The Moth Survived The Flame
Language: en
The night of the network gala, when I was twenty-six, the world I had built shattered in the palm of my hand. I was center stage, the lights blinding, the teleprompter humming. But when I flipped my cue cards to the next segment, the script was gone. In its place was a high-gloss photo of Andrea and her lover. From the first page to the twentieth, it was a curated gallery of betrayal. Every scene, every position, every indignity. The foyer of a boutique hotel, the leather backseat of her SUV, a private balcony overlooking the city... these images didn't just hurt; they felt like needles…