Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~12 min read
[DUAL POV]
[ASPEN POV – Sunday Afternoon]
The lawyer on the phone was professional. Polite. Absolutely terrifying.
“Ms. Colby, I represent the Thornton-Webb family. They’re prepared to pursue damages for defamation, emotional distress, and breach of contract regarding yesterday’s—incident. However, they’re willing to settle if you sign NDA and cease all contact with both families. Shall we schedule a meeting?”
“I need to consult my own lawyer,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
“Of course. We’ll expect to hear from them by end of business Monday.” He hung up.
I lowered the phone. Bailey and Marius watched from my tiny living room—him looking completely out of place on our thrifted couch, her looking between us like she was trying to solve impossible equation.
“They’re suing,” I said.
“Expected,” Marius said. “My father will do the same. It’s performative—showing they’re victims. But we’ll fight it.”
“With what lawyer? I can’t afford—”
“I told you. I have resources.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Marshall Lang. He’s the best litigation attorney in London. If he takes the case—”
“Marius, stop.” I sat down heavily. “Stop trying to fix this. You can’t just—throw money at my problems. That’s not how this works.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Because it highlighted every difference between us. Because I couldn’t afford basic legal defense while he could hire the best lawyers in London without blinking. Because—
Because this was always going to be the problem. Him with family wealth and trust funds and resources. Me with five thousand dollars and destroyed reputation and nothing.
“Because that’s not partnership,” I said finally. “That’s charity.”
“It’s not charity, it’s—”
“It’s exactly charity. You swooping in to save the poor broke girl who doesn’t have options. I appreciate it. I do. But it’s not—we’re not equal in this. We were never going to be equal in this.”
The truth sat heavy between us.
Bailey cleared her throat. “I’ll get coffee. You two need to talk.” She escaped to kitchen.
Marius moved closer. “Aspen, I don’t care about equal. I care about right. You’re being sued for something we planned together. I’m not letting you face that alone just because I happen to have money.”
“That’s exactly my point. You ‘happen to have money’ like it’s coincidence. Like it doesn’t fundamentally change everything. But it does. It—” My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Again.
I answered. “Hello?”
“Aspen Colby?” Female voice. Crisp. Professional. “This is Rebecca Chen from The Guardian. I’m writing about yesterday’s wedding incident. Would you like to comment?”
“No comment.”
“We’ve obtained some interesting information about your financial situation. Student loans. Mother’s medical expenses. Multiple jobs. It appears you were quite desperate. Did financial pressure motivate your actions?”
“No comment.” I hung up.
Marius frowned. “Media’s digging into your finances?”
“They’ve been digging since yesterday. It’s only going to get worse.”
Phone buzzed again. Text this time. Unknown number.
Check the Daily Mail website. You need to see this. – Bailey
My blood went cold. “Bailey? Did you just text me?”
“No?” She emerged from kitchen with coffee. “Why?”
I opened the Daily Mail site. Front page. Featured article.
MYSTERY MISTRESS OR HIRED ESCORT? Aspen Colby’s Desperate Past Revealed
The article was—devastating.
Photos of me. My apartment building. The bar where I worked. Quotes from unnamed sources about my “moral flexibility” and “willingness to do whatever it takes for money.” Screenshots of my Craigslist ad—the one offering “discreet work” that Dominic had found. Screenshots of my crowdfunding page for Mom’s care with its pathetic $340 raised.
But worst: Allegations that I was hired. Not as wedding saboteur. As escort. That I’d solicited payment for “sexual services and romantic deception.” That the “affair” was paid arrangement. That I was—
They were calling me a prostitute. Professional gold-digger. Woman who’d do anything for money.
And at the bottom of the article: Statement from Dominic Thornton.
“My family is devastated by this woman’s actions. We’ve since learned she may have been hired by someone to disrupt the wedding. We’re investigating who paid her and why. Anyone with information should contact our legal team.”
Brilliant. He was publicly suggesting he didn’t hire me. Making it look like he was investigating who did. Positioning himself as victim while framing me as hired criminal.
And no one would believe me if I said otherwise. Because I had no proof. No texts. No emails. No evidence except cash he’d given me that now looked like payment for—
For exactly what the article suggested.
