Chapter 2 — The Fallout
Emma
I woke up to the dull ache of a champagne hangover and the faint, mocking glow of my phone screen. The group chat notifications had piled up overnight, a digital avalanche of pity, schadenfreude, and unsolicited advice. “OMG, Emma, are you okay?” one message read, followed by another: “What happened with Luke??” The worst offender was from Monica, my old college roommate and self-appointed essential oils guru. “Everything happens for a reason, babe. Sending you positive vibes!” If my head hadn’t already been pounding, her message alone would’ve done the job.
I rubbed my temples, scrolling past the barrage until the screen blurred. My stomach churned at the thought of the gossip spreading through my social and professional circles, each notification a reminder of my public humiliation. It wasn’t just pity—it was the unspoken thrill people took in watching someone like me, polished and put-together Emma Carlyle, fall apart.
Tossing the phone onto the bed, I dragged myself into the kitchen. The sterile silence of my apartment pressed in on me, amplifying the sound of my footsteps on the cold marble floor. The sleek leather couch, the glass coffee table, the curated bookshelf—all of it felt like a museum exhibit for a life that no longer belonged to me.
The engagement ring box caught my eye from where it sat on the dresser, its navy velvet glinting softly in the morning light. The sight of it felt like a punch to the stomach, but I couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just a box; it was a monument to everything I had failed to achieve—a perfect wedding, a perfect marriage, a perfect life. My fingers twitched, itching to grab it, to hurl it across the room, to do something, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Instead, I grabbed a glass from the counter, filled it with water, and drank it down in one gulp, as if hydration might somehow dissolve the knot of anger and shame in my chest.
A sharp knock at the door startled me, followed by a familiar voice. “Emma, open up. I have wine, and I’m not above picking the lock.”
Tasha. Of course.
I hesitated, glancing down at my silk pajama set, the one I’d bought specifically for my honeymoon mornings. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. Swiping a hand through my messy hair, I forced myself to the door.
When I opened it, Tasha stood there, her cropped leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a bottle of rosé in one hand and a greasy brown paper bag in the other. Her sharp eyeliner was slightly smudged, and her dark eyes softened as they met mine.
“Breakfast of champions,” she declared, brushing past me into the apartment.
“Isn’t it a little early for wine?” I muttered, closing the door behind her.
“It’s never too early when your life explodes in front of 300 people,” she said, setting the bag and bottle on the counter. “And before you try to argue, yes, you’re going to eat one of these croissants. You look like you’ve been trapped in a sad French film for weeks.”
I let out a dry laugh, leaning against the counter. “What’s the protocol for recovering from being publicly humiliated, exactly? Asking for a friend.”
Tasha paused, her expression softening just enough to remind me why she was my best friend. “Step one: remind yourself that Luke is a coward. Step two: eat carbs. Step three: plot revenge.”
“Revenge?” I raised an eyebrow, though the word lit a small, dark spark in my chest.
“Absolutely. You don’t just let a guy like that walk away scot-free. Especially not after he made a fool of you in front of half the city’s elite.” She handed me a glass of wine, her tone light but her gaze steady. “You deserve better, Emma. And if he won’t pay for what he did, who will?”
I stared at the rosé swirling in my glass. “Doesn’t revenge make me just as bad as him?”
Tasha leaned closer, her voice dropping to a quieter, more serious tone. “Emma, this isn’t about being bad. It’s about taking back control. He humiliated you in front of everyone, and now you’re stuck cleaning up the mess. You don’t have to sit here and let him win.”
Her words struck a nerve, deeper than I wanted to admit. Who was I now? A jilted bride? A walking meme? A cautionary tale? The thought of everyone whispering behind their screens made my chest tighten. I needed to do something—anything—to remind myself of who I was before Luke took everything.
“To the destruction of Luke Denham,” Tasha said, raising her glass. “May his downfall be swift and humiliating.”
I hesitated, then clinked my glass against hers. “You make it sound like we’re declaring war.”
“Aren’t we?” she replied with a grin.
I sipped the wine, the sweetness cutting through the bitterness in my throat. My gaze drifted back to the engagement ring box on the dresser. It caught the light, tempting me to open it, but I turned away. I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
*
By the time Tasha left, the sun was dipping low over the city, casting a golden glow through the windows. I stood by the counter, flipping through my event planner. Its once-pristine pages were now blank where honeymoon schedules and client timelines should’ve been—a hollow reflection of my life.
But not for long.
I grabbed a pen and began jotting down ideas. Leaking embarrassing photos. Planting rumors. Sabotaging his big moments. Each plan felt like a tiny reclamation of power, a way to turn my humiliation into something productive. I paused, the pen hovering above the page, a pang of doubt creeping in. Was this really about him, or was it about me? About proving I wasn’t broken?
I pushed the thought aside, steadying myself with the familiar rhythm of planning. The engagement ring box sat on the dresser, still unopened, but I didn’t glance at it this time. Instead, I focused on the list forming beneath my pen, each word sharpening my determination. Luke had taken something from me—my confidence, my pride, my control. Now, it was my turn to take it back.
*
The next day, Tasha and I sat in her cluttered apartment, laptops propped on the coffee table. Her space was the polar opposite of mine—cozy, chaotic, and unapologetically hers. A stack of books teetered next to an empty coffee cup, and a half-finished crochet project lay abandoned on the arm of the couch.
“So,” she said, fingers flying over her keyboard, “did you know Luke’s law firm has an internal email list for announcements?”
“No, but I’m guessing you do,” I replied, glancing up from my own screen.
“Damn right. And guess what I found?” She swiveled her laptop toward me, revealing a grainy photo of Luke from college. His hair was longer, his suit ill-fitting, and his face caught mid-yawn.
I snorted. “Where did you even find that?”
“Facebook. People really underestimate the power of bad privacy settings.”
“It’s perfect.” I grinned, the first genuine one in days. “Send it to the email list. Anonymously, of course.”
Tasha’s fingers danced across the keys. “Done. His firm thrives on image. One viral photo, and everyone’s going to see him as the awkward, unpolished kid he used to be.”
I leaned back, satisfaction blooming in my chest. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
As we waited for the fallout, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. Luke had taken something from me—my confidence, my pride, my control. Now, it was my turn to take it back.
