Second Love [Completed]

17. Consequences

Susan's P.O.V.

I can't believe it. That jackass Xavier kissed me—right in the middle of the dance floor, in front of all the elites.

Now everyone thinks I'm after his wealth, his status. My stomach churns with embarrassment and rage. I feel disgusting. Humiliated. After just one stupid kiss, my world has been turned upside down. And to make things worse, even Hayashi Ken saw us kissing. After everything, after finally calling a truce, now it feels like we're back to square one—or worse, nothing at all. I can't even imagine what he must think. He was always kind to me, always respectful, never pushing for more than I was willing to give. And now, just like that, I've ruined it. He's the perfect gentleman, and I was really into him. But after tonight, I don't know if there's anything left to salvage.

He flew in from Kyoto last night just to ask if he could be my escort for this damn ball—a grand, old-school romantic gesture that I had to kindly but regretfully decline. I couldn't embarrass Xavier after everything he had planned for me, just because a man I was genuinely drawn to suddenly showed up. But to acknowledge Ken's effort, I spent time with him in the ballroom.

Talking with him is effortless, his presence a steadying force. He's the kind of man who holds open doors without making a show of it, who listens intently, who knows exactly when to offer comfort and when to give space. When we danced, he maintained the perfect distance—close enough to be warm, but never overstepping. Even in conversation, he had a way of making me feel truly heard, never interrupting or dismissing my words.

And for a moment, I almost forgot the chaos Xavier had caused. Because Ken isn't like him—he doesn't command attention with arrogance, doesn't pull me into situations I never agreed to. With Ken, I'm not a game piece in some grand strategy. I'm just... me.

I stormed out the ballroom, but the press was already waiting. If not for my security team, I'd have been eaten alive. Even after I reached the hotel, the nightmare didn't stop. The second I stepped into my suite, my phone buzzed.

Victor, my bodyguard.

"My jet's ready?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, Miss. We should leave soon."

Of course. Because somehow, someone recorded that awful moment, and the video spread like wildfire.

Xavier hasn't even bothered to call me, let alone apologize. Not a single text, not a word of explanation—nothing. As if what happened meant absolutely nothing to him. Meanwhile, the internet is tearing me apart, and I'm left cleaning up the mess he made without so much as a shred of remorse from him.

The headlines are an absolute disaster. Twitter is even worse—filled with models, actresses, and strangers who know nothing about me, yet feel entitled to call me a gold-digger, a whore. As if I need Xavier's money. If I wanted to, I could buy and sell half of these people without a second thought. My wealth isn't flaunted in flashy bank accounts or extravagant displays—it's in estates, legacy, things that matter. Unlike him, I don't need to put my fortune on display to prove anything.

But the internet doesn't care about facts.

A buzz from my intercom snaps me out of my thoughts. I pick it up.

"How bad is it?" I ask Rosetta, my assistant.

"Bad. Really bad. The entrance, the back parking, every exit is swarming with reporters. Security will clear a path once your car is ready."

I exhale. At least I won't have to deal with them again. Their questions are all the same:

—Are you dating Mr. Xavier? —Are you his new fling? —Is this a PR stunt?