kept my head down, counting the days.

One afternoon, Isabella found me reviewing the plans for a small community center I' d designed in my spare time – one of the few pieces that had mostly escaped the wine disaster.

It was an innovative design, focused on sustainability and shared spaces. I was proud of it.

She picked it up, feigning interest.

"This is... ambitious, Mia. For you."

A pause. "You know, Ethan' s family is hosting their annual charity gala next week. Very high profile. All the big names in development and architecture will be there."

She tapped the design. "Perhaps you could present this? As a sort of... farewell. A chance to impress potential employers."

Her smile was too bright, her eyes too knowing.

It felt like a trap.

But my contract had a nasty clause about leaving early without "significant cause or mutual agreement."

My resignation wasn' t fully processed yet, and I was desperate to be free.

This gala, if I made a good impression, could be my ticket out, a way to find a new job quickly.

"I... I' ll think about it," I said.

"Don' t think too long," Isabella said sweetly. "Opportunities like this don' t come often for people like you."

Reluctantly, I agreed. What other choice did I have?

The night of the gala arrived. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and old money.

I wore my best, but still felt like an imposter among the couture gowns and tailored tuxedos.

My hands trembled as I set up my presentation. This was it. My one shot.

Mrs. Vance, Isabella' s mother, gave a brief introduction, her voice dripping with false warmth as she mentioned my "promising talent."

I stepped up to the podium, my heart pounding.

"Good evening. My design is for a community center that..."

I clicked the remote for the first slide.

My design, the carefully rendered exterior, should have appeared.

Instead, a picture flashed onto the huge screen behind me.

A picture of me from college. Awkward, frizzy-haired, at some frat party, a red plastic cup in my hand.

Laughter rippled through the room.

My face burned. I fumbled with the remote.

Click.

Another photo. Me, tear-streaked, after a fight with Ethan, years ago. A private moment he' d captured, now public.

Click.

More photos, each one more mortifying than the last. Awkward moments, silly faces, interspersed with cruel, childish captions: "Future Architect?" "Needs a Makeover!" "Always the Bridesmaid!"

The titters grew louder. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me, dissecting my humiliation.

This was Isabella' s doing. And Ethan... Ethan had given her these photos. Years ago, he' d said he deleted them.

He stood near the front, his face a carefully blank mask, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw. He knew. He' d allowed this.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

Security guards materialized at my elbow, their faces grim.

"Ma'am, you need to come with us."

They escorted me out, a pariah, the laughter of the elite echoing behind me.

I was dumped unceremoniously into a service corridor.

I leaned against the cool wall, gasping for breath, shame and anger warring within me.

A kind voice startled me. "Are you alright?"

I looked up. A man in a simple suit, his name tag reading "Dr. Noah Miller - ER Volunteer."

His eyes were gentle, concerned. He' d seen what happened.

"They can be cruel," he said softly.

He offered me a bottle of water, a quiet place in a small office to compose myself.

He didn' t ask questions, didn' t pry. He just showed simple, human kindness.

Later, he drove me home to Queens, the silence in the car a blessed relief.

His unexpected compassion was a tiny light in a vast darkness.