Ambrose reassured Scarlett, "Don't cry. Your sister has always been understanding. She won't blame you." The others quickly gathered, their voices a chorus of comfort as they gestured towards the photos, offering half-hearted praise to lift her spirits.
Meanwhile, Hazel struggled to rise, her head throbbing. A warm trickle ran down her face; a crimson smear on the tissue left her momentarily stunned. She couldn't tell if it was blood or tears.
But no one noticed. Their attention remained fixed on Scarlett. Laughter and reassurances filled the room, drowning out Hazel's silent pain.
Only after the bleeding stopped did Ambrose approach her, camera dangling loosely. "The photo didn't capture your face clearly, and Scarlett's pose could have been better," he remarked casually. Then, noticing her injury, his brows furrowed. "Wait... Hazel, what happened to your face?"
Her chest tightened. Her face had been bleeding, yet their only concern had been Scarlett's pose. The realization struck her with the force of a sharp blade.
She waved off his concern with a faint smile. "It's nothing. Don't bother retaking it. It's late; I'll head back now." What did it matter? The idea of a family photo had long since vanished from her heart.
She left quietly, the path to Belmont Villa seeming longer than usual, each step heavy with unspoken resignation. The once-vibrant wedding room, stripped of its warmth over the past few days, felt cold and impersonal, a space belonging to anyone.
She tossed the wedding dress aside, its fabric pooling on the floor. Dragging out her suitcase, she packed with mechanical precision. Remnants of her time with Ambrose lingered everywhere, nearly every item holding a fragment of shared memories. But memories were a double-edged sword. She decided to leave everything but the essentials behind, wanting a clean break, a fresh start.
By dawn, a knock echoed through the quiet villa. The makeup artist had arrived. Hazel, about to leave, dressed elegantly, ready to greet the dawn of her new life. A knock shattered the quiet; Ambrose rushed in, urgency etched on his face.
"Scarlett's makeup artist canceled. She's been crying nonstop. Could yours help her first?"
The request was absurd, almost laughable. The makeup artist hesitated. But Hazel remained composed. "Go ahead. I'm not in a hurry."
Her calm agreement startled Ambrose. Shouldn't she have protested? Shouldn't she have demanded attention, like Scarlett? Hazel's indifference stung more than anger. It was as if the wedding and Ambrose had ceased to matter.
The unsettling thought gnawed at him. What if she left and he never saw her again? His father-in-law's voice broke his reverie.
"Hazel, I'll be back soon. I promise this is the last time."
The last time? Hazel offered a faint, ironic smile. Yes, it was.
In a few hours, she would board a plane, never to look back.
Once Ambrose left, she surveyed the room. Over the years, Ambrose had showered her with gifts – handbags, gowns, jewelry, even dolls and gaming consoles – each chosen with Scarlett in mind. Once, Hazel had adored them, seeing them as tokens of love. Now, they were hollow reminders of misplaced trust.
She set to work. Scissors sliced through expensive fabrics; a hammer shattered glittering jewels; dolls and toys were tossed into the trash.
When everything was destroyed, she turned to her calendar, tearing off the final page. Her handwriting glowed with bittersweet irony: "To wear the most beautiful wedding dress and marry the man I love most, Ambrose."
She let the paper fall, a bitter smile curving her lips. The wedding dress lay in tatters, mirroring the man she'd once believed she'd love forever.
With a surge of anger, she crumpled the page and hurled it across the room, a final severance from her past.
The eastern horizon glowed faintly. Hazel wiped away her tears, her trembling fingers steadying. She pulled back the curtains, letting sunlight flood the room, illuminating the chaos she no longer cared to remember. The past held no claim on her.
Putting on her sunglasses, she hailed a cab and set off to meet the media mogul her friend had introduced. She wasted no time with pleasantries. "I have an exclusive story guaranteed to go viral. How much are you willing to pay?"
The man studied her, slowly raising five fingers. Hazel countered, "Five million, but on one condition: the story goes live across the internet the moment the wedding begins."
"Deal."
Hazel placed Ambrose's bank card and a USB drive on the table, the drive feeling heavier than its size suggested. No hesitation, no farewell, just a quiet severance.
Boarding the plane with nothing but her resolve, she left everything else behind.