Chapter 4 - THE MEDIA STORM
Microphones were thrust toward my face, and the aggressive shutter clicks of professional camera lenses sounded like gunfire in the narrow alleyway behind the chapel.
I pulled Molly tightly against my waist, burying her face into my coat so the flashing lights wouldn't blind her. "Get out of our way!" I yelled, pushing through the crowd of eager reporters.
"Clara Vance! Just one question!" a young male reporter shouted, thrusting a microphone with a local news logo near my lips. "Victoria’s team just released a statement claiming you sneaked into the catering area before the ceremony! Did you tamper with the cake structure?!"
A statement? I thought in disbelief. Victoria was already spinning a false narrative to the media while sitting in the church office.
"I didn't tamper with anything!" I snapped back, pushing past a photographer who was trying to snap a close-up of Molly weeping. "My daughter was given a fifty-pound cake by a foolish bride who cared more about social media clout than a child's safety! Now move!"
I reached my mid-sized sedan, unlocked the doors with my remote, and quickly bundled Molly into the backseat, buckling her seatbelt in a flash. I slid into the driver's seat, locked all the doors, and started the engine just as reporters began pounding on the windows.
I stepped on the gas, the tires screeching slightly as I pulled out of the church parking lot and onto the main road, leaving the swarm of media behind.
In the backseat, Molly was hyperventilating, holding her small knees tightly to her chest. "Mommy... are the bad people going to take you away? The lady on the phone said you were going to jail..."
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I looked at her through the rearview mirror, forcing my voice to remain calm and soothing. "No, sweetie. Nobody is going to jail. Mommy is right here, and no one is ever going to hurt you. Those people are just tellers of silly, wrong stories."
"I don't want to go back to Daddy's house," she whispered softly. "Victoria is mean. She told me yesterday that when she married Daddy, I would have to sleep in the attic room because my room was going to be her new closet."
A cold, calculated fury washed over me. Richard had promised me that Molly’s life wouldn't change after his remarriage. He had sworn that Victoria loved Molly like her own. It was all a lie—a carefully crafted façade to maintain his image as a devoted family man while securing a wealthy socialite bride.
By the time we arrived at our quiet suburban townhouse, my phone was ringing incessantly. I ignored the calls from unknown numbers, but then my boss’s name popped up on the screen: Arthur Sterling.
Arthur was the senior partner at Sterling & Associates, the prestigious architectural firm where I worked as a senior project designer. I had worked tirelessly for five years to build my reputation there.
I instructed Molly to go up to her bedroom, change into her pajamas, and watch her favorite animated movie. Once I heard her bedroom door close softly, I took a deep breath and answered the call.
"Arthur," I said, trying to keep my voice professional.
"Clara," Arthur’s voice was heavy, lacking its usual warm tone. "Are you watching the news?"
"Arthur, whatever you’re seeing online, it’s a complete distortion of what happened—"
"Clara, it’s not just Twitter anymore," Arthur interrupted sharply. "It’s on the national morning broadcast previews. The headline is 'Disgraced Ex-Wife Sabotages Million-Dollar Wedding.' And to make matters worse, Victoria’s father—Julian Belmont—just called our managing board."
My breath caught in my throat. Julian Belmont was one of the firm's biggest corporate clients. He was currently funding a thirty-million-dollar commercial development project that I was leading.
"What did Belmont say?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
"He demands your immediate termination, Clara," Arthur sighed. "He claims that keeping you on the project creates a massive conflict of interest and brings severe public relations damage to his brand. The board is meeting in an hour. They are leaning toward pulling you off the project... and placing you on unpaid administrative leave pending an internal review."
"Unpaid leave?" I echoed, a wave of panic crashing over me. "Arthur, I am the lead architect on that project! I’ve worked eighty hours a week for six months! You know my character—you know I would never use my child for a petty scheme!"
"I know you, Clara," Arthur said, his tone sympathetic but corporate. "But the board sees a viral nightmare. Millions of people are calling for a boycott of any company associated with you. Until this storm passes, my hands are tied."
He hung up the phone.
I stood in the middle of my quiet living room, the silence deafening. In less than two hours, my ex-husband's wedding had exploded, my daughter was traumatized, my reputation was ruined nationwide, and my career was hanging by a thread.
I sank onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. But as the first tears of frustration began to fall, I remembered the words Molly had whispered in the church room.
The lady in the red hat... she pushed my arm.
May you like
I sat up straight, wiping my eyes. This wasn't an accident. And it wasn't just a clumsy mistake.
I grabbed my laptop, opened a new document, and began writing down every detail, every face, and every second of what had happened inside that chapel. If they wanted a war, I was no longer going to play the silent victim.
