My Death Was Just The Start

Ella Robles POV

I stormed out of the penthouse, leaving the shattered pieces of my life behind. The hallway, silent moments before, erupted into a cacophony of whispers and camera flashes. The hotel lobby buzzed with guests, their phones pointed upwards, like vultures circling. News crews had arrived, their microphones thrust forward, eager for a scoop.

"It's true! I heard screaming!"

"Someone jumped!"

"No, it was a fight! A love triangle!"

"That woman, the one in white, she was attacking him!"

Barbara, who had followed me out, saw the crowd and froze. Her carefully constructed facade cracked. Her social standing, her image, was everything to her.

"Look, it's her!" A woman in the crowd pointed at me. "The mistress! She broke up their wedding!"

Barbara gasped, her face pale. "No! It's not me!" She clutched Dexter's arm, her eyes wide with panic. "Ella, tell them! Tell them I'm the fiancée! Tell them!"

All eyes turned to me. The cameras zoomed in. The whispers grew louder. "Isn't she that counselor from the non-profit? The one with the messed-up past?"

"I heard she had a rough childhood. Abusive stepfather, severe depression. Maybe she snapped."

"She always seemed a bit off, trying too hard to be normal."

A name surfaced in my mind, unbidden. Jasper. The boy who'd once told me, "If you ever need me, I'll find you." I hadn't thought of him in years.

I remembered Barbara's pleas when she got caught cheating on an exam in college. I took the blame. "Just say you weren't feeling well, Ella. Say you copied my notes by accident. My parents will kill me if I fail." I did it, protected her, always. Now she expected me to lie for her again.

"It's not what you think," I tried to say, my voice weak, overwhelmed by the chaos.

Suddenly, Dexter stepped forward, his arm around Barbara, pulling her close. "This woman," he announced, his voice booming over the crowd, "is Ella Robles. She's been a client at our foundation's crisis center for three years. She's struggling with severe depression and a history of trauma. She's unstable."

My breath hitched. He just exposed my deepest vulnerabilities. My past, my illness, everything I had fought to overcome. He weaponized my pain. The cold, calculated cruelty of it froze me.

I remembered Dexter's soothing words in my darkest moments, his promises to protect my secrets. "Your past won't define you, Ella. I'll always be here for you." Now, those words, once a beacon of hope, twisted into a sharp, poisonous blade, cutting me open for the world to see.

The crowd erupted. Their sympathy for me turned to disgust. "Unstable? She works with vulnerable people!"

"She needs help, not a wedding!"

"She's dangerous!"

Someone threw a crumpled napkin. It hit my face. Then a plastic bottle. It glanced off my shoulder. Barbara, seeing the projectiles, quickly pulled me in front of her, using me as a shield.

A discarded champagne flute flew through the air, hitting my temple. A searing pain shot through my head. Warm blood trickled down my cheek. The crowd gasped, then scattered, shocked by the sudden violence.

In the ensuing chaos, someone shoved me from behind. I stumbled, losing my footing on the grand marble staircase. I tumbled down, hitting each step with sickening thuds. A sharp, unbearable pain ripped through my lower abdomen. I cried out.

"Help me!" I screamed, desperately reaching out toward Dexter and Barbara, who stood at the top of the stairs, watching. Dexter hesitated, a flicker of something, guilt perhaps, in his eyes. But Barbara grabbed his arm, pulling him back. Her expression was triumphant.

The world went black. I passed out, the last thing I felt was the burning pain in my gut, and the bitter taste of betrayal.