The glossy magazines spoke louder than whispered rumors ever could.
"Power Couple of the Year?" one headline blared, plastered with a photo of Arga Bridgman and Jennifer Swordest stepping out of a black car, hands entwined, faces glowing as if they had been born into harmony.
"Finally, stability for Bridgman," another declared.
It wasn't just gossip columns anymore. Financial weeklies began reporting on the "return of Arga's credibility" after months of scandal. Invitations flooded in for the pair to appear at galas, charity luncheons, even talk shows. Jennifer's calm charisma softened Arga's sharp edges, making them palatable again.
And the public loved it.
Sharon saw it all.
Every headline, every photo, every whisper in the corridors of power that once belonged to her stage.
She had expected the engagement to be nothing more than a cheap distraction, an obvious lie no one would take seriously. But watching them together—Jennifer's effortless grace and Arga's newly measured confidence—Sharon began to feel something she despised: the burn of jealousy clawing its way into her chest.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She was supposed to be the one dictating the narrative, not watching from the shadows as her enemy rebuilt himself with the help of another.
***
The Harrington Foundation's winter gala was the first time Sharon saw them together in person since the announcement.
The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and laughter, society's elite drifting like sequined ghosts. Sharon entered in a crimson gown, every curve of her figure a declaration of dominance. Heads turned. Conversations paused. She was still Sharon Countbell—the actress, the icon, the woman who had humiliated Arga Bridgman in front of the world.
But then they entered.
Arga, in his black tuxedo, carrying himself with uncharacteristic steadiness. Jennifer beside him, radiant in ivory silk, her hand resting lightly in his.
The room shifted, as if gravity itself had chosen them as the center.
Sharon smiled thinly, sipping her champagne. A performance. That's all it is.
Yet when Arga leaned in to whisper something that made Jennifer laugh—a sound light and genuine—Sharon's grip on her glass tightened until her knuckles whitened.
The applause, the warmth, the whispered admiration that followed them—it was hers once. Hers to wield. Now it belonged to them.
***
That night, Sharon lay awake, the city lights flickering beyond her window.
Images replayed in her mind: Jennifer's hand on Arga's arm, the way he looked at her—not with the hunger he once looked at Sharon, but with something quieter, steadier.
Sharon hated it.
She told herself it was anger, that her fury came from the audacity of their lie. But in the stillness of the night, the truth gnawed at her: part of her feared that some piece of it was real.
*Could he…?* she thought, then shut the thought down with venom.
"No," she whispered to her reflection. "He belongs to me. To my stage. To my story."
Her vengeance had been built on the foundation of his obsession. If Jennifer replaced her—even in illusion—it meant her power was slipping.
And Sharon Countbell could not allow herself to lose.
***
Meanwhile, Jennifer watched Sharon just as closely.
She noticed the way Sharon's smile tightened at the gala, the way her eyes lingered too long on Arga's hand covering hers.
Jennifer knew what she was doing. Her strategy wasn't just to rebuild Arga's reputation—it was to unsettle Sharon.
Because a rattled rival was a careless rival.
And though Jennifer had told Arga this was all for his survival, deep down she relished the game. It wasn't just about protecting him anymore. It was about proving that she, Jennifer Swordest, could bend even Sharon Countbell's narrative to her will.
***
Weeks passed, and the illusion grew stronger.
Jennifer and Arga appeared on a charity talk show, where Jennifer recounted the "romantic" proposal. Cameras zoomed in on the ring, Arga squeezing her hand at exactly the right moment. The audience swooned.
They attended a children's hospital fundraiser, where Jennifer read to sick children while Arga sat beside her, his usually sharp features softened into warmth. The photographs went viral.
Sharon, meanwhile, attended the same events, but her presence was increasingly overshadowed. Reporters who once clamored for her quotes now asked sly questions about her thoughts on the engagement.
"Do you still talk to Mr. Bridgman?"
"Is it difficult seeing him move on so quickly?"
Each question was a blade. And Sharon smiled, deflecting with practiced ease, but inside, she seethed.
***
Arga, for his part, struggled beneath the mask Jennifer crafted.
He followed her cues, smiled when expected, played the role of devoted fiancé. But when the lights dimmed and the cameras left, he found himself staring into the dark, haunted by Sharon's face.
She lingered in him like a scar, a wound he couldn't close.
And Jennifer saw it. She saw the way his gaze sometimes drifted, the way his silence deepened when Sharon's name came up.
It unsettled her. Because though she had entered this game to help him, a part of her had begun to want his gaze for herself.
But Sharon's shadow was always there.
***
The night it became unbearable, Sharon was at another gala. She watched as Arga and Jennifer danced, their bodies moving in practiced rhythm, the crowd applauding.
Something inside her snapped.
She excused herself, retreating to the powder room. She stared into the mirror, her reflection flawless, her beauty unmatched.
And yet, she saw Jennifer's face overlaying her own.
For the first time in years, Sharon felt powerless.
Her hands gripped the marble counter until her nails bit into the stone.
"No more," she whispered. "I will not let them write me out of my own story."
The decision crystallized then and there.
She would strike.
Not tonight, not recklessly—but soon. And when she did, she would shatter their perfect illusion with one blow.
Because Sharon Countbell was not meant to share the stage. She was meant to own it.
***
Epilogue – The Spark in the Glass
At the gala's end, Sharon lifted her glass of champagne in a mock toast from across the room.
Jennifer saw it. Arga saw it. The crowd saw nothing but elegance.
But behind Sharon's smile was fire—smoldering, waiting.
And when the glass touched her lips, she whispered so softly only she could hear:
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
The spark was lit. The curtain was about to rise.
And when it did, the stage would burn.