Ambrose’s voice trembled with barely contained fury. All day, he had meticulously planned, envisioning every detail to bring a smile back to Hazel’s face. He’d ordered 9,999 roses, arranged for her favorite strawberry cake, and even hidden a sparkling diamond ring inside—a secret promise. But upon arriving, heart pounding with anticipation, the Bell family’s housekeeper had cruelly discarded his gifts.

The humiliation stung, but worse was to come. Later, Assistant William called, reporting a sighting of Hazel at a bar. Ambrose rushed over, his mind reeling. The sight that greeted him shattered his composure. Every slight, every insult, ignited a fury threatening to consume him. He fought to remain calm, to cling to reason. Then Hazel’s voice cut through like a blade: “Who are you?”

The words nearly pushed him over the edge. He gripped her wrist, his voice thick with anger and desperation. “I’m your husband. Come home with me.” A bodyguard stepped forward, tense, others assuming defensive positions, creating a standoff. Hazel signaled them back, her eyes fixed on Ambrose. There was no hesitation in her gaze. “I’m asking you, who are you?”

The unspoken message was sharp: ‘Who do you think you are to interfere in my life?’ Ambrose’s chest tightened. This wasn’t the Hazel he knew; this cold indifference unsettled him. His heart clenched, emotions spiraling. “Hazel, stop playing games!” he pleaded. “I know this is a pathetic attempt at revenge, but have some dignity! I’ve forgiven your affair, your betrayal. Come home. Is this how you want things to end?”

Hazel froze for a moment, then a bitter laugh escaped her lips. She adjusted her coat slowly, deliberately, no longer bothering to engage. “Who do you think you are to forgive me?” she retorted, icy cold. “You saw me with a topless white man and call that an affair? Don’t make me laugh.”

Ambrose’s face twisted with shock and indignation, but Hazel continued, “You need to remember who you are, Hazel. This place isn’t for you. I love you, and I choose to forgive you. But think about it: without me, who could ever love you the way I do?”

Ambrose, heir to the Wright fortune, was so self-absorbed that he failed to see his own jealousy, his jealousy of both Hazel and the man she was with. To Hazel, he was merely a shadow of the men who had brought her genuine happiness, while he had only inflicted pain.

Impatience bubbling, Hazel snapped, “Ambrose, listen up, we’re done. What I do and who I date is none of your concern. If you have time to lecture me, why don’t you clean up your own mess first?” She couldn't comprehend his audacity, wagging his finger as if he possessed any right to judge.

In Ambrose’s world, kissing Scarlett before their wedding wasn’t an affair. Longing for her while Hazel lay hospitalized after a miscarriage wasn’t an affair. Turning Hazel into a mere substitute for Scarlett didn’t count either. But Hazel, after ending things with him by going to a bar, suddenly became the villain. It was both shameless and absurd.

Hazel lacked the energy to argue. She gestured for the bodyguards. But Ambrose wouldn’t give up, following her, desperation lacing his voice as he looked at her slim, resolute form under the moonlight. “Hazel, we’ve both made mistakes. Why can’t we just forgive each other and move on?”