Eloise I never imagined rock bottom would feel like this. Yeah, my life was steady drama but this? This is nothing I expected of. My phone buzzed against the kitchen counter again, vibrating in short frantic bursts. Another notification. Another headline. I didn’t need to read it to know what it said. They were all the same these days. “Disgraced Designer’s Mental Breakdown: Sources Close to Eloise Sinclair Reveal Her Jealous Rage.” “Lucian True Fights for Custody Against ‘Unstable’ Ex.” “Jennifer Sinclair: I Tried to Save My Sister From Herself.” I shut my eyes, pressing my palms against the cool marble counter, letting the numbness seep through my bones. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock above the stove. Tick, tick, tick. Each second marked another moment of my life slipping out of my control. At some point I imagined running, my mental health was stake and so is Max, I might allow them steal my designs and go
Mike The rumble of my old Harley roared through the deserted underpass as I slowed, parking behind a graffiti-splattered pillar just across from Lombard & Fifth, the glass-fronted café where Jennifer’s fixer liked to operate. The early morning mist curled around the city streets, fogging the traffic lights and half-burying the skyline beyond grey. I killed the engine, the sudden silence broken only by the tick-tick of cooling metal. My fingers tightened around the worn grips of my gloves. Eloise’s voice haunted me still, raw and cold, echoing through the caverns of my chest like a curse: “How long have you both been playing me?” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the memory away. Words wouldn’t fix this. Nothing I said could erase the betrayal in her eyes that day. I needed something more. Proof. Pulling my hood low over my forehead, I stepped off the bike, boots crunching against broken concrete and scattered cigarette butts. My leather jacket reeked of fuel and damp air. The café
LucianThe conference room smelled faintly of cedar polish and roasted Arabica. Sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the metallic logo embossed on the glass partition: Vance Global Holdings. I sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled beneath my chin as my PR director, Gina, flicked through slides on the screen.“…public sympathy is trending moderately in your favour,” she was saying, tapping her stylus against a line graph. “But to ensure the custody filing doesn’t backfire, we need to maintain the narrative that you’re stepping in for Max’s welfare, not out of vindictiveness.”“Obviously,” I murmured, flicking my gaze to her. Her lipstick was the same glossy plum as her nails, immaculate and distracting. “How do we do that without overtly smearing Eloise? The judge won’t appreciate aggressive character attacks.”“That’s where subtlety matters.” Gina clicked to the next slide, revealing a drafted media schedule: breakfast radio interviews, LinkedIn
Jennifer I sat in the makeup chair at Vesper Studios, my gaze fixed on my reflection as the stylist dusted peach powder along my cheekbones. The bright ring lights bled into my irises, blurring out the edges of my pupils, making me look almost ethereal. Perfect and immaculate. Exactly how I needed to look today. “Miss Sinclair,” the producer said from behind his clipboard, his voice clipped and efficient, “we’ll go live in five minutes. Can we get a final touch on her hair, please?” The stylist fussed with my bangs, spraying them gently into place. I closed my eyes, inhaling the chemical sweetness of the setting spray. When I opened them again, the woman staring back at me in the mirror was not tired or panicking. She was all ready just like I was. “Thank you,” I murmured, giving the stylist a small nod. She scurried away, leaving me alone with my reflection for just a beat. I tilted my chin, smoothing my navy silk blouse. My diamond choker glittered against my collarbone, catc
Eloise I could barely keep my hands still as I waited in line at Maison Luna, the little French patisserie I always stopped at when life felt too heavy. The scent of fresh croissants and butter-drenched pastries curled around me, comforting in a way nothing else could. I ordered a lemon lavender tart and an oat milk latte, my chest tight as the barista scribbled my name on the cup. I shouldn’t be eating sweets right now. I needed to stay clear-headed for my meeting with Mike. But everything felt foggy, and the sour brightness of lemon felt like the only thing sharp enough to cut through it. As I stepped away from the counter to wait, I pressed my thumb against the pulse hammering beneath my collarbone. The café bustled with people: women in sleek navy work dresses clacking heels against marble, men in tailored charcoal suits whispering finance deals, university students in ripped jeans, their laptops open over half-eaten almond croissants. Everyone had somewhere to be. Something t
Eloise The knock on the door wasn’t frantic, wasn’t loud. Just firm. I froze where I stood in the kitchen, Max’s half-eaten toast still on the plate in front of me. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but it felt cold. I knew. Before I even opened the door, I knew. “Ms. Eloise Sinclair?” The man in the grey suit, eyes avoiding mine, held out an envelope. “For you.” My fingers felt like ice as I took it. “Served,” he muttered, turning on his heel, gone before I could summon a word. I shut the door, the weight of the envelope burning my palm. Lucian’s name stared up at me from the corner of the document. I sank onto the couch, Max’s chatter from the other room muffled by the blood pounding in my ears. With trembling hands, I opened it. By the time I reached the final page, my vision blurred. Not because it was my first time seeing Lucian perform his madness but what the words the paper contained. Shared custody. Emotional wellbeing at risk, risk of being unstable