Gideon
Thequiet of my apartment feels like a cage I’ve built for myself. I sit at my father’s old accounting desk, the digital world my only window. Scrolling through a local news site is part of my daily routine, background noise, nothing more. Until a picture stops me.
It’s Lara. She’s smiling, a genuine, radiant smile I haven’t seen in weeks.
But the headline beneath it turns that warmth into dread.
"Lara Wood: Left at the Altar or The Mastermind Behind the Scam?"
By Matthew, The Pigeon Express
Her story is one of undeniable triumph: a scorned bride, left at the altar, now building a successful financial consulting business from the ashes of her own humiliation. Lara Wood’s narrative of resilience and female empowerment is inspiring, so inspiring, in fact, that it feels almost too good to be true.
Sources close to the wedding party suggest that Lara Wood’s heartbreak was not an unforeseen betrayal but the result of long-simmering tensions fueled by hidden family secrets and a scandalous connection to her brother, Calvin, a man whose reputation is far removed from the world of high finance. Was the wedding an elaborate attempt to legitimize her family’s name? And was her fiancé’s departure not a mistake but a calculated escape from a manipulative relationship
Her business, a self-proclaimed “mission” to help women, rests on a foundation of public sympathy. She is, as one source described, a “victim who’s not a victim” a savvy businesswoman leveraging her very public humiliation for profit. Her success is undeniable, but the question lingers: is it the product of genuine hard work, or a carefully staged fraud built to capitalize on a sob story?
The truth is, some people are better at crafting narratives than building lives. Lara Wood may have convinced many with her tale of resilience, but the details suggest otherwise. They reveal a woman willing to do anything to get what she wants, even if it means deceiving the man she once vowed to marry.
The article is vicious, hateful, a character assassination dressed as journalism. The words turn to ash in my mouth.
It paints her as a “victim who’s not a victim,” a woman who used her “public humiliation” to “leverage a sob story for business.” It drags Calvin’s name into the mud, hinting at his shady reputation, and even suggests Lara engineered the scandal to get ahead. My blood runs cold. This isn’t a story about her success; it’s a calculated attempt to destroy her. And worse, it shifts the blame for a mistake that was entirely mine onto her shoulders.
My phone rings. David. A client I’d sent Lara’s way. I answer, my voice tight.
“Gideon,” he says without preamble. “I just read the article. I’m disappointed, man. You told me she was professional. You told me she was focused. This sounds like a public relations nightmare.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Shame washes over me, bitter and cold. I try to defend her, to say she did nothing wrong, that she’s the victim in all this, but the words catch in my throat. He isn’t just questioning me anymore. He’s questioning her. To him, Lara is no longer a professional. She’s a con artist. She used me.
He hangsup. Another call comes in. This time it’s a mutual friend, furious and confused.
“Dude, what the hell is going on? This article says Lara is some kind of mastermind. That she’s using you to get ahead. Is any of this true?”
My blood runs cold. A twisted version of our wedding is out there. Not the truth, but a malicious, ugly lie that pins the scandal on Lara. I glance back at the article, and a terrible realization dawns on me: Matthew didn’t just write a piece about her success, he wrote a weapon. He twisted her triumph into something poisonous, and I, in my cowardice, let it happen.
My stomach clenches. My hands won’t stop shaking, a testament to the man I’ve become: a man who sends clients, a man who writes in a journal, a man who does everything except face the consequences of his own actions. I’ve been groveling in the shadows, trying to pay a debt I thought was private. But this debt is public. The shame is public. The pain is public. And it’s all my fault.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping across the floor with a brutal sound. I can’t be a coward anymore. I can’t hide behind contracts, journal entries, or silent gestures. I need to act. Something real. Something public.
I snatch my keys and phone, my mind a storm of furious, desperate thoughts. I remember the name of Matthew’s newspaper, the address I’d looked up after reading the article. And I head for the door. I have to go there. I have to find him. I have to make this right. Not for me. Not for my clients.
But for her.
I’m a blur of motion, a man on a mission. I drive too fast, weaving through traffic, ignoring the blare of horns and the smear of city lights. I’m not a hero. I’m a man who made a terrible mistake. But today, I’ll make a choice, and I’ll make it loudly.
I slam the car door shut. Inside the lobby of The Pigeon Express, my heart hammers. The receptionist looks up, her eyes widening in surprise.
“I need to speak with Matthew,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “Now.”
She stammers, fumbling for words, but I don’t wait. I stride past her into the main newsroom, a sea of cubicles, glowing monitors, and the low murmur of conversations.
And then I see him. Matthew, hunched at his desk, smirk curling his lips as he types. But when his eyes meet mine, the smirk vanishes.
I stop in the center of the newsroom and raise my voice. loud enough to slice through the din, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Lara Wood did nothing wrong,” I say, the words both confession and vow. “I’m the man who left her at the altar. I’m the one who broke her heart.”
Silence falls, sudden and absolute. Phones rise. A sea of shocked faces stares at me, surprise, confusion, morbid curiosity written across them all.
