Joanne gripped the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. Every muscle in her body was taut, braced for what was to come. She took a steadying breath, her heart pounding in her chest.
"You can do this, Joanne. He's nothing to you," she whispered, giving herself a pep talk.
Lifting her chin, she walked forward with purpose. Her jeans and sneakers might not scream elegance, but she moved with the grace of a queen wearing a crown. Every step was deliberate, each one a testament to her resolve.
The group turned the corner just as she reached the crossway. A posse of suit-clad security men were wrestling to restrain the man in their midst, his disheveled form a stark contrast to their composed professionalism.
Joanne kept her gaze locked straight ahead, ignoring the magnetic pull of curiosity that begged her to glance at the man she was once supposed to marry. She couldn't. Wouldn't. His family had shattered her pride, and she refused to grant him even a flicker of her attention.
The lead security guard hesitated as he recognized her, his eyes flickering with something—sympathy, perhaps, or awkwardness. Joanne didn't stop, didn't falter. She moved past them as though they were invisible.
But then she caught it—the acrid stench of alcohol, sharp and cloying. It burned her throat, stirring unwanted memories. Her stomach churned, but she swallowed the nausea and pressed on, determined to reach the exit and the fresh air waiting beyond.
Just as she passed, his voice cut through the tense silence.
"Is that her?"
Joanne's steps faltered for the briefest moment, but she didn't turn.
"My bride?"
The slurred words were followed by a burst of loud, mocking laughter. Her jaw clenched, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. The sting of humiliation was swift and sharp, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
"She's pretty… bland."
Her skin crawled at the slurred, mocking tone.
Bland? It was unbearable, suffocating. She couldn't stand to be there a second longer. Avoiding the elevator, she veered toward the fire exit and pushed through the door.
The cold metal handle bit into her palm as she descended the stairs two at a time, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She shoved open the final door, emerging into the cool embrace of early morning.
The air was crisp, carrying the fresh scent of the nearby park. She inhaled deeply, letting the fragrance wash over her, soothing the tension in her chest.
But the calm didn't last. She stood there for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She had nowhere to go, no plan, no idea what came next.
Her lips tightened as she lifted her chin once more.
"Consider this your lucky day, Joanne. You're free," she said aloud, her voice steadying with each word. "You'll get through this. You've always gotten through."
A spark ignited in her chest—a flicker of determination, burning away the lingering traces of shame.
Her eyes gleamed with resolve as she took her first step forward. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she welcomed it. This wasn't the end of her story.
No.
This was just the beginning.
-----
Four Years Later...
The soft rays of sunlight spilled through the lace curtains in the kitchen, casting a warm glow over the modest yet cozy space. Joanne, her vibrant natural red hair catching the light like fire, deftly tied it into a ponytail before sliding the last of the scrambled eggs onto her plate.
She pressed her finger to the Bluetooth earpiece nestled in her ear, the voice on the other end grating against her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
Her lips curved into a mocking smirk, her tone sharp with disdain. "Is this your idea of aristocracy, Mr. Harper? You haven't paid for the goods, and now you're demanding a discount?" she asked, her tone sharp with disdain.
"Loyal customers deserve respect. I've been buying from McDonald Farm since before you were in your father's ball sacks."
"Respect is earned, not owed," Joanne snapped, her voice icy. "Pay up, or—"
"You're just a greedy b*tch," he snarled, his tone venomous. "All you care about is money."
Joanne's laugh was light, almost amused, though her knuckles whitened against the counter. Her voice turned icy, each word slicing clean. "Oh, really? And no one else does? You don't? Is that why your textile company sells my farm's Merino wool as cashmere? I get that our wool is top-notch, but isn't that a bit much?"
The call ended with a click, the silence on the other end saying more than words ever could. Joanne sighed, tugging out the earpiece and setting it beside her breakfast. She glanced up just as Patrick Murray entered her kitchen, his easy grin lighting up the room.
"Morning, Jo!"
"Morning, Paddy," she greeted, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Want some eggs?"
Patrick rubbed his sizable belly with exaggerated satisfaction. "Nah, my old ball and chain made sure I'm stuffed. You know how she is—can't let me leave the house without a proper feast."
Joanne chuckled, shaking her head as she picked up her cutlery and started on her eggs. Lukewarm or not, she wasn't about to waste them.
The sounds of commotion drifted in from outside—raised voices, muffled shouting, and the unmistakable racket of someone being loud where they shouldn't.
"Jeffrey again?" she asked between bites, her tone exasperated but not surprised.