She Didn’t Fix Her Reputation. She Threw It Away. Chapter 08

She Didn’t Fix Her Reputation. She Threw It Away. Chapter 08

The marble restroom was brightly lit, the air chilled.

I stared at my reflection. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes.

I’d barely slept since activating the Ghost Protocol.

I splashed cold water on my face.

The shock brought me back to the present.

I looked myself in the eye.

“Just one more day, Daphne,” I whispered. “Tomorrow, you’re free.”

When I returned to the party, the scene that greeted me stopped me in my tracks.

Anya was now occupying my usual spot on the sofa, nestled close to Beckett.

He was holding an antique brooch he’d just acquired from Sotheby’s, patiently explaining the intricacies of the craftsmanship to her.

He was focused, attentive.

I stood a short distance away, an invisible observer.

He’d once taught me to ride, but his patience had been thin.

“Your posture is too stiff, Daphne.”

“Just relax. It’s not that hard.”

But now, his voice was gentle as he spoke to Anya.

“Look at the cut work here. You have a real eye for this, baby.”

It turns out, the presence or absence of love is painfully obvious.

When dinner was announced, the butler called us to our seats.

I walked to the long, formal table and chose a seat as far from Beckett as possible.

My mother shot me a questioning glance.

I offered a polite, meaningless smile.

“I wanted to catch up with my cousin.”

In truth, I didn’t.

I was just tired.

I couldn’t bear to sit near him for one more minute.

On Saturday morning, I walked to my favorite French bakery on the Upper East Side.

I bought all the pastries I normally denied myself.

Almond croissants, caramel éclairs, and a mille-feuille layered with thick cream and fresh strawberries.

The owner, an elderly French woman, looked at the bags in my hands with wide eyes.

“Mon Dieu, Daphne! What is the occasion? Are you hosting a party?”

I smiled.

It was the first genuine smile that had reached my eyes in months.

“Something like that,” I said. “A celebration. For a new life.”

Yes.

A new life.

That afternoon, a team of men in plain work clothes arrived at my apartment.

They were quiet and efficient.

Part of the family’s crisis team, their job was to erase me.

My clothes, my books, my photographs—all my personal effects were packed not into moving boxes, but into black industrial trash bags.

These things weren’t being moved. They were being incinerated.

In the end, the apartment was just an empty shell.

My phone vibrated.

Beckett.

I answered but said nothing.

His easy laugh came through the line.

“Hey, haven’t heard from you all day. You’re not really trying to disappear on me, are you?”

He was right.

The collision of his ignorance and my reality was almost comical.

I said nothing. I just hung up.

I opened my photo gallery and found the last picture of us together.

It was from a summer party in the Hamptons.

We were both smiling perfectly for the camera.

I used to have so many questions for him.

I wanted to ask what the alliance between our families was really worth.

I wanted to ask if he’d felt even a flicker of guilt when he’d thrown me to the wolves to impress a model.

Now, I didn’t want to ask anything.

The answers were already there.

In the TMZ headline. In his careless tone.

I deleted the photo.

Then I deleted the entire album.

As dusk settled over the city, I slung a new, unbranded backpack over my shoulder.

I walked to the door, and my phone lit up one last time.

Still Beckett.

The text preview popped up.

“The dress for next week’s charity gala arrived. When are you coming over to try it on?”

I stared at the words for a moment, then held down the power button.

The screen went black.

Downstairs, a nondescript black sedan was waiting.

The car drove smoothly toward a private airfield in New Jersey.

A Gulfstream bound for Oregon was waiting on the tarmac.

As the plane took off, I looked down at the glittering expanse of New York City.

The lights were dazzling.

I imagined Beckett, probably standing in his penthouse, looking at that expensive Oscar de la Renta gown, frowning, completely unable to understand why I wasn’t playing my part.

So what?

Goodbye, Beckett Blake.

And goodbye, Daphne Wells.