His Placeholder Bride, My Bitter Revenge

Avery Trevino POV:

The click of the lock echoed in the emptiness of the hallway. My phone vibrated, a relentless summons from the life I was trying to outrun. It was Clara again.

"Avery! Finally! Are you at home? Did you eat anything? Mom made your favorite, but you just stormed out." Her voice, though laced with concern, quickly shifted to its usual demanding tone. "Grant just called. He said he was going to your place. Did you two make up? We need to talk about the wedding, sweetie. All the arrangements are still set. You need to-"

"I'm not getting married, Clara," I interrupted, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken finality.

A beat of stunned silence from the other end. Then, Clara' s voice, tentative, uncertain. "Avery... don't be silly. Are you still upset about... that other woman? Grant's worth it, honey. He's rich, handsome, powerful. You have to understand, men like him... they have a past. Just overlook it. Be smart. Be patient."

The words were a bitter echo of my mother's earlier pleas. Be smart. Be patient. Endure. The familiar narrative, woven into the fabric of my family, choked me. I closed my eyes, a sharp pang of pain piercing through my chest. I fought back the sob that threatened to tear through my throat.

"I'll call you later, Clara," I managed, my voice strained, and hung up before she could say another word.

I walked aimlessly through the city streets, the neon glow of billboards assaulting my senses. My gaze snagged on a massive LED screen flashing a crisp, professional image of Grant Sutton. It was a financial news segment, highlighting his "transformation" into a responsible, philanthropic leader, expanding Sutton Holdings into ethical investments. My stomach churned. The hypocrisy was a bitter taste in my mouth. I calmly looked away. He was a ghost, a memory that held no power over me anymore.

Suddenly, the screen changed. A news ticker scrolled across the bottom: Investigative Journalist A. Trevino Fired from Nexus Global News. Sutton Holdings Considers Legal Action for Defamation. Sources Cite 'Journalistic Misconduct' and 'Unethical Reporting Practices.'

The screen then flashed to a grainy clip of me, from months ago, being publicly criticized by a rival reporter for a controversial piece. The comments section, scrolling furiously below, was a cascade of venom: \"Disgraceful!\" \"She's just a bitter woman!\" \"Another female reporter trying to stir trouble!\"

My vision blurred, not with tears, but with a searing, helpless rage. Years. Years I had dedicated to the truth, to shedding light on darkness. I had never once compromised my ethics, never published a single word I didn't believe to be true, backed by irrefutable evidence. And now, my entire career, my reputation, my very identity, was being systematically dismantled by the man I had almost married.

A cold, heavy drop splattered on my cheek. Then another. And another. Without warning, the heavens opened, and rain began to fall in sheets, blurring the city lights into shimmering streaks. Pedestrians shrieked, scattering for shelter, umbrellas blossoming like frantic flowers.

But I stood there, rooted to the spot, letting the icy deluge wash over me. The rain plastered my hair to my face, blurring my vision, indistinguishable from the tears that finally, silently, streamed down my cheeks.

Across the street, a young couple huddled under a single umbrella, laughing, wrapped in each other's arms. Further down, a family of three, a father hoisting a small child onto his shoulders, raced for cover, their joy radiating even through the downpour.

I felt utterly, completely alone. Abandoned. A forgotten discarded thing, left to drown in the cold, unforgiving rain. The pain was a physical entity, a crushing weight that pinned me to the pavement.

I didn't know how I made it back to my apartment. My clothes were soaked, clinging to me like a second skin. I didn't bother to change. I stumbled into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa, shivering uncontrollably. The cold seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. My head throbbed, my limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. I knew, with a detached certainty, that I was burning up with fever.

My eyelids fluttered, my consciousness drifting in and out, a fragile boat on a restless sea. I felt myself floating, high above, looking down. I saw my father, his face now wreathed in smiles, proudly showing off Grant's expensive watch. My mother, timidly accepting my sister's excited chatter about future plans, the "unfortunate delay" forgotten. I saw Grant, his hand resting on Ivory's back, whispering something in her ear, his eyes full of tenderness. I saw the newsroom, brightly lit, bustling with activity, as if I had never existed, my desk already cleared, my name already erased.

Then, with a jolt, I crashed back into my body, the cold, hard reality of the sofa pressing against me. I blinked, my eyes gritty, as the pale morning light streamed through the window. It was day three since the rain. Three days. I had been unconscious, lost in a feverish haze.

My throat was raw, dry. I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting with every movement. My body felt weak, fragile. I stumbled into the bathroom, flicked on the light. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger: pale, gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, her lips cracked and dry. It was the face of a woman who had given everything, and lost it all.

I turned on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, a physical attempt to wash away the grime, the pain, the defeat. When I emerged, my skin red and stinging, I felt a flicker of something new. A cold, hard resolve.

I walked into the living room and pulled out the small, black suitcase I had packed weeks ago. I added a few more essentials, then zipped it shut. No sentimental glances. No lingering regrets. Just a cold, clear path forward.

I stepped out of the apartment, the keys already left on the counter. The airport hummed with the quiet symphony of departures and arrivals. The announcement for my flight, "Flight BA268 to London Heathrow," echoed through the vast hall. I passed through security, the metal detectors silent witnesses to my passage.

I walked towards the international departures gate, my gaze fixed on the enormous glass wall overlooking the runway. Planes, immense steel birds, soared into the sky, then descended gracefully. My future was out there, beyond the clouds.

"Flight BA268 is now boarding."

I picked up my suitcase and walked towards the gate. The plane roared down the runway, then lifted, climbing steeply into the endless blue. As we broke through the clouds, the sun burst forth, a blinding, glorious golden light. It was a new dawn. A new life.