But the help she’d once received had now turned into a curse.
Just as her savings were nearly drained, Marcus pulled his investment, leaving her studio in even deeper trouble.
Her high–profile clients had long since blocked her number, and the Jewelry Guild had formally expelled her.
Meanwhile, Susy–the supposed victim of Julian’s runaway wedding–posted a lengthy message online. Not a single word blamed Julian. Instead, her entire post was a tirade accusing Niamh of seducing Julian while he was married, painting her as a homewrecker, and, to top it off, claiming the custom jewelry set Niamh made for her wedding was a fake.
Even without a sobbing video, Susy’s words conjured a vivid image: a heartbroken bride, love stolen from her, pouring out grievances with tears streaming down her face.
Niamh didn’t blame Susy for her anger. After all, Julian’s disappearing act was partly her fault.
But the jewelry she’d delivered to Susy was absolutely genuine. She couldn’t accept being framed with such a blatant lie.
Yet, no amount of truth could clear her name now.
What counts as the truth? Whatever people are willing to believe.
As night fell, Niamh made herself a cup of instant noodles. She couldn’t go a whole day without eating–she still had to survive.
Halfway through her noodles, her phone rang. Sophia and Natalie called, one after the other. Both expressed their sympathy and said they trusted her, but Niamh knew why they were really calling.
They were resigning.
She’d already guessed it–and agreed without protest.
Quentin called too, but he didn’t mention quitting. Instead, he asked if the studio could hold on. If it could, he’d stay.
That simple loyalty meant more to Niamh than she could say. But, truthfully, sh had no idea if the studio could survive.
1/2
14:29
No investors. No new clients. Only penalties, debts, and a barrage of threatening letters from the bank and the courts.
She finished the noodles, barely tasting a thing.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Niamh jumped.
Was it possible that the online mob who wanted her head had tracked down her address? Or maybe some relentless journalist?
She clenched her fists and moved cautiously toward the door, nerves jangling.
Anyone who said they wouldn’t be scared in her place was lying.
Peeking through the peephole, she let out a shaky breath of relief–it was Lana Guthrie.
“Lana!” she called, flinging the door open and wrapping her arms around her friend. “Come on, let’s talk inside,” Lana said, stepping in.
Once the door was shut, Lana pulled off her sunglasses.
Niamh blinked at her in confusion. “What’s with the disguise?”
“I was worried someone might tail me and find out where you live, so I went incognito.”
Niamh couldn’t help but laugh through her exhaustion. She knew she was a hot topic online, but it seemed over the top for Lana to worry about being followed.
Still, the gesture touched her. Lana hadn’t just come to check on her, she’d gone out of her way to protect her.
Lana hadn’t come empty–handed, either. She’d brought beer, fried chicken, and a
handful of snacks.
“Come on! Tonight, we’re not stopping till we’re drunk!”
Niamh hadn’t planned on drowning her sorrows, but sharing a drink with her best friend–letting some of the pain out–sounded like just what she needed.
They hadn’t had much to drink before Lana started ranting, cursing out Jonathan, then Julian, Michael, and even Peter.
“It’s not fair! Why is it always you who gets dragged through the mud online? W about those useless men?”
14
