Chapter 3I Was Her Seven Year Secret

When Madeline finally walked through the door, I was a ghost of myself.

She rushed to me, trying to pull me into her arms, her eyes shimmering with what looked like genuine guilt.

"Silas, I’m so sorry."

"Sorry?" I pushed her away, the strength of my anger surprising both of us. "You’re sorry you got caught? Or sorry you’ve been living a double life for seven years?"

She stood up, smoothing her skirt, her face returning to that polished, marble-calm.

"Silas, look at where I am. When my father died, the estate was in shambles. I had to come back. I had to take over. My family would never have let me marry a guy from a farm in Washington."

"So you married a billionaire instead? What was I, Madeline? A hobby? A souvenir from your 'poor' years?"

She looked down at me, her gaze steady.

"I am a Starling now. I have responsibilities. My marriage to Harrison is a merger—it’s good for both families. Harrison knows about you. He said as long as you stay quiet and stay in your place, he’ll look the other way. You can stay here. I’ll take care of you."

I stared at her, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat.

She reached out, wiping a tear from my cheek. "Silas, we’ve been together for a decade. I’m not going to throw that away. I’ll make you my executive assistant. You’ll have a salary, a life here. We don't have to be long-distance anymore."

I didn't say a word. I stood up, grabbed my suitcase, and slapped her across the face.

The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Before she could recover from the shock, I was out the door.

As the Uber pulled away, my phone chimed. A voice memo from Madeline.

Silas, don't be a child. You won't find a better offer than this. I’m giving you three days to think about it before I stop being nice.

Then, a notification: Madeline Starling has sent you $15,000.

She used to send me $50 for "coffee" to maintain the lie. Now, she was throwing thousands at me to buy my silence.

I didn't reply. I sent the money back.

I checked into a cheap motel and opened my phone. The internet had already exploded.

Someone had filmed the encounter at the office. The video was everywhere. The headlines were brutal: Socialite Madeline Starling’s Secret 'Boyfriend' Causes Scene at Corporate HQ.

I was the villain. I was the "homewrecker," the "gold-digger," the "delusional ex."

I tried to fight back. I posted our old photos, our chat logs, the timestamps of our ten-year history. I wanted the world to see that I was the one who was betrayed.

The tide started to turn. People began calling her out.

But then, Harrison Starling fought back.

He posted their marriage license on Instagram with a caption about "unshakable love" and "obsessive fans who can't let go." The Starling PR team released a statement claiming my "evidence" was digitally altered and threatened a multi-million dollar defamation suit.

The trolls descended.

Look at this loser trying to clout-chase off a pregnant woman.

Get a job, you pathetic leach.

Within an hour, my post was deleted. My account was banned.

I realized then that truth has no currency when you’re fighting a dynasty.

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway.

It wasn't Madeline.

"Mr. Thorne," the voice said—smooth, mocking, and dangerous. It was Harrison. "Let's have a chat."