Veritas Unveiled

Olivia’s POV :

My lips ache from forcing the same polite curve I’ve worn for a decade . I glide through the Waldorf Astoria’s grand ballroom , my emerald gown catching the glow of chandeliers that drip like liquid starlight.

The air hums ; jazz notes curl from a quartet in the corner, glasses clink like tiny bells , and whispers of Manhattan’s elite weave through the crowd. My chest feels tight , as if I’m sipping air through a straw . Marcus, my husband , is late again, his absence a familiar bruise blooming beneath my ribs .

“Olivia , you’re radiant!”

Sophia Reyes , my best friend, air-kisses my cheek, her dark curls brushing my shoulder. Her journalist’s eyes , sharp as a camera lens, study me.

“Where’s Marcus ? Closing another deal ?”

“Something like that ,” I say , my voice light despite the twist in my gut . My fingers graze the diamond bracelet he gave me last anniversary ; cold, heavy, like a shackle disguised as a gift .

“You’re scaring me , Liv,” she says, softer , her hand lingering on my arm. “ You’re too quiet tonight .”

“Just tired,” I lie , sipping champagne. The bubbles sear my throat, sharp and bitter. “I’ll find him.”

Sophia’s brow arches, skeptical. “Holler if you need backup, okay?”

“ Always ,” I say , forcing a smile that feels like glass.

I weave through sequined gowns and tailored tuxedos , my heels sinking into the plush crimson carpet . The gala’s for children’s hospitals , my heart’s work ; the one thing Marcus hasn’t stripped from me.

He calls it “ pointless pageantry ,” his voice dripping with disdain when I pitch fundraisers over dinner . My eyes dart across the ballroom — where is he ?

A low , smug laugh stops me cold, filtering through a velvet curtain near the rosewood-paneled terrace doors . Marcus’s voice ; unmistakable, laced with that charming arrogance he wields like a weapon .

“You’re the spark I need , Chloe,” he says. “Olivia’s a boring charity case , clinging to my name.”

My breath catches in my throat , a needle piercing my throat.

Chloe Beaumont, that upstart designer with her bleached highlights and imitative dresses , giggles ; a sharp, glittering sound that cuts deeper than his words .

“Poor Olivia ,” she purrs . “No edge , no fire.”

My hands tremble , the champagne flute nearly slipping from my fingers . I edge closer , my pulse roaring louder than the quartet’s saxophone . Through a slit in the curtain , I see them ; Marcus’s hand sliding down Chloe’s back , her scarlet dress clinging like a lover’s promise .

My stomach lurches ; tears prick my eyes, sharp as shattered crystal .

“ Her gown’s so dated ,” Chloe says , leaning into him, her lips brushing his ear . “Like she’s stuck in a museum.”

“She is a museum,” Marcus chuckles, his hand tightening on her waist. “You’re my future, darling.”

The ballroom tilts ; chandeliers blur into starbursts, the jazz turning discordant. Ten years flash through me: Marcus dismissing my sketches, leaving me alone at candlelit dinners, his voice cold when I dared mention my dreams.

And now this , cheating with her, a woman who builds her career on knockoffs.

My throat tightens , a sob clawing to escape , but I swallow it , my lips pressed into a thin line.

A waiter passes , and my elbow catches a tray . A glass tumbles , shattering on the marble floor with a crystalline crash that echoes like my breaking heart .

Heads turn ; eyes of socialites and donors pinning me . I force my spine straight , my chin high, refusing to let them see me crack .

“Liv?”

Sophia’s at my side , her voice low , urgent . “You’re shaking. What the hell happened?”

“Nothing,” I whisper, my voice cracking like thin ice. “I need air.”

“ You’re not okay ,” she says, gripping my wrist , her bangles clinking. “Talk to me , now.”

“ Later ,” I say , pulling free , my heels unsteady . “Cover for me, Soph. Please.”

Her eyes search mine , worry etched in her frown . “ I’ve got you , but don’t disappear on me.”

I slip through the terrace doors , the November air biting my bare shoulders like a reprimand . The city pulses below ; neon signs flicker, taxis hum , the skyline glittering like a taunt.

I grip the wrought-iron railing , my bracelet digging into my wrist until it feels like it might draw blood .

Boring charity case.

The words sear deeper than the cold , each syllable a blade carving away the life I’ve built .

I think of Veritas , my secret fashion brand , hidden under my maiden name , Harper. Sketches locked in a drawer in my studio , a recent Instagram drop sparking whispers among influencers — # VeritasVibes trending with thousands of likes .

It’s my lifeline , my truth ; but it’s fragile . Underfunded, unknown, a dream Marcus mocked as “childish scribbles.”

