The paparazzi, finally grasping the gravity of what they'd done, lowered their cameras. Pale-faced, they slipped away one by one, like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
From the lounge nearby, intimate laughter drifted out. Joel and Naomi were celebrating, oblivious to the silence in the hall.
With the last ounce of strength left in my body, I dialed the number my father had left me.
"I regret it," I rasped into the receiver. "Get me out of here."
I held the funeral in secret at a small, remote parlor.
It was the only way to give Benjamin a moment of peace. I refused to let his death become another sensational headline plastered across the tabloids.
His urn went into my suitcase. His favorite portrait, too.
My eyes were dry.
I had no tears left to shed.
Throughout my marriage to Joel, the internet had branded me a mistress, a gold digger, a parasite. They doxxed me, dug up every detail of my past, and harassed the design studio I had built from the ground up until it went bankrupt.
For a long time, the trauma blocked my creativity completely.
But when the hate was at its peak, Joel had posted a photo of our marriage certificate and a diamond ring, captioning it with a promise to shield me.