Chapter 6
Charlotte posted the apology the next morning.
It was a two-minute video, filmed in her empty apartment, no makeup, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
She said she’d been cruel.
She said she’d humiliated me out of jealousy.
She said I was a better person than she was, and that she hoped one day I could forgive her.
She tagged me.
She tagged Jake.
She tagged every single guest who’d been at the wedding.
Within an hour, it had been viewed a hundred thousand times.
And then the internet exploded.
At first, it was good.
People praised Charlotte for being honest. People praised Jake for defending me. People called me lucky, called us couple goals.
But then the tabloids picked it up.
And they twisted it.
“BILLIONAIRE MECHANIC TRAPPED BY GOLD-DIGGING WIFE,” one headline screamed.
“MIA HALE PLANNED WEDDING HUMILIATION TO STEAL VOSS FORTUNE,” said another.
They dug up old photos of me.
Photos from college, drunk at a party. Photos of me working at the coffee shop where I’d met Jake, wearing my stained apron. Photos of our cottage, calling it a “love nest” where I’d “brainwashed” him into hiding his fortune.
They said I’d known who he was the whole time.
They said I’d married him for his money.
They said the wedding toast had been a setup, a way for Jake to get out of the Voss deal without looking like the bad guy.
My social media blew up.
Thousands of comments.
Gold digger.
User.
Trash.
You don’t deserve him.
I deleted all the apps from my phone, but it didn’t help.
People recognized me at the grocery store. They stared. They whispered. They took photos of me when I wasn’t looking.
I stopped leaving the cottage.
I sat on the couch all day, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall.
Jake tried to help.
He brought me soup. He put on my favorite movies. He held me while I cried.
But it wasn’t enough.
All the old insecurities came rushing back.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe I didn’t deserve him.
Maybe I was just the poor girl who’d gotten lucky, and everyone was going to find out I wasn’t good enough.
One night, I woke up at 3 a.m. and he wasn’t in bed.
I got up, padding down the hall, and found him in the living room, on the phone, his voice low and angry.
“I don’t care how much it costs,” he said. “I want every single one of those stories retracted. I want every comment that mentions her name taken down. And if any of those tabloids print one more lie about my wife, I will sue them until they don’t have a penny left to their name. Do you understand me?”
He hung up, then turned and saw me standing in the doorway.
His face softened.
“Hey,” he said, holding his hand out to me. “Come here.”
I walked over, and he pulled me down onto the couch next to him, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” I said, quiet. “Fight all these people for me.”
He tilted my chin up, making me look at him.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce. “Every single word those people are writing is a lie. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You loved me when I had nothing but a broken-down truck and a dream. You loved me when you thought I was just a poor mechanic. That makes you the least gold-digging person on this entire planet.”
He brushed a strand of hair off my face.
“I’m not going to let anyone make you feel small,” he said. “Not your sister. Not your parents. Not a bunch of strangers hiding behind keyboards. Not anyone. Tomorrow, I’m holding a press conference. I’m going to tell the whole world the truth. All of it. And then this will be over. I promise.”
The next afternoon, we walked into a conference room at Hale Industries, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions.
Jake held my hand tight the whole time.
He sat down behind the podium, pulled me right up next to him, and started talking.
He told them about his grandfather.
About how he’d grown up rich, but never felt like he belonged.
About how he’d opened the auto shop to feel normal, to feel like he’d earned something on his own.
About meeting me at the coffee shop.
About spilling my latte, about laughing at him, about not knowing his name for a month.
About falling in love with me in our tiny cottage, fixing the leaky roof together, burning toast on Sundays.
About the wedding.
About Charlotte’s toast.
About how he’d had enough of people treating the woman he loved like she was less than.
“Mia didn’t know who I was until that night,” he said, looking straight into the nearest camera. “She didn’t know about the money. She didn’t know about the company. She loved me for me. And anyone who says otherwise is lying. And I will spend every dollar I have to protect her from those lies.”
He paused, then looked at me, his eyes soft.
“I’m the lucky one,” he said. “I got to marry the only person in the world who doesn’t care what my last name is. The only person who loves me for the guy under the hood, not the guy in the boardroom.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Then the reporters started clapping.
By that night, the headlines had changed.
“BILLIONAIRE MECHANIC’S EPIC LOVE STORY WINS THE INTERNET.”
“JAKE HALE DEFENDS WIFE IN EMOTIONAL PRESS CONFERENCE.”
“IF YOUR MAN DOESN’T LOVE YOU LIKE JAKE LOVES MIA, DUMP HIM.”
I read the comments, and for the first time all week, I smiled.
Jake wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
“Told you,” he said.
I leaned back against him, closing my eyes.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t care what other people thought.
May you like
I had Jake.
And that was more than enough.
