His Trophy Fiancée, Her redemption

ELENA

My apartment felt colder than usual.

Not because of the weather, but because the moment I stepped inside, the silence hit me like a sledgehammer, heavy, suffocating and echoing with memories I suddenly wanted to rip out of my skull.

Then I saw them.

My sketches.

Piled neatly on the table exactly where I left them the night before Clifford’s betrayal shattered my world.

I froze.

The sunlight streaming through my window caught the edges of the papers, and the delicate strokes of pencil looked almost beautiful… almost alive.

Designs I had poured myself into, designs I stayed awake for nights sketching, designs that were supposed to debut under his company, designs that would’ve broken yet another record for him.

My breath stilled.

Slowly, I walked toward the table and picked up the top page.

The gown was intricate. Bold. Dramatic. The kind of piece that would own runways and silence a room. Every line was strong, every curve intentional. It was me. Everything I was. Everything I gave.

And Clifford would’ve showcased it with pride while betraying me behind my back.

A small crack sounded in the quiet room.

It took me a second to realize it came from me—my breath catching, my heart splintering with a pain I didn’t think could get any worse.

I pressed the sketch to my chest, shaking.

“He used me,” I whispered into the empty room. “He used everything.”

My knees gave out and I slid to the floor, clutching the design like it was the last piece of my dignity.

For a few minutes, I let the tears come. Hot, silent, weakening tears.

I hated crying. I hated that Clifford still had that much power over me.

When I finally pulled myself together, I stood and headed for my laptop. My fingers trembled as I typed out the shortest resignation letter in history.

Dear Wells Fashion Enterprise,

This is to officially notify you of my resignation, effective immediately.

-Elena Hart

I hit send before I could think too hard about it.

And just like that, three years of my life were gone.

Over the next few days, I submitted my portfolio to every major fashion house in Texas, smaller companies, and independent brands. Even startups that didn’t have offices bigger than shoeboxes.

Every single one rejected me.

Some politely, most not.

At one interview, the HR woman didn’t even let me sit down before she said,

“Oh… you’re that Elena. We don’t want trouble.”

Another muttered under her breath, “Should’ve stayed loyal to Clifford.”

I left before I punched her.

Online was worse. One would think that the tension would've simmered over the past few days but everyday, there were new trending hashtags, memes even.

#ElenaTheCheater, #DesignerSlut, #PowellSavedHimself, #CheapBride

Millions of strangers, ready to judge, to mock, to spit on my name without ever hearing my side.

I stopped looking after day three, stopped leaving the curtains open, stopped eating full meals.

Every morning, I tried—God, I tried—to keep applying everywhere. But each rejection carved another piece out of me.

By the fifth day, even my reflection looked like a stranger, pale and tired. And by the sixth day…

I snapped.

I walked out of my last interview with my designs in hand, the HR manager’s snide “Not with your reputation, sweetheart” still ringing in my ears.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t shout.

I just walked—straight to the nearest bar.

The neon sign buzzed overhead as I pushed the door open. The strong scent of whiskey, sweat, and hopelessness wrapped around me like a blanket too heavy to remove.

Tonight, I wasn’t here to forget.

I was here to drown.

I slid onto the bar stool and slapped a twenty down. “Anything strong,” I murmured.

The bartender raised a brow. “You look like you’ve had a long week.”

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

He poured. I drank.

And drank.

And drank.

The burn felt good, sharp enough to distract me, heavy enough to dull the ache in my chest.

But the more I drank, the fuzzier the room became. The faces blurred, the music thumped, my head swayed.

That’s when a rough voice slithered behind me.

“Well, well… look who we have here.”

I turned sluggishly and saw a man with a sleazy smile, alcohol-breath, eyes crawling down my body like I was prey.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart.”

“No, thanks,” I muttered, turning away.

His hand clamped on my wrist.

“I wasn’t asking.”

A cold bolt of fear shot down my spine.

“Let go,” I hissed, pulling, my voice trembling with the alcohol fog mixing with pure dread.

He grinned wider and leaned closer. “Come on, don’t be like that…”

A shadow swept between us.

A tall figure with broad shoulders wearing a black shirt.

And his voice sliced the air clean.

“She said let go.”

The man released me instantly.

I blinked up at the stranger, vision swimming, barely making out the sharp jawline, the dark hair, the piercing stare fixed on my harasser.

“Who the hell are you?” the guy spat.

The stranger stepped closer, a calm, cold and dangerous aura exuding from him. “The one who’ll break your nose if you touch her again.”

The creep backed off, muttering curses before disappearing into the crowd.

My savior turned to me.

“Are you okay?”

But the room was spinning. My mouth barely moved.

“My ex… he… I can’t—” Words tangled and blurred “Did he send you? To frame me?”

The man frowned. “What? I don’t even know who your ex is.”

“I just…everyone…everyone hates me…” My vision blurred at the edges.

“Okay,” he said softly, steadying me with a firm grip, “you’re drunk. Let’s get you somewhere safe before you pass out.”

I tried to protest. Tried to push him away.

But the world tilted and everything went black.

~~~~

I woke up to an unfamiliar ceiling. White, pristine, almost too clean. My head throbbed like someone was hammering inside it. Slowly, the memories trickled back—the bar, the drinks, the creep who tried to touch me.

I bolted upright… and froze.

A man was sitting across from me. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in crisp black trousers and a fitted shirt. His dark hair fell perfectly, and his piercing silver-blue eyes scanned some papers on the table—my designs.

My heart leapt into my throat.

“W-What are you doing here?” I croaked, my voice hoarse from panic and alcohol.

He looked up, calm, almost amused. “You’re awake. Good. I was starting to think you’d sleep through the apocalypse.”

I scrambled backward, clutching the blanket around me like a shield. My thoughts raced. Did… did he take advantage of me last night?

“Don’t you dare move closer!” I shouted, panic spiking. “I…I know what happened last night, and if you think—”

He raised a hand, interrupting me with a smirk. “Relax. Nothing happened. You didn’t even remember me, did you?”

My brows furrowed. “Remember you? Who the hell are you?”

He leaned back, still holding my designs with one hand, and tilted his head. “That’s surprising. You’ve met me before?”

I stared at him. Confused. My head still buzzed from the alcohol and stress, but something about him… familiar.

“Last night… at the club… you,” I faltered. “You were… you were the one who…”

“Saved you from getting raped?” he finished for me, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yes. That would be me. The tall, dark, irresistible hero.”

I blinked. “Right… you were a… club… stripper?”

He chuckled, dark and low. “No. Not even close. But thanks for the compliment.”

I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I—I… I’m sorry. I thought…”

“Thought I would take advantage of a drunk girl? Really?” His silver-blue eyes pierced mine. “Do you think I need to lower myself to that? There are women who would pay me just for that. I don’t. You should feel honored.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Instead, I muttered under my breath, “I’m just… careful. I never know… my fiancé could—my ex fiancé-”

“Your ex-fiancé?” His brow, quirked. “You have an ex-fiancé?”

I narrowed my gaze. “Yes.” Everybody in the world knew about the ‘scandal,’

“I didn’t know,” he said calmly. “The last time I saw you, you were single.”

“You… we’ve met before?” I asked, cautiously.

“You don’t remember me? He looked genuinely confused and so was I because what the hell?