Dark Revenge Of A Jilted Bride: Till Life Do Us Part!-Chapter 27: Fallout II

It was worse than she thought. Much worse.

Gianna’s breath snagged in her throat as she took in the sight before her—a sea. An actual sea of reporters swarming outside the gleaming glass doors of Becketts Jewelries.

It looked like a crime scene, a movie premiere gone wrong. Microphones rose like spears. Cameras perched on shoulders like weapons poised for attack. Every face was hungry, predatory, desperate to carve a piece of her for themselves.

So... they knew. They knew she worked here now.

Through the windshield, she watched them pacing, prowling the sidewalk like restless wolves, phones pressed to their ears as they spoke in rapid, clipped tones. She could only imagine what they were saying, who they were summoning.

More reinforcements?

Her stomach sank further as she noticed another detail—how the company’s security had formed a shaky barrier, trying to hold the mob back, blocking them from storming the premises entirely. Did they think she was already inside? That she had slithered past them somehow?

Or...

Her brows knitted tightly, a cold realization clicking into place.

Were the few reporters she’d seen lurking around the junction on the Thorne’s street... scouts? Informants meant to alert this horde the moment she stepped out?

Of course they were.

Gianna exhaled shakily and let her head fall back against the seat. She turned off the ignition with fingers that felt stiff from tension. She wasn’t ready for this circus, not mentally, not emotionally. She wasn’t ready for the onslaught of eyes, questions, and flashes.

And honestly, she wouldn’t even blame the Becketts if they called her in and quietly told her she was becoming too much trouble. She was only on day two. A designer or not, there was a limit to how much chaos a company could tolerate.

She forced herself to breathe. Deep, grounding breaths. One... two...

She would have to step out eventually. Leave the small bubble of safety her car provided. And thankfully, the reporters didn’t seem to know what car she drove now. Their intel hadn’t gotten that far.

One more minute, which stretched painfully long. Then another breath, harsher, steadier.

Fighting, she muttered under her breath. You’ve survived worse.

She grabbed her bag. The moment she pushed the door open, a second sound echoed—the doors of the car behind hers swinging open in unison. The Thorne guards spilled out like a tactical unit.

She blinked. Had forgotten their presence at one point.

With their backing, she straightened to her full height and pressed the lock button on her car door. Her gaze lifted then, and that was all it took.

Someone spotted her. A split second later, there was pandemonium.

They ran at her. Actually ran. Full-speed, elbows out, voices slashing through the air, each reporter trying to sprint faster than the next as if she might vanish into thin air before they reached her.

Their shouts layered over one another in a chaotic roar, their microphones thrust forward like they were trying to jab at her.

For a heartbeat, she froze. For another, she nearly screamed.

But then, the tallest guard stepped in front of her, creating a wall of muscle and authority. The other two flanked her instantly.

"Are you okay, Miss Gianna?" one asked, voice steady. "We move when you say so."

She nodded, gratitude rushing through her so fast it almost stung.

Never again would she call Old Mr. Thorne fussy. Never.

Without these men, she would’ve been torn apart before Becketts’ security could even blink.

"MOVE AWAY!" the front guard boomed.

The reporters shifted—barely—but still shoved their microphones toward her, their voices ricocheting around her.

"Miss Gianna, is it true? Are you and Zane Whitman married?"

"Is this a marriage of convenience or love?"

"Is it a business partnership?"

"How long have you two been dating?"

"How long have you two been sleeping together?"

"Is the fall of Auretes Jewellery connected to your relationship?"

"Is Zane a jealous lover—was he afraid Dane would capture your heart?"

That last one actually made her swallow a laugh. These people were insane.

And she was sure that whatever was happening online... was ten times worse.

By some miracle, she made it to the company lobby in one piece.

"Thank you so much," she said breathlessly as the guards stepped back.

"It’s our pleasure, Miss Gianna," one replied. "Don’t worry. We’ll be waiting out here."

"For the whole day?" she asked, stunned.

They nodded without hesitation.

Was that allowed?

Apparently yes—Becketts’ own security didn’t seem fazed at all. One glance at the emblem on the guards’ jackets told her why.

Thorne.

Of course.

"Thanks," she murmured again, before turning, instantly noting the shift in the air.

The stares. Awe in some. Shock in others. Hostility sharp enough to cut her.

What now?

Her gaze caught on two employees from the media department—a man and a woman—who looked at her like she was something they’d scrape off their shoes.

And then it hit her.

They probably thought she was a Whitman plant. A spy. The reason Auretes fell.

Ridiculous to her ears—but the more hostile glances she caught, the more it made horrible, twisted sense. And the deeper it unsettled her.

She all but speed-walked to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly. She needed to get upstairs. She needed answers. She needed to face whatever decision the superiors were making about her—for the third time in three days.

Yet what was wrong with her life lately? Had sleeping with Zane cursed her future and every ounce of luck she had left?

She muttered a curse under her breath just as the elevator slid open. She rushed in, and when it finally arrived at the floor, she burst out like someone with fire licking up her spine.

But she skidded to a halt immediately.

Two men were stationed outside the boardroom door. Security.

"You can’t go in, Miss Gianna."

Her lips pressed tightly together as she stared at them, realization settling like ice in her veins.

They knew she’d come. They had expected her boldness, expected more bold promises. So they stationed guards to block her out.

"Why?" she croaked finally, her confidence draining by the second.

"We’re not sure. We were just asked to keep anyone from entering."

Anyone, namely her.

Deflated, she turned and made her way slowly to her office. Possibly her former office after today.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t even hear the petty receptionist greet her.

Inside, she sank into her seat, dropped her bag on the desk, and stared blankly at the wall.

How was she supposed to fix this?

With slightly trembling fingers, she pulled her phone from her bag. After a second of hesitation—curiosity and dread eating at her neck—she powered it on.

Messages exploded onto the screen. Missed calls. Notifications.

But one stopped her cold.

A number not saved, yet painfully familiar.

She could never forget it. Zane’s second line, or was it third? The one he’d used to cancel the wedding five years ago.

She opened the message before she even thought.

"Aldo, can you meet me before the interview?

We need to get our stories straight..."

Sent at 6 a.m.

Her gaze snapped down to the interview time. 8:00 a.m.

She cursed loudly, shot to her feet, and bolted out of her office.

Damn it.