Marriage, Lies, and Vengeance

The Thanksgiving evening air carried a chill that seeped through my coat as I approached the Harrison mansion. My portfolio of jewelry designs felt heavy in my hands—not from its physical weight, but from the hope I'd pinned on these creations. Seven years of marriage to Spencer had taught me to find small victories where I could, and tonight I'd hoped my designs might finally earn some genuine recognition.

The mansion's grand facade glowed with warm light, but something felt off. There were too many cars lining the circular driveway, too many figures milling about on the front lawn.

"Is that her?" A voice cut through the evening air.

Before I could process what was happening, a wall of people surged toward me—cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward, voices shouting questions that made no sense.

"Ms. Ross! How long have you been plagiarizing other designers' work?"

"Nyla! Care to comment on the allegations against your latest collection?"

"Did you think no one would notice you stealing Westley Austin's concepts?"

My breath caught in my throat. Plagiarism? My designs were mine—every sketch, every stone placement, every emotional nuance embedded in metal and gem. I'd stayed up countless nights perfecting them while Spencer worked late and Gwen hovered like a vulture.

"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about," I managed, clutching my portfolio tighter. "My work is original."

"Then why did three different designers come forward today claiming you stole their concepts?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. Three designers? Today? How was this even possible?

"I need to speak with Spencer," I said, trying to push past them. "This is some kind of mistake—"

"Is that why you're running away? Guilt?"

A camera lens nearly brushed my face as I turned sideways, trying to shield my portfolio. The designs inside were irreplaceable—sketches I'd poured my soul into during sleepless nights when the pain in my prosthetic hand kept me awake.

In my haste, my foot caught on the edge of the mansion's marble steps. For one suspended moment, I felt myself falling, a strange calm washing over me as gravity took hold.

Then came the impact—not as bad as I'd feared, but enough to send my portfolio tumbling. And worse, the specialized connector for my prosthetic right hand twisted, causing the artificial limb to detach completely.

It clattered across the marble steps with a sound that seemed to echo through the crowd's sudden silence.

"Her hand!" someone shouted, and cameras swiveled toward the prosthetic.

Heat flooded my cheeks as I scrambled to retrieve it, my left hand fumbling with the connector. The reporters didn't even pretend to look away—they photographed everything, their lenses capturing my humiliation in high definition.

"How long have you been hiding your disability?" someone called out.

"Is this why you've been accused of fraud? Sympathy votes?"

I finally managed to reattach my hand, fingers trembling as I stood. "Please," I said, my voice barely audible. "I need to get inside."

Somehow I pushed through