My Lover’s Fiancée Tried to Frame Me for Murder

The email arrives at 6:47 AM, three days after I walk out of the penthouse.

*Effective immediately, Isabelle Greene is terminated from all positions within Hall Enterprises. Security access revoked. Company assets to be returned within 24 hours.*

Dillon's signature sits at the bottom, digital and cold. I stare at my laptop screen in the cramped studio apartment I'm renting in Brooklyn—a far cry from silk wallpaper and terrace views. The coffee in my hand has gone cold.

I never officially worked for Hall Enterprises. No contract, no salary, no paper trail. Just seven years of whispered advice, of healing handshakes before crucial meetings, of my life force poured into Dillon's success like wine into a bottomless glass. But he's found a way to make it official just so he can take it away.

My phone buzzes. A news alert.

*Dillon Hall Transfers $8.5 Million in Assets to Fiancée Camila Young.*

The article includes photos—the Hamptons beach house where I nursed him back from that polo injury, the SoHo loft I decorated, the vintage Porsche I found at an estate sale. All of it signed over to her. All of it erased.

I trace my scar and feel nothing. Maybe I've finally run dry.

The Brightside Foster Center smells like industrial cleaner and broken promises. I started volunteering here yesterday, desperate for something to fill the hollow space where my purpose used to be. Healing without magic. Helping without cost.

"Miss Greene?" The director, a tired woman named Patricia, gestures toward the reading room. "We have a situation with Gemma again."

I find her in the corner, surrounded by a fortress of books. She's maybe nine, all sharp angles and suspicious eyes, her dark hair tangled like she cuts it herself. A half-eaten granola bar peeks from her pocket. Another one tucked in her sock.

"They're not going to take the books away," I say quietly, sitting cross-legged outside her barrier.

She doesn't look up from the page. "They always take things away."

"Not always."

"Always." She turns a page with careful precision. "People leave. Things disappear. That's just how it works."

I recognize the armor. I wore it myself once, before Dillon convinced me to take it off. Before I learned that sometimes the people you trust do the most damage.

"What are you reading?"

"*The Secret Garden.*" Her finger traces the words. "It's about a girl who finds a place that's just hers. Nobody can take it away because nobody else knows it exists."

My throat tightens. "That sounds perfect."

She finally looks at me, those dark eyes too old for her face. "You're sad."

"I am."

"Did someone take your garden?"

The laugh that escapes sounds broken. "Something like that."

Gemma considers this, then carefully tears her granola bar in half. Offers me the larger piece.

I take it, and something in my chest cracks open.

The photography studio in Midtown is all exposed brick and natural light. I'm here picking up prints for the foster center's fundraiser—donated headshots for the kids, something to make them feel seen.

"Isabelle Greene?"

Camila Young poses at the top of the wrought-iron staircase, backlit like an angel. Or a demon. Her phone is already raised, recording.

"What are you doing here?" I keep my voice level.

"Photo shoot for *Vogue*." She descends slowly, each step calculated for her livestream. Her followers are watching—I can see the comment count climbing. "Though I should ask you the same thing. Don't you have a penthouse to squat in? Oh wait."

I turn to leave. Her hand catches my shoulder.

"Dillon told me everything," she purrs. "About your little... healing tricks. How pathetic, really. Draining yourself for a man who never loved you."

My scar burns. "Get your hand off me."

"Or what? You'll push me?" Her eyes glitter with something vicious. "You'll hurt me? Hurt the baby?"

She's not pregnant. I can sense it—the absence of that second heartbeat, the lie sitting pretty behind her perfect smile.

"There is no baby."

"HELP!" Camila screams, and throws herself backward down the stairs.

She tumbles with practiced grace, landing in a heap at the bottom, her phone miraculously still recording. Blood blooms from a carefully placed cut on her forehead—she must have had a blade palmed.

"She pushed me!" Camila sobs, cradling her flat stomach. "My baby! She killed my baby!"

The studio staff rushes over. Cameras flash. I stand frozen at the top of the stairs, watching my life explode for the second time in a week.

Camila looks up at me through her tears and smiles.