“This is Dominic,” Marius said, reading over my shoulder. “He planted this story. He’s destroying your reputation so you can’t expose his involvement.”
“It’s working.” My hands were shaking. “Look at the comments.”
The comments were a cesspool:
“Clearly a professional escort targeting wealthy men”
“Desperate women will do anything for money”
“She should be arrested for blackmail”
“This is what happens when you let people like her into society events”
People like her. People like me. The implication clear: Poor. Black. Desperate. Other.
“We need to respond,” Marius said. “Issue statement. Expose Dominic. Tell the truth.”
“With what evidence? I deleted everything. He paid cash. There’s no proof he hired me. It’s my word against his—and he’s Dominic Thornton, society heir. I’m broke bartender who posted sketchy ad on Craigslist. Who do you think people will believe?”
The answer was obvious. And devastating.
[MARIUS POV – Sunday Evening]
Watching Aspen’s reputation destroyed in real-time was worse than watching my own wedding explode.
At least the wedding had been controlled detonation. This was—massacre.
My phone was exploding too. But my notifications were different:
Father: Hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ve disgraced the family name. Don’t bother coming home. You’re cut off. Completely.
Mother: Your father is furious. He’s meeting with lawyers Monday to discuss disowning you. Please, beta, come home and fix this.
Julius Thornton-Webb: Your family’s girl is a prostitute. We’ll be suing both of you. Hope she was worth destroying everything.
And from Allegra: Dominic did this. The article. The framing. It’s him. He’s covering something up. Be careful.
I called Rhys. “Did you see the article?”
“Everyone’s seen the article. It’s everywhere. Marius, this is—this is character assassination. Professionally executed. Someone with serious resources did this.”
“Dominic.”
“Probably. But how do we prove it?”
“I don’t know. Aspen has no evidence. He covered his tracks. And now she’s—” I looked at her. Sitting on her couch. Staring at her phone. Watching her life destroyed in real-time. “She’s completely vulnerable. No money. No lawyer. No power. And they’re destroying her.”
“What are you going to do?”
What could I do? I had trust fund. Had resources. But Father was already moving to cut me off. By Monday I might have nothing too.
“Fight,” I said. “Somehow. I’ll find a way to protect her.”
“Protect her how? You can barely protect yourself right now.”
He was right. But I couldn’t say that. Couldn’t admit—
Couldn’t admit I was powerless too. Just differently powerless.
“I have to try,” I said.
After I hung up, I sat beside Aspen. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Will we?” She didn’t look at me. Just stared at her phone. “Marius, you have trust fund. Family connections. Resources. Even if your father cuts you off, you’ll survive. You’ll land on your feet somewhere. But me? I’m—I’m destroyed. No one will hire me. Everyone thinks I’m escort. My mother’s facility has probably seen this—they’ll ask me to leave. My jobs have definitely seen it. I’m—” Her voice cracked. “I’m completely fucked.”
“You’re not—”
“Yes I am. And you can’t fix it. Money doesn’t fix this. Lawyers don’t fix this. My reputation is destroyed. Dominic made sure of that. And the worst part?” She finally looked at me. Tears streaming. “The worst part is he was right. I am desperate. I did post that ad offering morally questionable work. I did take money to crash your wedding. Everything they’re saying—it’s not true but it’s true enough. Close enough to real that no one will believe me when I say it’s not.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was wrong. But—
She wasn’t wrong.
The class difference I’d been ignoring suddenly felt insurmountable. I could walk away from this scandal bruised but surviving. Family might disown me but I’d still have education, connections, resources. I’d still land somewhere.
She’d have nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t approached you that night. If I hadn’t made us partners. If I’d just—let you execute the plan alone, at least you’d have your money. Dominic wouldn’t have cut your payment. You’d be—”
“Still destroyed,” she finished. “This was always going to happen. He always planned to screw me. The only question was how badly.”
My phone buzzed. Father calling. I ignored it.
Buzed again. Text from Octavian: Monday 9 AM. My office. We’re discussing your future. Or lack thereof.
“They’re cutting me off,” I said. “Formally. Monday morning.”
