Chapter Fifty-Six
● The Screen That Showed Everything
I woke to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
The bedroom was dark. The curtains were drawn. The city's glow bled faintly around their edges, but offered no comfort. I was alone in the bed—Rowan's side empty, the sheets cold.
My head throbbed. My mouth tasted of stale wine and grief. The remnants of last night clung to me like a second skin—the terror, the shame, the desperate, ugly words I'd thrown at him before the darkness swallowed me.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and tried to breathe.
Then I heard it.
A faint buzz from the nightstand.
My phone.
I reached for it blindly, the screen lighting up the dark. A text from an unknown number. Then another. Then a flood of them—notifications piling on top of each other, the phone vibrating continuously in my hand.
My stomach dropped.
I opened the first message.
Aira—turn on the news. Any channel. Now.
The second:
Oh my god, are you okay? That video is everywhere.
The third—from an old classmate, someone I hadn't spoken to in years—contained a link.
I stared at it.
My thumb hovered.
I pressed.
---
The video loaded slowly. The restaurant hallway. The angle was from a security camera mounted near the ceiling—wide, clear, unforgiving.
I watched myself walk toward the washroom.
I watched myself emerge minutes later, pale but composed.
I watched the man step out of nowhere.
His hand clamped over my mouth. His arm wrapped around my waist. He dragged me into the alcove, and I disappeared from frame.
The footage didn't show what happened next. But it showed enough.
It showed me struggling. Kicking. Fighting.
It showed the moment I bit his hand and screamed.
It showed Rowan arriving—a blur of violence, his fists rising and falling, the man crumpling beneath him.
It showed the wife appearing. Pointing at me. Screaming.
Your wife was seducing my man!
The way she was dressed—
Standing there like a—like a—
You shameless bitch.
I watched myself shrink against the wall. Watched the tears on my face. Watched Rowan drag me away like I was the criminal.
The video ended.
I stared at the frozen frame—my own terrified face, caught in the hallway light.
Then I looked at the comments.
---
● The Internet Speaks
The link had been shared millions of times.
The hashtag was everywhere: #JusticeForAira.
I scrolled with shaking hands, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
She was fighting him. She was fighting so hard. How can anyone watch this and blame her?
That woman is evil. Accusing the victim while her husband bleeds on the floor. I hope she never knows peace.
The way he grabbed her—that's not seduction. That's assault. Plain and simple.
Look at her face afterward. That's not a woman who wanted attention. That's a woman who's been violated.
Her husband's reaction though... he destroyed that man. That's love. That's protection.
She didn't ask for this. No one asks for this.
I kept scrolling, tears blurring my vision.
Why is no one talking about the fact that she was alone? Where was her husband? Why wasn't he watching her?
She's so beautiful. Of course men lose control around women like that.
He was probably drunk. Anyone would have done the same.
Come on—look at that dress. She knew what she was doing.
If you don't want attention, don't dress like that.
She's not innocent. No woman is.
The whiplash made me nauseous.
Praise and blame. Sympathy and accusation. They lifted me up and tore me down in the same breath, as if I were a character in their stories, not a woman who had been assaulted in a hallway.
Then I found the darker threads.
---
● The Dark Requests
The first one appeared in a reply to a popular post.
Anyone have the full video? The uncut version?
My blood went cold.
I clicked the username. Their profile was private, but their public posts were filled with requests for "leaked content" and links to sites I didn't recognize.
Another comment:
She's gorgeous. I'd lose control too. Anyone got the dark web link?
And another:
Imagine being that guy. He got to touch her. He got to feel her. Worth it, honestly.
She was asking for it. Look at her face in the stills. That's not fear. That's performance.
DM me if you have the uncensored footage. Will pay.
I dropped the phone.
It landed on the bed, screen still glowing, comments still scrolling, the world still judging.
I pressed my hands over my mouth, but the sob escaped anyway—raw, broken, animal.
They were watching me.
Not the assault. Not the terror. Not the fight.
Me.
My body. My face. My dress.
They were turning my violation into entertainment. Into currency. Into something they could consume in the dark, hidden behind usernames and encrypted networks, while I sat alone in a penthouse, shaking apart.
---
● The Message from an Old Friend
The phone buzzed again.
I didn't want to look.
But my hand moved on its own, picking it up, swiping open the latest message.
It was from Liya—a friend from my first year of university, before everything fell apart. We hadn't spoken in months. But her name on the screen felt like a lifeline.
Aira.
I don't know if you'll see this. I don't know if you're okay. But I need you to know—I believe you. I watched the footage. I saw you fight. I saw you scream. I saw you terrified.
None of this is your fault.
Not the dress. Not the wine. Not the way you were standing.
None of it.
If you need someone—if you need out—I'm here. Always.
I love you. I'm so sorry this happened to you.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Then I typed back, my fingers clumsy, tears dripping onto the screen.
Liya.
Thank you.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know who I am anymore.
But thank you for seeing me.
I pressed send.
The phone buzzed again almost immediately—not Lena, but another notification. A news alert.
BREAKING: Security footage of alleged assault at private event goes viral. Public figures weigh in. #JusticeForAira trends worldwide.
I didn't open it.
I couldn't.
Instead, I sat in the dark, alone in the bed where my husband should have been, and let the tears fall.
The world was watching.
The world was judging.
The world was turning my pain into spectacle.
And Rowan—
Rowan was nowhere to be seen.
---
● Where Was He?
Hours passed.
The phone buzzed endlessly—notifications, messages, friend requests from strangers, journalists asking for comments, old acquaintances crawling out of the woodwork to "check on me."
I ignored them all.
I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat by the window, watching the city that didn't know my name, that didn't care about my pain, that would move on to the next scandal by morning.
Mrs. O'Malley came twice.
The first time, she brought tea and toast, her eyes red-rimmed, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Mrs. Royce... I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
I couldn't speak. I just nodded.
The second time, she brought my medication and a glass of water. "You need to take these, ma'am. Please."
I obeyed. Mechanically. Automatically.
She lingered at the door, her hand on the frame. "Mr. Royce... he's been on calls all morning. Crisis management, I think. Damage control. He'll come when he can."
I didn't respond.
Damage control.
Not comfort. Not presence. Not his wife, shattered and alone, watching the world dissect her trauma in real time.
Damage control.
I laughed—a hollow, broken sound.
Mrs. O'Malley flinched and left.
---
The sun set.
The city lit up, indifferent and beautiful.
My phone buzzed one last time before dying.
I didn't charge it.
I sat in the dark, wrapped in silence, and waited for a husband who didn't come.
The world had seen me.
The world had judged me.
And Rowan—
Rowan was nowhere.
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