On the eve of her wedding, Hazel Bell called her mother, thousands of miles away. Her mother paused, stunned, but didn't press her with questions; she knew her daughter well. With a calm, reassuring tone, she readily agreed, "Alright. I'm getting older anyway, and this business will end up in your hands sooner or later. The sooner you come, the sooner you can adjust."
Hazel responded with a light laugh, masking the ache in her chest. But her eyes betrayed her, drifting toward the bridal suite. Through the dim light filtering from the window, she saw the shadows of two entwined figures: her fiancé and her stepsister.
She fought to keep her composure, but her voice trembled. Her mother sighed softly, a weight of shared pain in her words, "I thought he was different. I didn't expect him to walk the same path as your father and me. It's alright, Hazel. You're still young. I'll be here waiting for you."
After a few quiet words, they ended the call. Hazel crumbled to the roadside as silence enveloped her. The dam she had held back burst, and her sobs filled the quiet night. The moonlight poured over her, its cold brilliance amplifying the ache in her heart.
Before tonight, she had believed Ambrose was different. They had grown up together, their bond unshaken, officially sealed at eighteen. Ambrose Wright, born into a distinguished family of scholars, carried himself with effortless grace, his charm and refinement setting him apart. As the heir to the Wright legacy, he exuded a maturity that distinguished him from his peers.
In their ten years together, they had never quarreled. Ambrose treated Hazel with a tenderness and indulgence bordering on devotion, as if he were the protective older brother she could always rely on. He showered her with lavish gestures: bouquets filling car trunks, glittering jewels, and an unwavering willingness to grant her every wish. To everyone, his quiet devotion was proof of profound love. They were the golden couple, envied and admired.
But that night, at what should have been the pinnacle of her happiness, her ten-year dream crashed down at their engagement party. Ambrose had invited Hazel's stepsister, Scarlett Jones, the one person Hazel wished to banish from her life forever.
Scarlett's appearance unleashed a flood of buried memories. Hazel remembered how Scarlett and her mother had tormented her, driving her mother to despair. She recalled years of torment and humiliation, the scars still aching like fresh wounds.
For once, Hazel, usually calm and composed, let her emotions take over. Her soft voice sharpened as she demanded Scarlett leave. But Scarlett, ever calculating, refused, invoking her mother's name—a taunt that cut Hazel deeply.
Their heated exchange spiraled, turning the party into chaos. Hazel instinctively turned to Ambrose for support, but before she could speak, his hand struck her cheek.
"Go home and sober up if you're drunk. Stop making a scene! Look at yourself, how could you ever expect to be the future mistress of the family?"
His cold words stung far worse than the slap. Her father, instead of defending her, added fuel to the fire: "Your sister just returned, and this is how you treat her? Where's your dignity as the elder sister? If your Aunt Althea takes offense at this, I won't forgive you!"
The crowd watched silently as the two men berated her. Every word felt like a dagger, stripping away her composure. Then, Ambrose turned his back, escorting Scarlett away without a glance.
Left alone to endure the whispers and scorn, Hazel felt humiliation seep into her bones. Her face burned crimson—from alcohol or shame, she couldn't tell. Without a word, she fled, her footsteps echoing into the night. It was nearly impossible to hail a cab at that hour. After wandering for over three hours, the cold wind gnawed at her skin, leaving her head pounding. Eventually, she stumbled back to Belmont Villa.