Revenge Marriage: The Jilted Ballerina's Comeback

Daphne exited the building. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses she found in the foyer and a baseball cap Charlton had left on the counter. The doorman, usually friendly, looked at his shoes as she passed. She stepped onto 5th Avenue. The air was humid and oppressive. The rain had stopped, leaving the city steaming like a sauna. She kept her head down. A group of teenagers walked by. They were glued to their phones. One of them looked up. She stopped. She pointed a manicured finger at Daphne. "That's her," the girl whispered loud enough for Daphne to hear. "The meltdown girl." The group giggled. Paranoia set in. Daphne pulled the cap lower. She felt like every set of eyes on the street was a laser burning into her skin. She walked past a newsstand. Her face was on the cover of a tabloid. It was a photo from years ago, distorted to make her look crazy. Headline: ROSE REJECT: FROM HEIRESS TO HOT MESS. Her phone vibrated in the pocket of the shirt. She checked it. Another text from an unknown number. Gold digger slut. Leave Campbell alone. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, her heart racing. She needed aspirin. Her head was splitting. She ducked into a pharmacy on the corner. The fluorescent lights were harsh. She grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of aspirin. She went to the self-checkout to avoid human interaction. She scanned the items. She inserted her personal debit card. Beep. DECLINED. Daphne stared at the screen. She tried again. Beep. DECLINED. CONTACT ISSUER. "Insufficient funds," the machine droned in a robotic, humiliatingly loud voice. Daphne froze. The Rose family. They had frozen her accounts. They had cut her off completely. "Come on, lady," a man behind her groaned. "Move it." Humiliation washed over her, hot and prickling. She remembered the heavy black card in her pocket. She hesitated. Using it felt like accepting the deal. It felt like selling her soul. "I... sorry," she mumbled. She put the aspirin back on the shelf. She walked out of the store, her headache pounding a rhythm against her skull. Outside, hunger pangs hit her. Sharp and cramping. She hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. She walked to Central Park and sat on a bench. She watched a couple walking a dog. They looked happy. Normal. She replayed Charlton's words. Sensible got you dumped. She realized she had zero agency right now. She was a victim. She was a punchline. She was broke. A rustle in the bushes made her jump. A man with a massive camera lens jumped out from behind a hydrangea bush. Click click click. The shutter sound was like gunfire. "Daphne! Did you sleep with Charlton for the money?" the paparazzi shouted, getting closer. Daphne covered her face with her hands, curling inward. "Leave me alone!" "Just one comment! How much did he pay you?" Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun. A large hand grabbed the camera lens and shoved it down. "Back off," a deep voice growled. Daphne looked up. It was a mountain of a man in a black suit. He had an earpiece. "Ms. Flynn?" the man said, his voice changing to something gentle. "Mr. Bernard sent me." He gestured to a black SUV idling at the curb. "He said you might need a ride." Daphne looked at the paparazzi, who was now retreating, intimidated. Then she looked at the secure, tinted windows of the SUV. She realized Charlton had been watching her. Protecting her. Even when she walked away. She stood up. Her legs were shaky. "Take me away from here," she said.