Can I keep it alive if I leave him ?

The quartet’s music drifts out , a mournful saxophone curling through the air . I linger , my breath fogging in the chill .

Divorce feels like the only path , but the cost ; social ruin , losing my place in this glittering world—looms like a shadow .

I’m an orphan who clawed her way into this life , hiding my Harper family inheritance from Marcus to keep his ego from bruising .

Was it all for nothing ?

I can’t face the ballroom again , not with their eyes on me .

I hail a cab , the city blurring past as I head to our penthouse .

The silence inside is deafening ; black marble counters gleam under recessed lights , floor-to-ceiling windows framing a skyline that feels like it’s mocking me .

My heels echo as I pace , my gown swishing like a whisper of defiance.

I stop at Marcus’s study , the door ajar . His laptop sits open , a careless habit I’ve always hated.

My fingers hover over the keyboard , guilt prickling . This feels like crossing a line ; but his words ; charity case , clinging to my name—push me forward.

I need answers .

The screen glows , emails loading. I scroll , my heart pounding.

One catches my eye , from Chloe’s account: “Funds secured for CB Designs . Offshore accounts ready .”

My breath hitches . Offshore accounts ?

It’s vague , no smoking gun—but it smells wrong . Too clean . Too convenient .

Is Marcus laundering money through her tacky label ?

I dig deeper , finding only cryptic references to “transfers” and “discreet partners.” No proof , not yet , but my gut screams he’s hiding something .

I screenshot the email , my hands shaking , and send it to my phone.

I head to my room , the weight of the night pressing down .

In a locked drawer , I pull out divorce papers I drafted months ago , my intuition whispering this day might come .

My lawyer’s card sits beside them , my signature : Olivia Harper, not Warrick ; bold on the page.

I’ve been preparing , even if I didn’t admit it to myself.

I leave Marcus’s copy on the kitchen island , the white paper stark against the black marble .

The front door slams , jarring me .

Marcus strides in , tie loose, his dark hair mussed , reeking of Chloe’s jasmine perfume .

“ You bailed early ,” he snaps , not meeting my eyes as he tosses his jacket on a chair. “Embarrassing me again , Olivia?”

“ We need to talk ,” I say , my voice steady despite the pulse hammering in my throat .

I step closer , the divorce papers like a grenade in my hand .

He pours a scotch , the amber liquid glinting under the lights .

“What now? Another charity sob story to bore me with?”

His smirk is sharp , but there’s a flicker in his eyes ; unease , maybe.

“ I heard you ,” I say , my voice low, trembling with rage . “ At the gala . With Chloe .”

His glass pauses mid-air, his jaw tightening. “Eavesdropping? Real classy.”

“ You called me a charity case ,” I say , stepping into his space, my fists clenched at my sides . “You’re cheating , Marcus . I saw you with her.”

He laughs , a cold , cutting sound . “ You’re imagining things . Go back to your little galas, playing saint.”

“I’m not imagining this.”

I slam the divorce papers onto the island, the sound sharp in the silent penthouse.

“Sign these. We’re done.”

He stares, his smirk faltering. “You’re serious?”

His voice is low, almost disbelieving ; but there’s something else — anger, maybe fear.

“ Dead serious ,” I say , my chin high. My bracelet catches the light , its diamonds mocking me . “ I’m done being your prop .”

He snatches the papers , skimming them . His eyes narrow , a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“ You think you can survive without me ? You’re nothing , Olivia . A nobody without my name.”

His voice drips venom , but there’s a crack in it , like he’s trying to convince himself.

“You’ll crash and burn , Harper , begging to crawl back.”

My throat tightens , his words slicing into the doubts I’ve buried .

I force my voice steady , my eyes locked on his .

“Sign, Marcus. Or I’ll make this public.”

He grabs a pen , his knuckles white , and scrawls his signature with a sneer .

“Good luck , Harper . You’ll be back when you realize you’re nothing without me .”

The pen clatters on the counter .

He storms to his room , the door slamming like a gunshot .

I sink against the island, the papers trembling in my grip.

My bracelet snaps under the pressure , diamonds scattering across the marble like fallen stars — each one a piece of the life I’m leaving behind .

I’m free .

But his words echo ; nobody .

My phone buzzes, Sophia’s text lighting the screen: Voss Luxury event tomorrow. Network there. Save Veritas.

Voss Luxury.

Damien Voss’s name drifts through my mind — a billionaire model, cold as winter, untouchable.

If I can break into his world , Veritas might survive .

My resolve hardens , a spark igniting in the ashes of tonight .

I whisper to the empty penthouse , my voice steady despite the ache.

“I’m not a nobody , Marcus . Watch me rise.”