Chapter 5 - The Collapse of an Illusion
By 2:00 AM, the digital demolition of Isabella Rossi was already underway across social media and news networks.
Within forty-فين minutes of Uncle Richard’s authorization, the unedited security footage from St. Jude Memorial Hospital was leaked to a prominent investigative journalist. Accompanied by the crystal-clear audio of Isabella’s cold confession and calculated violence, the video detonated across the internet like a strategic bomb.
The public outcry was immediate and merciless.
Isabella’s verified Instagram account—boasting over two million followers, filled with luxury vacation photos, sponsored designer handbags, and carefully curated lifestyle posts—was instantly flooded with tens of thousands of furious comments. Brands that had partnered with her scrambled to distance themselves, issuing emergency press releases terminating their contracts before sunrise. Her talent agency released a scathing statement condemning her actions and severing all ties.
But Isabella didn't know any of that yet.
Right now, she was sitting on a cold steel bench inside the holding cell at the Central District police precinct, still wearing her ruined crimson ballgown. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly greenish glow over her pale, tear-streaked face.
The heavy metal door of the holding area rattled.
A bored-looking corrections officer tapped his baton against the bars. “Rossi. You have a visitor. Though I wouldn't call it a friend.”
Isabella looked up, her heart leaping with a desperate, pathetic flicker of hope. Marcus? Did he come to talk sense into her? Did he realize they still shared history?
She scrambled to her feet, smoothing down the stained silk of her dress, rushing toward the bars.
Instead of Marcus Thorne’s imposing figure, however, the person stepping into the harsh light of the cell block was Chloe’s lawyer—a razor-sharp corporate bulldog named Victor Vance, accompanied by two federal marshals holding a thick stack of legal briefs.
“Ms. Rossi,” Victor greeted her, his tone completely devoid of professional courtesy. He didn't even bother introducing himself. He simply tossed a manila folder onto the metal table outside her cell.
“Where is Marcus?” Isabella demanded, gripping the vertical iron bars so hard her knuckles turned white. “He has to talk to me! This is a misunderstanding! I want to speak to Mr. Thorne!”
“Mr. Thorne is currently holding his wife’s hand in a private recovery suite, ensuring that his unborn child is healthy and safe,” Victor replied smoothly, pulling a fountain pen from his breast pocket. “You, on the other hand, are currently being charged with aggravated assault of a pregnant woman, reckless endangerment, filing false police reports, and stalking.”
Isabella let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Stalking? That’s absurd! Marcus invited me to the gala! We run in the same circles!”
“Mr. Thorne invited you because your firm handled the catering logistics for the lower-level charity event,” Victor corrected him calmly, flipping open the folder to reveal a comprehensive timeline of financial transactions and communication logs. “Our digital forensics team also recovered every text message, email, and social media burner account you used to harass Khloe Thorne over the past six months.”
Isabella froze. The color drained entirely from her face.
“You tracked those?” she whispered.
“Ms. Rossi, the Thorne family doesn't just hire bodyguards; they employ former intelligence analysts who can trace a digital footprint across three continents,” Victor said, his eyes locking onto hers with clinical detachment. “Furthermore, civil litigation has already been filed by Arthur Vance’s firm. Every asset you own—your downtown condo, your luxury vehicles, your designer wardrobe, your offshore accounts—has been frozen under a court-ordered injunction for punitive damages.”
“No,” Isabella breathed, her knees finally giving out. She slid down the bars, landing hard on the concrete floor of the cell. “No, you can’t do that... that’s everything I have... that’s my life...”
“It was never your life, Ms. Rossi,” Victor said coldly, turning on his heel. “It was just a borrowed costume. And the curtain just came down.”
As the lawyer walked away down the corridor, leaving her alone in the gray silence of the holding cell, Isabella finally understood the brutal reality of what she had done.
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She hadn't destroyed a billionaire’s marriage.
She had simply provided the evidence that erased her entire existence.
