CHAPTER 16 — SERVICE
A process server found Stella two days later.
Not at her apartment.
At a charity luncheon in SoHo where cameras loved good lighting and rich women loved being photographed for being generous.
Stella was mid-laugh when the man approached.
He waited until she looked at him.
Then he handed her the envelope.
“You’ve been served,” he said, neutral, professional.
Stella’s smile held for one second too long.
Then it collapsed.
She glanced at the front page.
Her face went pale.
A friend leaned in, whispering, alarmed.
Stella forced herself to laugh again, louder.
“Is this a joke?” she said, making it a performance for the room.
No one laughed with her.
Not really.
The server turned away.
The humiliation didn’t look like a slap.
It looked like people deciding she was trouble and stepping back from her like she was contagious.
That night, Stella posted a new story.
A close-up of her face, eyes red, voice shaking.
“I never wanted this,” she said. “I just wanted to tell the truth.”
I didn’t watch more than ten seconds.
Daniel had already warned me: don’t engage, don’t DM, don’t react.
I sent the story to him.
He replied with one line:
Good. Let her speak. We’ll preserve it.
The next morning, my attorney filed for a temporary restraining order.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
A stack of exhibits.
Screenshots.
Links.
Proof of doxxing.
Threat messages.
A pattern.
I signed my declaration with a steady hand.
Ethan sat beside me, silent, jaw tight.
When we left the building, he reached for my hand.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked quietly.
I looked up at him.
The city around us kept moving, indifferent.
“No,” I said. “I regret that she thought she could rewrite my life.”
Ethan nodded once.
Then he said, very calmly:
“She can try. But she’s about to learn the difference between a rumor and a record.”