Helene Richard POV:
The penthouse was a cage, albeit a gilded one. Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of despair and numbness. The wound on my head had scabbed over, a physical reminder of Garrett's casual brutality. My mother's funeral was a blur of polite condolences and Celsa's icy efficiency. She made sure I was there, the grieving widow, the picture of decorum, even while she subtly controlled every interaction.
I sat alone in my study, the sleek, minimalist room feeling more like a tomb. Empty coffee cups littered the mahogany desk. My phone lay beside them, a beacon of a world I felt increasingly disconnected from. I picked it up, my fingers hovering over a contact I hadn't dialed in years. Ellison Gray. My former mentor from journalism school. He' d always seen something in me, something beyond the polished anchor persona. He ran a rival digital news network now, known for its integrity and fierce independence.
I typed a message. Ellison, it's Helene. I need a lifeline. Anything. I hit send, a desperate prayer escaping my lips. The act itself felt like a transgression, a tiny spark of rebellion in the suffocating darkness.
Just then, the door to my study burst open. Garrett. He looked disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He' d probably been drinking for days. His gaze fell on my phone.
"Who are you talking to?" he demanded, his voice thick with suspicion. "Still plotting your escape, Helene? Still trying to steal my family's legacy?"
I met his gaze, my face devoid of emotion. "I'm leaving, Garrett. The divorce papers are filed. There's nothing you can do to stop it."
He stalked towards me, his jaw clenched. "You honestly think so? You think you can just walk away from the Wise name, from everything we' ve given you, and expect to land on your feet? You're nothing without us, Helene." He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "You're a Midwestern charity case we polished up."
"I was a successful anchor before I met you," I retorted, the words tasting bitter. "And I'll be one again."
He grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. His grip was rough. "No, you won't. I'll make sure of it. I'll destroy your career, Helene. I'll make sure no one ever trusts you on screen again. You'll be a pariah."
I didn't flinch. His threats, once terrifying, now felt hollow. I was already a pariah in my own home, in my own life. "Do your worst," I whispered, the words barely audible. "You can't hurt me anymore than you already have."
His eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he let go, pushing me back into the chair. "You think you're so strong, don't you? So independent." He scoffed. "Let's see how strong you are when you have nothing." He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door.
His words were prophetic. Within hours, the first blow landed. My agent called, his voice strained. "Helene, GNN just... suspended you. Indefinitely. Citing 'ethical concerns' related to your personal life."
Ethical concerns. A gut punch. They were using his affair, his scandal, against me.
The next morning, an official email landed in my inbox: Termination of Employment. It listed a fabricated ethics violation, a supposed breach of journalistic integrity during a past report on Wise Capital, a report Garrett himself had approved. The lie was so blatant, so audacious, it made my stomach churn.
I walked into the GNN offices one last time. My pass key no longer worked. A security guard, a man who had greeted me with a smile for years, blocked my path.
"Ms. Richard," he said, his voice flat, "I'm afraid you're no longer permitted inside."
"I need to clear my desk," I stated, my voice calm, though my hands trembled.
Just then, the head of HR, a woman known for her viperous ambition, emerged from her office. "Helene," she purred, her eyes shining with malicious glee. "Such a shame. But as we discussed, the network cannot tolerate such a blatant disregard for our ethical standards."
"You're fabricating a reason," I said, my voice rising slightly. "This is Garrett's doing."
She just smirked. "Your personal life, Ms. Richard, has become a liability to GNN. We have no choice but to sever ties. Effective immediately."
I stood there, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. My career. My identity. Gone. Just like he promised.
I turned to leave, but she wasn't finished. "Oh, and Helene," she called out, a cruel smile on her face, "you might want to prepare yourself. We've arranged a little... farewell."
Before I could ask what she meant, a group of burly men, not GNN security, suddenly appeared from around the corner. They surrounded me. One of them grabbed my arm, his grip like iron.
"What are you doing?" I cried, struggling against him. "Let go of me!"
They dragged me, not towards the exit, but towards the main lobby, towards the glaring studio lights. Panic surged through me. This wasn't just a firing. This was a public execution.
The lobby was packed. Not with employees, but with paparazzi, their cameras flashing like a thousand tiny explosions. Microphones were shoved in my face. The questions came in a torrent: "Helene, is it true you accepted bribes from Wise Capital?" "Did you manipulate reports for your husband's benefit?" "Are you a fraud?"
My head snapped up. "No!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "These are lies! Garrett is behind this!"
One of the men twisted my arm behind my back, forcing me to my knees. The flashbulbs popped, capturing my humiliation. I looked up, desperate, and saw a familiar face, shining with triumph amidst the chaos. Daphne McClure. She stood at the edge of the crowd, a smug smile plastered on her perfectly made-up face.
She stepped forward, a microphone in her hand, dressed in a pristine white suit. "Helene," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern, "I'm so sorry it's come to this. But the truth always comes out, doesn't it?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper meant for the cameras. "You know, Garrett always told me you'd do anything for money. And to think, you even used our son as a pawn."
My blood ran cold. "You manipulative bitch!" I spat, all pretense of composure crumbling. "You set this up!" I gathered what little strength I had left and launched forward, spitting directly in her face.
Daphne shrieked, recoiling in disgust, her white suit now marred with my saliva. Her face twisted with pure rage. She raised her hand, and before I could react, her nails raked across my cheek, leaving four burning red lines.
"You'll pay for that, Helene," she hissed, her eyes blazing. She pulled out her phone, dialing quickly. "Garrett? She just assaulted me. And she's still denying everything. She needs to confess. Publicly."
She held the phone to my ear. Garrett's voice, cold and devoid of any human emotion, sliced through the noise. "Helene," he said, "I warned you. Confess. Admit everything. Or I will ensure you never see Kellen again. And your mother' s hospital bills? Guess who' s paying for those now?" His words were a final, crushing blow. My mother. She was gone, but the bills remained. My only protection, gone.
My breath hitched. The weight of it all, the betrayal, the public humiliation, the loss of my mother, Kellen's twisted words, Garrett's chilling threat – it was too much. My knees buckled. I sagged, a puppet with its strings cut.
"Now, Helene," Daphne's voice was a venomous whisper, "tell everyone the truth. For the cameras. For your son. And for your freedom." She held a microphone to my trembling lips.
My voice was barely a croak. "I... I confess," I choked out, the words tasting like poison. "I misused my position. I… I breached GNN's ethical code." The camera lights flashed, capturing my brokenness.
"And what about the bribes?" Daphne prompted, her smile triumphant.
"Yes," I whispered, tears finally, belatedly, streaming down my face. "I accepted bribes. From Wise Capital." Each word was a self-inflicted wound.
"And how do you feel about your actions?" she pushed, her voice sickeningly sweet.
My head swam. I saw the triumphant sneer on her face, the pitying looks of the few GNN employees who dared to watch. I saw my entire life, my reputation, my identity, shattered into a million pieces on the polished lobby floor. My hand, still trembling, slowly rose to my face. I brought it down, hard, against my own cheek. A stinging, cracking sound echoed through the silent lobby. Then again. And again. Each slap a desperate act of self-annihilation, broadcast live.
The cameras kept flashing, capturing every agonizing detail of my public disgrace.
