Let The Wind Whispers My Farewell

Before the show, Victor’s stepsister Abigail cut my safety rope. I was performing a dance 30 feet in the air—one wrong move and I’d hit the ground, broken without a chance of recovery.

Sharp-eyed fans dug up Abigail’s personal information and by the next day, limited-edition lingerie mystery boxes featuring my high-def private photos were flying off the shelves online.

I turned to my manager and fiance, Victor Whytton, for help, but outside the VIP room, I overheard him laughing with no care.

“Man, I’ve done you a solid! Let’s see who gets the hot mystery edition, complete with the real deal pics!”

“Ugh, these stockings are the standard ones, right? But hey, they’ve got some flavor! Big thanks to Vic for the generous share!”

“Come on, Mr. Whytton, Faith’s your fiancée and the artist you’ve poured money into to make famous. Aren’t you worried she’ll flip out, break up with you and leave you with nothing?”

Victor twirled a sexy pair of panties around his finger, his motions languid, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Her? She’s got nothing, I hold her life in my hands. She’s just waiting for me to ask her to marry me. Besides, she’s been exposed already—who else would even dare to take her on?”

Amid the mocking laughter, a timid lackey stood up.

“But Faith hasn’t done anything wrong! The fans just wanted Abigail to apologize—they only leaked a few public life photos, not even really bullying her online!”

Victor’s expression twisted with rage. He lashed out, kicking the guy twice before grinding his polished dress shoe into his chest.

“The hell are you barking for? Abby is sweet and innocent—she looked up to Faith like an idol! And just because she accidentally brushed against the safety rope, Faith manipulated her fans on Abby and turned the internet against her. So what if I sold a few of her lingerie sets as payback? Is that really so extreme?”

The other lackeys, eager to please, jumped in and beat the guy bloody.

The sickening thuds of fists against flesh landed like blows to my own heart, leaving my chest tight and numb.

——

Their flattery never stopped.

“Vic, you’re a genius! We made millions in one night! And Faith’s fans? Dumb as hell—shelling out $999 for bargain-bin lingerie that costs cents to produce. We couldn’t keep up with demand!”

“You don’t get it—Mr. Whytton had it all planned out! The lingerie wasn’t even the main attraction. The real money’s in the collector’s cards inside—high-def, private shots of Faith in matching sets. He printed thousands of them!”

“She acts all high and mighty, but turns out she knows exactly how to please a man. Bet she’s been treating you real nice, huh, Vic?”

That last bit hit just right—Victor soaked up the praise, smug and satisfied.

He stomped down heavily on my younger brother's chest a few times.

"I'm in a good mood today, so I'll spare you. Everyone, listen up—Abby is my treasure. If anyone dares lay a finger on her, I'll drag them down into the mud and they’ll never get back up. Not even Faith is an exception! A mere bedwarmer thinks she can rise above Abby? Dream on!"

My younger brother, now groveling at Victor's feet, quickly changed his tune, joining the others in branding me as nothing more than a shameless woman.

The atmosphere in the room grew lively again.

After a few rounds of drinks, Victor's fellow rich colleague got emboldened by the alcohol. He suggested, "A few hundred grand is nothing. Mr. Whytton, don’t you have something more exciting for us? Let's do something big, take it to the next level!"

Victor gave him a smug, "You’re on the right track" kind of look, then started rummaging through his phone and casually connected it to the screen.

I was a dancer, so I was used to being filmed.

On the big screen, my graceful dance moves and delicate face were on full display. But I never imagined that one day, the screen would show me flushed with desire.

The constant pointing and mocking felt like daggers stabbing straight into my chest.

What drowned me out wasn’t applause. It was an overwhelming tide of shame.

I gripped the door handle tightly, my nails digging into my palm. The blood stained the glass door, but I still couldn’t bring myself to open it.