The morning light slanted through Sharon Countbell's penthouse windows, gilding her reflection in the glass wall as she stood with a cup of untouched coffee.
Her phone buzzed again. Another notification. Another headline.
Arga Bridgman and Jennifer Swordest Celebrate Engagement.
The Fallen Heir Restored by Family Alliance.
The Countbell Chapter Closed?
Sharon swiped the screen, deleting the alerts with surgical precision. Yet the words clung like smoke, refusing to vanish.
She had planned for many countermoves, anticipated Arga's desperation, even imagined him lashing out. But this — an engagement — she hadn't predicted.
Not with her. Not with Jennifer Swordest.
Sharon's nails dug into her palm, leaving crescents against her skin.
***
At brunch with her manager Liora later that day, Sharon wore a smile so polished it gleamed. Dressed in ivory silk, she looked untouchable, serene, above the petty storms of gossip.
Liora, however, was not fooled. She slid a magazine across the table, the cover splashed with a photograph of Arga and Jennifer leaving a restaurant hand in hand. Jennifer's smile was sharp and camera-ready; Arga's was weary but determined.
"So," Liora said cautiously, "you've seen this."
Sharon glanced at the photo briefly before folding the magazine shut. "A convenient alliance. That's all."
"You're not worried?"
Sharon sipped her champagne calmly. "Why would I be worried? A cousin. A fabricated engagement. It reeks of desperation. The public may buy it for now, but truth has a way of surfacing."
Her words were smooth. Convincing.
But Liora noticed the slight tremor in Sharon's hand as she set down her glass.
***
That night, when the cameras were gone and her penthouse echoed with silence, Sharon sat on her bed scrolling through endless images of Arga and Jennifer.
They looked convincing. Too convincing.
Jennifer's hand rested lightly on his arm, her laughter captured mid-frame. Arga leaned toward her, his eyes softer than Sharon had seen in years.
The sight tightened something inside Sharon's chest — a tension she couldn't name, wouldn't name.
She slammed the phone down and stood before her mirror.
"Why do you care?" she whispered.
Her reflection did not answer. But deep in her chest, something ugly stirred — the memory of being unwanted, unloved, mocked. And now, after everything, he smiled for someone else.
Even if it was an act, it scraped at her like claws.
***
The engagement dominated headlines for weeks. Arga and Jennifer appeared at charity dinners, art auctions, even a televised interview. Together, they presented a united front: elegance, stability, love.
Investors who had abandoned Arga began to trickle back. His company's stock steadied. The Bridgman name, once a punchline, began to recover.
And Sharon, once triumphant, now found herself fielding uncomfortable questions from reporters:
"Do you have any comment on Mr. Bridgman's engagement?"
"Was the gala incident a misunderstanding between friends?"
"Do you regret your harsh words?"
Her rehearsed smile never faltered. "No comment."
But every question was a reminder. Every whisper a thorn.
***
One evening, Liora confronted her.
"You're slipping," she said bluntly, pacing Sharon's dressing room as the actress prepared for a film premiere. "The engagement has rattled you, and the press can smell it."
Sharon adjusted her diamond earrings, her expression cold. "I'm not rattled. I'm calculating."
"Calculating what? Because from where I stand, Arga just reclaimed the narrative. He's no longer the man you destroyed at the gala — he's the man who's found redemption with someone else. And the public loves redemption."
Sharon's eyes darkened in the mirror. "Redemption," she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word for poison.
"Yes," Liora pressed. "So if you want to win this, you need to adjust. Quickly."
Sharon turned, her gown whispering against the floor. "Then I'll adjust. And when I'm finished, not even Jennifer Swordest will shield him."
***
Later, after the premiere, Sharon stood before her mirror again, her gown glittering like starlight.
But instead of victory, she saw doubt in her eyes.
Jennifer's image intruded on her thoughts — laughing, graceful, adored. Arga at her side, eyes steady, not haunted.
Sharon's hands curled into fists.
"This isn't jealousy," she told herself. "This is strategy. I don't care who he pretends to love. I only care that he suffers."
Yet the word echoed in her mind like a curse.
Jealousy.
Her mask cracked, just for an instant. And the girl she once was — the one mocked, unwanted, discarded — stared back at her, asking:
If you don't care, why does it hurt?
***
By dawn, Sharon had resolved herself. She would not retreat. She would not falter.
If Arga thought he could crawl back into society's good graces with a staged engagement, then she would remind the world exactly who he was — and who he had made her.
Her plan sharpened like glass in her mind.
Jennifer Swordest would not be collateral. She would be part of the target.
Sharon would expose the engagement for the lie it was. And when the world saw Arga's desperate charade crumble, his humiliation would be greater than before.
But beneath her resolve, beneath the cold satisfaction of strategy, a deeper truth gnawed at her.
She wasn't only angry that he lied. She was angry that, for a moment, she believed it.
And that, in some secret corner of her heart, she wanted it to be real.
***
Epilogue – The Shattered Glass
In the dead of night, Sharon walked barefoot across her penthouse, unable to sleep. She passed her vanity, where a glass of champagne still sat half-finished.
Her hand trembled as she reached for it. The glass slipped.
It shattered on the marble floor, shards scattering like stars.
Sharon froze, staring at the broken pieces, her reflection fractured in each one.
For the first time, she realized:
The game she had built to destroy Arga was beginning to destroy her too.