**Chapter 3**
Yvonne lingered outside the villa throughout the night, her heart heavy and her spirit weighed down by despair. As dawn’s first light crept over the horizon, she found herself still waiting, her gaze fixed on the entrance of Wederpts villa, hoping for a glimpse of Chloe. But as the sun rose higher, illuminating the world around her, it became painfully clear that Chloe had not left.
With her heart sinking further into desolation, Yvonne finally turned her back on the villa, wrapping her arms tightly around her body in a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had seeped into her bones. The night air had left her nearly frozen, both physically and emotionally.
Stubbornness coursed through her veins like ice. She refused to retrieve the clothes she had discarded earlier, remnants of a life that felt increasingly distant. Instead, she rummaged through a nearby used-clothing bin, her fingers brushing against the fabric of a few discarded items. She pulled them on, the rough textures clashing with her delicate skin, but they provided some semblance of warmth as she prepared to leave.
With no destination in mind, she made her way to a nearby motel, her heart heavy with uncertainty. When she approached the front desk to pay for a room, her hopes were dashed as the system chimed ominously, informing her that her card had been frozen. Panic surged within her, and she felt the walls of her world closing in.
With a resigned sigh, she fished out a worn, nearly faded bank card from her pocket. This was the card that held the remnants of her and Winthrop’s dreams—the money they had carefully saved from their part-time jobs during university, meant to be their wedding fund. Back then, they had envisioned a future filled with joy and love, completely unaware that tragedy would soon turn their lives upside down.
Now, that $1,500, once a symbol of hope and promise, had become a bitter reminder of loss in Winthrop’s eyes. For him, it was nothing but a ghost of what could have been. Yvonne had never touched a single penny of it; it was her last thread of hope, the final connection to a life they had planned together. But now, with no other options left, she had to sever that thread.
After completing the transaction, she curled up on the shabby motel bed, the thin mattress sagging beneath her weight. Sleep came reluctantly, filled with restless dreams that danced just out of reach.
Days passed in a blur, each one blending into the next, with Winthrop remaining silent. The cold void he left behind echoed in her heart, leaving her to wrestle with her thoughts in solitude. Her phone buzzed incessantly, a cruel reminder of his new life with Chloe. Each notification brought news of their shared moments—him teaching her to golf, their laughter echoing as they strolled to a food cart under the stars, or the intimate dances they shared at lavish galas. It was as if Yvonne had been erased from existence, her presence overshadowed by their blossoming romance.
As she scrolled through social media, her heart sank further. Two scathing headlines caught her eye, each one more brutal than the last:
“Shocking! Mr. Mendoza and Ms. Norman spotted entering the same hotel late at night—intimate behavior sparks marriage rumors!”
“Obsessed admirer publicly courts Mr. Mendoza, strips to seduce him after rejection—he was furious.”
The accompanying photos displayed Yvonne in nothing but her underwear, a moment of vulnerability twisted into humiliation. She felt exposed, cheap, and desperate, the very essence of her being stripped away in the eyes of strangers.
The comments flooded in like a tidal wave, each one laced with mockery and cruelty.
Netizen A: “Is she insane? She clearly has no shame. How pathetic!”
Netizen B: “I’ve seen plenty of women like her. Does she really think the heir of a wealthy family is some brainless fool who’d be tempted by that? He’s disgusted by her. He wouldn’t touch her even if she paid him.”
Netizen C: “I’ll admit she’s got a killer body, though. No wonder she resorted to such a cheap trick. Mr. Mendoza doesn’t want her, but I wouldn’t mind having some fun. I’ve got cash to spare—anyone knows her number?”
Each message cut deeper than the last, and Yvonne felt her fingers clench around her phone so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She bit her lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth, mingling with the heartache that threatened to consume her.
In that moment, the pain felt unbearable. Winthrop remained silent, offering no clarification, no defense against the onslaught of public ridicule. She stared at the screen, feeling as though time had frozen, tears threatening to spill over as she fought to keep them at bay.
With trembling fingers, she finally typed a response, pouring her heart into the words: “Maybe don’t jump to conclusions when you don’t know the full story. What if there’s a misunderstanding? There are plenty of ways to attract someone’s attention—why assume the worst? Maybe the truth isn’t what you think.”
Holding her breath, she sent the message, summoning every ounce of strength to defend herself against the tide of negativity. But before she could even process her own words, her DM inbox exploded with vitriol.
“Sounds like you’re familiar with this kind of thing. You’re just like that skank, aren’t you? Why don’t you take your clothes off for me? Don’t worry—I’ve got money.”
“Why are you defending someone like that? Are you her? Since you have no boundaries at all, why don’t you take off your clothes for me?”
“What’s your rate for a night? Is $1,500 enough? Or $15,000? Name your price!”
Each message was a dagger, sharper and more cutting than the last. Yvonne felt her composure shatter, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling utterly helpless and alone. In the eyes of the world, she was nothing but a shameless woman, a figure of scorn, despite being Winthrop’s wife.
Lost in a haze of despair, she wiped away her tears, the remnants of her dignity slipping through her fingers. With newfound determination, she stood up, her heart racing as she made her way to the news outlet that had published the story, ready to reclaim her narrative.
