Elena’s POV
A sharp, insistent knock shattered the deep silence of my sleep-deprived haze. Groaning, I dragged myself from the tangle of sheets, my body protesting every movement after consecutive all-nighters at the office.
I shuffled to the door, my mind still foggy with exhaustion. Finally, a day off. I swung the door open. A man in a crisp security uniform stood rigidly in the hallway.
“Miss Elena?” His voice was impersonal, a flat statement.
I blinked, rubbing my eyes. “Yes? What is it?”
“Officer Ken. I’m here on Mr. Dalton’s orders. You are required to vacate the premises immediately.”
The words hung in the air, nonsensical. Mr. Dalton. Mark. My boyfriend.
A brittle, nervous laugh escaped my lips. “This has to be a joke. A bad one.”
“It is not a joke, ma’am.” He pulled out a paper and flashed it before my eyes. A written order, signed by Mark Dalton himself. I froze.
“This… this can’t be right,” I whispered, the words sticking in my throat. “Mark is my boyfriend. We’re… we’re fine. He wouldn’t just…”
“He said your employment with Thompson Crest Enterprise has been terminated.”
Terminated? The clinical term sliced through my confusion. “What?”
He offered no elaboration, only a stoic silence. I stood frozen in the doorway, disbelief curdling into a hot, sharp anger as I stared him down.
“There’s been a mistake!” I burst out, my voice rising. “I need to call Mark. Now.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I rushed into the bedroom, grabbed my phone, and dialed the number I knew by heart. It went straight to a cold, automated voicemail.
A cold wave of panic crested over the anger. I hurried back to the door, my earlier bravado crumbling. “I have to speak with Mr. Dalton! He can’t do this. Where am I supposed to go?”
Officer Ken glanced pointedly at his watch. “You have ten minutes to gather your personal effects, ma’am.”
“You cannot be serious!” I snapped, the fear making my tone razor-sharp. “Where is he? I demand to see him!”
“Mr. Dalton… is unavailable today,” he stated, his calmness a stark contrast to my unraveling composure. Then, dropping the words like a bomb, he added, “He is… otherwise occupied with his wedding.”
The world dropped out from under me. The air vanished from my lungs.
A flicker of something—pity? mockery?—crossed his eyes. "You truly had no idea? It's been the talk of the town for weeks."
My hands trembled violently. Weeks? I’d been buried under mountains of work, surviving on coffee and deadlines. Mark had praised my dedication, his voice warm with what I’d mistaken for genuine pride.
"You're incredible, Elena. This proposal is brilliant. Just push through these final days. I have a special reward waiting for you."
Last night, his text had promised a "surprise" for all my hard work. And today he did give me a "Surprise Bomb".
I shoved past Ken into the corridor. Across the street, a massive digital billboard, usually flashing luxury ads, was broadcasting live footage.
"Thompson-Dalton Union: The Wedding of the Decade!"
The headline screamed in shimmering gold.
Mark Dalton —my lover, my boss—was today pledging his life to another woman.
***
The taxi ride was a blur of frantic scrolling through a social media feed I never had time for. Every tap of my screen was a fresh stab.
Hashtags like #PowerCouple and #FairytaleWedding trended globally. I devoured articles with a morbid hunger, each detail a piece of a puzzle that painted a picture of breathtaking, calculated betrayal.