“Good,” Aspen said bitterly. “Then we can be broke together. Equal at last.”
The words hurt because they were true.
[ASPEN POV – Monday Morning]
I woke up on my couch—I’d given Marius my bed, couldn’t let him sleep on the floor despite his protests—to Bailey shaking me.
“Aspen. Wake up. It’s worse.”
“How could it possibly be worse?”
She showed me her phone.
The Guardian had published follow-up article. This time with more “evidence”: Screenshots of my bank account showing the $5,000 deposit. Timeline of my financial desperation. Interviews with anonymous “sources” (definitely Dominic) suggesting I’d solicited the job. Speculation about whether I’d committed crimes—fraud, blackmail, prostitution.
And at the bottom: Statement from Thornton-Webb family lawyer.
“Ms. Colby will be served with legal papers Monday. We have evidence she was paid to disrupt the wedding and defame our clients. She will face civil and potentially criminal consequences.”
Criminal consequences. Prison. They were threatening prison.
“I need to call a lawyer,” I said. “Now.”
“With what money?” Bailey asked gently.
“I have five thousand—”
“Which you need for rent and your mom’s facility next month. Aspen, you can’t afford a lawyer. Not one good enough to fight Thornton-Webb legal team.”
She was right. Of course she was right.
I looked at Marius. Still asleep in my bed. Exhausted from his own family crisis. He’d offered to pay for lawyer. Had resources even if his family cut him off.
But taking his money felt like—
Like proving Dominic right. Like being gold-digger. Like—
Like confirming every horrible thing they were saying about me.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered. “Bailey, I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I’m not—”
“Yes you are. You’ve survived worse. Your mom’s diagnosis. Dropping out. Three years of drowning. You survived all that. You’ll survive this.”
“How?”
“Don’t know yet. But you will. Because you’re stubborn. And you don’t quit. And—” She pulled me into hug. “And you have people. You’re not alone.”
But I felt alone. Completely alone.
Except—
Marius emerged from bedroom. Hair messy. Still in yesterday’s clothes. Looking as wrecked as I felt.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Desperately.”
We sat in kitchen. Drinking terrible instant coffee. Not talking. Just—existing in the wreckage.
My phone buzzed. Text from number I didn’t recognize:
Ms. Colby, this is Marshall Lang. Marius Khatri contacted me about representing you. I’ve reviewed your situation. I’ll take your case. No charge. This is personal now. Dominic Thornton destroyed my sister’s career five years ago the same way. I’ve been waiting for a chance to expose him. You’re that chance. Call me.
I showed Marius. “Did you—”
“I called him last night. Asked if he’d consider taking your case. Didn’t know about his sister. But—” He smiled slightly. “Looks like we found an ally.”
An ally. Against Dominic. Against his family. Against—
Against everything trying to destroy us.
“Do I call him?” I asked.
“That’s your choice. But Aspen—you need a lawyer. You need help. And sometimes accepting help isn’t weakness. Sometimes it’s survival.”
He was right.
I called Marshall Lang.
“Ms. Colby,” he answered. Professional. Warm. “Thank you for calling. Let me be clear: Dominic Thornton is a predator. He finds desperate people, uses them, then destroys them to cover his tracks. You’re not the first. But if you’ll let me, we can make you the last. We can expose him. We can fight back. Are you interested?”
Was I?
“Yes,” I said. “I’m interested.”
“Good. Meet me tomorrow. Bring everything—timeline, bank records, any evidence you have. We’ll build a case. And Ms. Colby? This time Dominic Thornton won’t win.”
After I hung up, I felt something I hadn’t felt in days:
Hope. Tiny. Fragile. But real.
“We’re fighting back,” I said to Marius.
“Together,” he confirmed.
“Together.”
Whatever came next—lawsuits, legal battles, public scrutiny, family rejection—we’d face it.
Not as desperate people using each other.
As partners. Allies.
Maybe something more.
But first: War.
Against Dominic. Against his lies. Against the system that protected people like him and destroyed people like me.
We’d fight.
And maybe—just maybe—we’d win.
Even if winning just meant surviving.
Even if—
We’d find out.
Together.
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