Chapter 3

Three days later, I was discharged.

No one came to pick me up—Ryan said he was "swamped with work." I took a cab back to my apartment and found thirty-plus missed calls on my phone, all from reporters.

Opening the news, the headlines screamed:

"FBI Agent's Negligence Leads to Her Assault, Three Fugitives Captured"

Then the tabloids:

"ADA Boyfriend Tearfully Claims: She Ignored Warnings and Insisted on Going Alone"

"FBI Internal Investigation: Agent Harris's 'Hero Complex' May Have Caused Tragedy"

And the most disgusting:

"Female Agent's Clothing Found at Crime Scene: Evidence of Improper Relationship?"

Standing at my apartment door, I scrolled through article after article with trembling fingers. Each one nailing me to a pillar of shame.

The victim, repackaged as the villain.

My phone rang—FBI Human Resources. A brief call, coldly informative: suspended pending investigation, required to cooperate with Internal Affairs, prohibited from speaking to the media.

Hanging up, I leaned against the wall, caught between laughter and tears.

Two years of hard work, youngest criminal profiler in Bureau history, FBI's rising star—gone overnight.

And Ryan? Opening social media, his photo appeared across multiple news sites:

"ADA Ryan Blackstone: Guardian of Justice in Dark Times"

In the photo, he stood in an immaculate suit, expression resolute, giving an interview.

"This incident has shown me that the price of justice can be steep. My heart breaks for Ella, but I hope this case will drive reforms in our justice system to prevent future tragedies..."

I shut off my phone, unable to stomach any more.

The following week felt like a slow death.

The FBI's Internal Affairs team interviewed me three times, each session insinuating "did your personal relationship with Mr. Blackstone compromise your professional judgment?"

Media camped outside my building. I couldn't even buy groceries without being photographed under headlines like "Disgraced Agent Ventures Out Alone."

On social media, keyboard warriors had already sentenced me:

"Another woman using her position to sleep her way up."

"Disgrace to the FBI."

"Her boyfriend deserves better than this trainwreck."

Meanwhile, Ryan got his promotion.

The news reported he'd been elevated to Chief Assistant District Attorney for "maintaining composure under pressure and successfully apprehending three fugitives."

Chief ADA at twenty-nine—the youngest in Los Angeles history.

That night, Ryan finally came to see me. Not at the hospital, not to comfort me, but to break up.

He stood at my apartment door, his face a mask of reluctance and pain.

"Ella, I've been thinking," he said, unable to meet my eyes. "This period has been... overwhelming for both of us. I think we need some space to process our emotions."

I leaned against the doorframe, regarding him coldly. "You want to break up."

"Not break up—just... a temporary separation," Ryan corrected. "You need therapy, I need time to heal. When we've both moved past this shadow, maybe..."

"Maybe what?" I cut him off. "Maybe you won't need a 'disgraced agent' girlfriend dragging down your career anymore?"

Ryan's expression flickered with discomfort before resuming his "I'm doing this for you" facade.

"It hurts that you think of me that way," he said. "But I respect your feelings. I'll continue paying the apartment rent until the end of the year, and I'll cover your therapy costs. Ella, I'm not abandoning you, I'm just—"

"Get out."

He left, his footsteps down the stairs surprisingly light.

Through the curtains, I watched a white Porsche waiting below. The window rolled down to reveal a blonde woman in the driver's seat who looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.

Sophia Wilson. I knew her—heiress to the Wilson fortune, a fixture in LA's social scene.

Ryan approached, leaned down to say something, then opened the passenger door and got in.

The Porsche sped away, even its exhaust fumes seeming arrogant.

Standing at the window, watching their car disappear around the corner, I suddenly laughed.

Laughed until tears came.

So he already had a replacement lined up. No wonder the breakup was so clean.

For the next three days, I existed like a zombie. Not eating, barely sleeping, just sitting at my computer trying to find evidence of Ryan's betrayal.

I hacked into his email, cloud storage, social accounts. As an FBI criminal profiler, I had the skills.

In his cloud backup, I found chat logs with Sophia.

The timeline started six months ago—right when the Dark Web Killer case opened.

Ryan: "What has Ella found?"

Sophia: "She's traced the dark web transactions to my family. She'll connect the money laundering eventually."

Ryan: "Then we make sure she never does."

Sophia: "You have a plan?"

Ryan: "I know some guys who escaped from state prison. They owe me favors."

Sophia: "You're thinking...?"

Ryan: "A disgraced FBI agent meets with tragedy. The media will sympathize with her but won't dig deeper into the case itself. And I'll be the heroic boyfriend caught in the tragedy."

Sophia: "Ryan, you're brilliant. After it's done, my father will back your investments."

Ryan: "I want more than investments. I want the Chief ADA position."

Sophia: "Done. Also, you'll need to break up with her afterward. I don't want my man tied to dead weight."

Ryan: "Don't worry. Once she's ruined, breaking up is inevitable."

I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling.

Every word was evidence. Every sentence could send him to prison.

I took screenshots of the chat logs and was about to contact FBI Internal Affairs when I saw a new message from Ryan:

Ryan: "Sophia, I've changed the cloud password. Also cleared all our chat history from my phone."

Sophia: "So cautious. But I guess you have to be, considering what we've done..."

Ryan: "The kind of thing that gets you the death penalty. 😏"

My cursor hovered over the "Send" button.

If I submitted this evidence now, they'd claim it was fabricated. After all, I was "the emotionally unstable victim" with motive to frame my ex-boyfriend.

Even if the evidence was accepted, the lengthy judicial process would give Ryan ample time to destroy more evidence.

Most importantly, the Wilson family had money and connections. They could hire the best legal team in the country.

I might not win.

I shut down the computer and walked to the bathroom.

The tub was filled with hot water, steam fogging the mirror. The reflection showed a haggard face with hollow eyes—a ghost of myself.

I took a razor blade from the medicine cabinet and sank into the tub.

The hot water enveloped me, comforting—the first comfort I'd felt in days.

The blade slid across my wrist, blood surging out, staining the clear water red.

It didn't hurt. Or rather, compared to the pain inside, this physical pain was nothing.

I watched the blood diffuse through the water, memories flashing through my mind.

Ryan asking me out for the first time, at that seaside restaurant, telling me I was the smartest woman he'd ever met.

Our first kiss, on his apartment balcony, the Los Angeles skyline twinkling behind us.

The way he said "I love you," his eyes so sincere I thought I'd found the right person.

It was all fake.

All an elaborate con.

My consciousness began to blur, the bathroom ceiling spinning. I heard my phone ringing—probably another reporter.

Whatever. None of it mattered anymore.

This world wasn't fair to me, so I was checking out.

Ryan, Sophia, you win.

My eyes closed, final awareness fading into the warm crimson.

It was over.

Or was it?