Reborn to Give Him up

The morning headlines were brutal, but by afternoon, I noticed something unexpected—the media frenzy was beginning to stutter.

Eleanor knocked on my office door, her usually perfect composure showing the first cracks I'd seen in weeks. "Miss Bennett, the afternoon talk shows are pulling back from the story. Three major outlets declined to run follow-up pieces."

I looked up from the quarterly reports I'd been reviewing with mechanical precision. "Why?"

"They're saying there's no new content. No breakdowns, no dramatic responses, no... substance to sustain the narrative." She set a tablet on my desk, showing declining social media engagement metrics. "Your silence is suffocating their story."

A bitter smile tugged at my lips. In my past life, I would have been sobbing in bathroom stalls by now, providing them with endless material. But this version of me—this cold, calculating version—was apparently too boring for sustained scandal.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

That evening, the Children's Hospital Foundation gala provided the perfect testing ground for my theory. The Metropolitan Museum's Great Hall glittered with crystal and ambition, New York's elite gathered ostensibly for charity but really for the complex social chess game that governed our world.

I chose my armor carefully—a deep emerald Dior gown that made my skin look porcelain, paired with understated diamond earrings. In the mirror, I looked untouchable. Exactly the image I needed to project.

The first attack came within minutes of my arrival.

"Theo! Darling!" A woman in her forties rushed toward me, her voice pitched to carry across the crowded cocktail reception. I didn't recognize her face, but her overly familiar tone set off every alarm in my head.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" I asked politely.

Her laugh was too bright, too rehearsed. "Oh, don't be silly! We've known each other for years. Remember that time at the Hamptons when you were crying about Dominic? You said you'd do anything to make him notice you."

Conversations around us paused. Phones appeared, cameras discretely angled in our direction. I felt the familiar weight of scrutiny, but this time it didn't crush me.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," I said calmly. "If you'll excuse me."

I moved away before she could respond, but the damage was done. Whispers followed in my wake like smoke.

The second ambush came during the silent auction. A young man in an expensive suit approached while I was examining a vintage Cartier necklace, his phone already in his hand.

"Miss Bennett, I have something I think you'll find interesting," he said, loud enough for the surrounding bidders to hear.

Before I could respond, he was playing a video on his phone. The sound was muted, but I didn't need audio to recognize the scene—me, two years ago, on my knees in Dominic's penthouse lobby, begging him to reconsider our relationship.

My stomach lurched, but I kept my expression neutral. Around us, people were craning their necks to see, some pulling out their own phones to record my reaction.

"That's a violation of privacy laws," I said quietly. "I trust you'll delete that footage."

The man smirked. "It's already public record, sweetheart. Posted on three different social media platforms."

He was lying—I would have known if that video had surfaced before. But his confidence suggested he had powerful backing. The kind of backing that could make private humiliations very public.

I turned and walked away without another word, leaving him holding his phone like a weapon that had failed to fire.

The third assault was the most sophisticated.

During dinner, I found myself seated next to Margaret Ashford, a woman I'd known peripherally for years. She was perfectly polite through the first course, making pleasant conversation about the foundation's work. But as the main course arrived, her tone shifted.

"I have to say, Theo, I admire your resilience," she said, cutting her salmon with surgical precision. "After everything with Dominic, to bounce back so quickly... though I suppose Charles Easton is quite the catch."

I took a sip of wine, saying nothing.

"Of course," Margaret continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried to the tables around us, "one does wonder about the timing. So sudden, after years of... well, we all saw how devoted you were. Some people are saying this engagement is just a rebound. A way to save face."

She paused, watching for my reaction. When I remained silent, she pressed harder.

"There are even rumors that Mr. Easton himself sees this as temporary. A business arrangement that will quietly dissolve once the media attention dies down." Her smile was razor-sharp. "After all, men like Charles Easton don't typically marry women with such... complicated romantic histories."

The words hit their mark, but I'd been expecting them. In my peripheral vision, I could see phones recording, society bloggers taking notes. This wasn't casual gossip—it was orchestrated character assassination.

"Margaret," I said finally, my voice carrying just enough to reach the surrounding tables, "I've always admired your ability to stay informed about other people's business. It must take considerable effort."

Her smile faltered slightly. "I'm just concerned for you, dear. As a friend."

"How thoughtful." I turned back to my dinner, effectively ending the conversation.

But the damage was spreading. I could see it in the way conversations shifted when I passed, in the knowing looks exchanged across the room. By dessert, the whispers had crystallized into a single, devastating narrative:

Charles Easton would never actually marry damaged goods like Theodora Bennett.

The final blow came during the foundation's presentation. As I stood to applaud the evening's honorees, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. The message contained a single link to a private Instagram story.

I clicked it, and my blood turned to ice.

It was a video of Shay Rivers at some exclusive rooftop bar, surrounded by Manhattan's social media influencers. Her voice was perfectly audible over the ambient music:

"Poor Theo thinks she's found her prince, but Charles Easton? Please. He's old money, darling—they don't marry desperate social climbers. This whole engagement is just a polite way of keeping her occupied until she finds someone more... suitable to her actual status."

Laughter rippled through her audience. Someone asked if she thought the engagement would last.

Shay's smile was pure venom. "Sweetheart, I give it three months. Maybe less."

The video had been posted an hour ago. Already, it had hundreds of views and dozens of shares.

I slipped my phone back into my clutch and finished applauding, my hands steady despite the rage burning in my chest. Around me, the gala continued its glittering dance, but I could feel the shift in the room's energy. The story was spreading in real-time, whispered from table to table, shared through private group chats and exclusive social media circles.

By tomorrow morning, all of New York would know that even my own engagement was considered a joke.

Shay must believe she has won this chess, mustn’t her?

Well. She’d see.