His Beautiful Undoing

CHAPTER 2

The world is supposed to keep moving after a trial ends, but mine feels like it stalled somewhere between fear and exhaustion. Weeks have passed since I testified, yet my days feel strangely hollow. There are no courtrooms now. No microphones. No rows of people waiting to dissect every word I say.

There is only me, my tiny apartment, and the glow of my laptop screen where I fill out job application after job application. Every morning I tell myself the same lie. Today will be better. Sometimes I almost believe it.

I sit at my kitchen table, hair pulled into a messy knot, coffee cooling at my elbow. My inbox loads slowly. I breathe through the familiar anxiety. Every message carries the weight of possibility. A yes. A no. A maybe.

Then I see it.

A new email from a firm I actually want. Kensington and Moore. A respected company. A place that could give me a real chance to start again. My pulse jumps. When I click the message, my breath catches. They want an interview.

The words look unreal at first, like they belong to someone else. I read them again, then again, then place a hand over my mouth to steady myself. A spark of hope flickers in my chest, small but stubborn.

I whisper, “Finally.”

I mark the date on my calendar, set two alarms, plan my route, research the firm until I can recite their history in my sleep. For the first time in months, my future feels like something I might hold.

The morning of the interview arrives. My nerves buzz but feel manageable. I iron my blouse three times. I check my reflection twice as often, trying to decide if I look confident or desperate. Maybe a bit of both. That is fine. I can work with that.

I sit on the edge of my bed to take a final breath before leaving. My phone vibrates in my hand. A new email. My stomach sinks even before I open it.

The message is short.

Position filled. Thank you for your interest.

I stare at the screen until the letters blur. The interview was scheduled for today. How is the position already filled? Did I misunderstand? Did they decide last night? Did someone better appear between then and now?

My chest tightens. I try to breathe through it. There is a number at the bottom of the message. I dial it with trembling fingers.

“Hello, Kensington and Moore, this is reception,” a woman answers.

“Yes, hi. This is Elena Sheridan.” I pause. My throat feels thick but I push through it. “I had an interview scheduled this morning, but I just received a message saying the position has been filled. I wanted to confirm if this is correct.”

Silence stretches for just a second too long.

“Oh,” the receptionist says. Her tone shifts into something uncomfortable. “Yes. The position has been filled.”

“May I ask when that decision was made?” My voice comes out calm, but inside I am churning.

“Recently.” Another pause. “We had unexpected developments.”

“Do you still need to interview applicants?”

“No.”

“Could you tell me why?” I ask. “Did something change in my application?”

Her breath catches slightly. “I am sorry. I need to take another call.”

“There was no ringing,” I say before I can stop myself.

She goes silent again.

“I need to go,” she says abruptly, and ends the call.

I stare at the phone until the screen goes dark. A knot forms in my chest. Something does not feel right.

I get ready anyway. I smooth my blouse. I pick up my bag. I lock my door. Because what else can I do? Grieve an opportunity I never even got the chance to reach? No. I refuse to let fear sink its teeth in.

But when I walk outside, I feel it again. That strange sensation of eyes on me, even when no one seems to be looking. The world feels too aware of me.

I keep my head down while walking to the bus stop, but it does not help. People glance at me. Then look again, slower this time. Recognition flashes across their faces.

I hear it before I see it.

A whisper behind me. “Is that her? The woman from the trial? The one who destroyed a billionaire?”

Someone else mutters, “I heard she exaggerated everything.”

My stomach twists. I grip the strap of my bag until my knuckles ache. I tell myself to ignore it. They do not know me. They know a headline, a photograph, a story crafted for clicks.

The bus arrives. I sit near the back, eyes fixed on the window. Every whisper feels like a pinprick against my skin. I wonder if this will be my life now. A parade of strangers deciding who I am without ever hearing my voice.

When I get home, I try to push the unease aside. I open my laptop and search for new job postings. I type, click, attach, send. Again. Again. Again.

By evening, fatigue settles into my shoulders. I check my phone and freeze.

A new notification.

A comment on my social media from an account with no photo.

Liar.

That is all it says.

I delete it instantly, but the sting lingers far longer than the comment itself. My chest tightens again, and I press a hand over my sternum as if I can hold myself together physically while the inside of me threatens to splinter.

I whisper into the empty room, “Do not let it get to you. Keep going.”

I sit back at my desk and send three more applications. My hope feels frayed, but hope does not need to be whole to keep someone moving.

Later that night, my phone rings. For a second, my heart lifts. Maybe it is one of the companies I applied to. Maybe someone wants to give me a chance.

Caller ID reveals a name I recognize. Marissa, a recruiter who had been warm and enthusiastic last week.

I answer quickly. “Hi, Marissa. Thank you for calling.”

Her voice is clipped. Tense. “Elena. I wanted to notify you that we will not be proceeding with your application.”

My stomach sinks. “Oh. May I ask why?”

“It is not a good fit.”

“But you said I was exactly what the firm was looking for.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Did something change with the role?”

There is a small pause. I hear her inhale. “Circumstances changed.”

“What circumstances?” I ask softly.

A longer pause. I picture her debating whether to hang up now or keep talking. “We are withdrawing interest. That is all I can say.”

I swallow hard. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Look, Elena, you seem like a good person. I cannot discuss internal decisions.”

“But something happened,” I say. “Can you tell me if this is related to the trial? People have been reacting strangely when they hear my name.”

She goes silent again. I hear faint typing in the background. Then her voice lowers, almost to a whisper. “Someone with influence told us it would be a mistake to hire you.”

My blood turns to ice. “Who?”

“I should not have said that.”

“Marissa, please. Who said it? What is happening?”

She hangs up.

The call ends with a sharp click that echoes in my ear long after the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, heart pounding, breath stuck in my chest. Influence. Mistake. Someone.

Only one possibility rises in my mind.

The Thronton name carries weight. Adrian is gone for now, but Damian remains. Watching. Calculating. Capable of far more than anger or petty vengeance.

Is he the one doing this?

Is he the reason every door is shutting before I can reach it?

The silence in my apartment feels heavier than ever. A warning wrapped in stillness.

I sit at my table, phone in my hands, fear creeping through me in slow deliberate waves.

Someone wants to make sure I never stand again.

And they have only just begun.