Ex Husband, Prepare To Burn

Elara's POV

I followed Ian out of the fashion show and kept my distance, slipping behind a marble pillar in the corridor. My pulse was steady, trained to hide itself; my breath slow. From my hiding place I could hear him—low, flat—answering a call.

“You need to hurry up with Camila,” his mother’s voice snapped. “You’re thirty-three. Do you think you’re still young? This isn’t the old days. Stop clinging to nonsense ideals. Marrying her will be good for our family’s reputation. You’re a businessman, Ian. You should know the benefits.”

Her tone softened for one poisonous second. “As long as she can be a good wife, that’s enough.”

My fists tightened. The same manipulation, the same woman who once praised me as the perfect daughter-in-law.

Ian’s face didn’t move. “I know, Mum.”

“You always say you know,” she said. “But you never act on it.”

The call ended. Ian slid the phone into his pocket and exhaled. I ducked deeper behind the pillar, certain he’d sense something was off. I waited—then heard his voice again.

“Elara…”

My body froze.

Had he seen me?

No. His eyes weren’t on me. He’d seen—someone else. A woman walking toward the showroom caught his attention; from behind she looked like me—same height, same dress, the same dark waves of hair.

Ian straightened, pupils narrowing, and followed her.

I stayed where I was, breath held. Watching him trail after a stranger who looked like me brought a sharp, bitter satisfaction that tasted almost like victory.

When he reached her, he tapped her shoulder. “Elara?”

She turned, startled. Completely unfamiliar face.

“What do you want?” she asked, playful at the sight of his suit. “Want my number?”

Ian’s expression closed like a door. “Sorry. Wrong person.”

He left without another word. The woman stood there, stunned, then sneered. “What rubbish! You mistake me for someone else and can’t even see properly at night—are you a mole or what?”

Her insult hung in the air. Ian didn’t look back.

Not far off, I watched from the crowd—wearing the same dress as that woman, mask hiding the top half of my face. A small, cold smile curved my lips.

Ian, I thought, five years ago I respected you. I loved you and treasured you with my life. And what did you give me? You called me a nuisance, a burden. Fine.

I adjusted my mask until it sat right. This time, I promised myself, I’ll be your worst nightmare. I won’t let you hurt me again.

Memories clawed at me—his betrayal, the humiliation, Finn’s silence—but tonight wasn’t for pain. Tonight was about control.

The lights dimmed. Models began to parade down the runway, one breathtaking look after another. The hall shimmered and applauded; I sat very still, eyes fixed on the two people who had ruined me—Ian and Camila.

A cold prickle ran down my spine when Camila shifted and swept her gaze over the crowd. For a breathless second our eyes locked.

My pulse hit a faster tempo. Did she recognize me? I wondered.

Her brows moved for a second, then smoothed. The mask worked.

Evil witch, I murmured beneath my breath. You wanted me dead five years ago. Too bad for you—I survived. I’m back, and you will pay. For me. For Finn.

I blinked the sting of tears away before anyone could see.

Ian leaned in and tapped Camila’s shoulder. “Who are you looking at, Cam?”

She forced a smile, cupping his face. “Nothing, babe. I thought I saw an old friend.”

She kissed him. I stared at the stage instead—anger tempered into quiet resolve.

When the show ended, Camila was invited onstage to speak. She glided up with the confidence of a woman who’d planned every step. The microphone was in her hand, the lights on her. She opened her mouth—and the big screen behind her shuddered to life.

“Camila, please help me… please…”

A woman who looked exactly like me begged for help across the hall. The voice was trembling, raw.

The audience sucked in a collective breath.

Weeks of planning and a clever IT hand had made that video possible—an image designed to turn the room against her.

Camila froze, her face draining color. Murmurs rose like a tide.

This is only the beginning, I thought, my whisper drowned by the audience. The tip of the iceberg.

I lifted my glass and crushed it in my palm. The glass shattered, glittering like splintered promises.

Panic rippled through the crowd. Bottles and programs became missiles—paper, water, anything people could grab. Chaos surged toward the stage.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong with everyone?” Camila barked, panic slipping into her voice.

She spun toward Ian—but he stared at the screen, muscles tight.

“Who played that video?” she cried. “Turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”

She bolted for the wings, but the press swarmed her like bees, shouting questions.

“Ms. Camila, who is the woman in that video?” “Do you know her?” “Were you involved?”

“I— I don’t know her!” she stammered, sweat beading on her upper lip. “How would I know her?”

The flashes kept firing. The microphones kept asking.

When she finally looked for Ian, his chair was empty. Her face went ashen. She lunged after him. “Ian, listen—this is an accident! It’s not what you think!”

He stopped, turned slowly, and his voice was brittle as glass. “Then what is it, Camila?”

She went still. The color left her cheeks.

Ian’s jaw tightened. He released her arm like a burning coal and ordered, cold and curt, “Laura, take care of her. If anything happens, wait for me.”

Then he walked away.

I watched him go, a slow smile unfolding at the corner of my mouth.

Round one, Camila. Welcome to the beginning of your downfall.