She Didn’t Fix Her Reputation. She Threw It Away. Chapter 02

She Didn’t Fix Her Reputation. She Threw It Away. Chapter 02

“Daphne, darling, I’m so sorry,” she cooed, her voice dripping with false sincerity. “I had no idea it would get this big. Beckett just wanted to surprise me. I truly never meant to hurt you.”

She was making herself out to be the victim.

Instantly, the men in the background rushed to comfort her.

“Anya, this isn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, Daphne’s the one being dramatic. Don’t be upset.”

“You’re too kind, even worrying about her.”

My stomach churned.

I could picture the scene perfectly: Beckett, frowning, pulling that “frightened” woman close, annoyed that I had ruined their fun.

The engagement, the alliance between our families, the dignity I had guarded so carefully my entire life—it was all a joke.

I opened my eyes, a cold calm settling over me. Then I ended the call.

The world fell silent.

Less than a second later, Beckett called again.

I didn’t answer.

I watched his name flash across the screen before the call failed and his texts began pouring in.

“Daphne Wells! How dare you hang up on me!”

“Stop making a scene! I’ll book Per Se and we’ll smooth this over, okay?”

“Answer the damn phone!”

I silenced my phone and set it aside.

The screen went black.

I didn’t look at it again.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door.

The marble floor was cold against my feet. I lifted my head and stared into the mirror.

I should have recognized the face, but she was a stranger. Pale skin, a flicker of panic in her eyes, the ghost of a practiced party smile still clinging to her lips.

The TMZ headline echoed in my mind.

“Political Sweetheart’s Night of Shame.”

I could see the photo with my eyes closed.

I was propped up by Beckett’s friends, my expression vacant. Behind me, Anya flashed a peace sign at the camera.

The whole world was watching me break.

I turned on the faucet, twisting the handle until the water ran ice-cold.

I splashed my face again and again, the shock of the cold stealing my breath, as if I could wash away their stares, wash away the stain of Beckett.

It was useless.

Humiliation wasn’t a stain you could wash off.

It was a poison that had already seeped into my bones.

The cold made me tremble, but it also sharpened my thoughts.

This wasn’t a bad dream.

This was my reality.

A public crucifixion, orchestrated by the person I trusted most.

Then the phone rang in the living room.

Not my cell.

The landline, reserved for family emergencies.

I pulled on a robe and went to answer it.

“Daphne,” Mark, my mother’s chief of staff, said, his tone clipped. “I need a full account of what happened. The senator is facing midterms in three weeks. We need to assess the public impact.”

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

Not once.

“I’m fine,” I heard myself say. “There’s nothing to add. The photos are real. TMZ’s story is accurate enough.”

A two-second pause.

Then Mark’s voice turned colder.

“Understood. We’ll activate the crisis plan. From this moment on, you are not to speak to any media.”

“I understand.”

The line went dead.

I felt a strange sense of relief.

Maybe this was for the best.

How could I have explained it, anyway? *My fiancé set me up to be publicly humiliated, all to impress a model he’d known for less than a week.*

There was no way to spin that.