Chapter 4

The next day.

The most extravagant wedding on Martha's Vineyard made headlines across every social platform. It was dubbed the "Century Wedding," and I, Clara Sullivan, the fallen daughter of the Sullivan family, was dragged in as a special "guest."

The makeup artist shoved me down into the chair, forcing me to sit still. My left eye, hidden behind the black nautical patch, stood out starkly in the mirror's reflection—an unhealed wound that refused to be forgotten.

"Miss Sullivan," the makeup artist sneered, adjusting the angle of my face, "when you kneel later, do it properly. Don't make Mr. Ford lose face."

I clenched the confession letter in my coat pocket, fingers tightening around the creased photograph of my mother.

The auspicious hour arrived. The double doors of the ballroom opened with a majestic sweep, and the spotlight fell directly on me.

The hall was packed. Rows of guests, dripping in pearls and judgment, turned to look. Insults roared like a wave.

"So that's the venomous Clara Sullivan?"

"No wonder she's so vicious. Look at her—terrifying!"

"She should've died already!"

A plastic water bottle hurtled through the air and hit me square in the forehead.

I staggered, then steadied myself, and walked step by step toward the stage.

Ethan Ford stood on the elevated platform in a pristine white tuxedo, looking every inch the island prince. Beside him, Lila Ross clung to his arm, smugness painted across her delicate features.

Ethan's eyes were ice as he pointed to the floor at his feet. "Kneel. Read."

I took a deep breath. Under the blinding lights and a sea of contemptuous stares, I slowly bent my knees. The sound of bone striking marble echoed dully. I lifted the microphone. My voice was hoarse, mechanical.

"I, Clara Sullivan, consumed by jealousy and hatred—"

"I pushed my sister down the stairs, causing her blindness..."

"I willingly donated my eye to repent. I am unworthy of being human..."

Each word was a blade, each sentence a nail in the coffin of my dignity.

Someone splashed red wine over me. It soaked through the dress, dripping down my arms and legs.

I curled up like a clown, pathetic and broken.

Ethan nodded, satisfied.

To him, this was the final act of my taming. I was no longer Clara Sullivan, rebellious and proud—I was his obedient servant.

"In light of Miss Sullivan's sincere confession," he declared before the crowd, "on this day of celebration, I will fulfill my promise."

He handed me the urn like someone tossing scraps to a beggar. "From now on, behave yourself. Serve the Ford family. Clean Lila's brushes. No more tantrums."

I took the urn and clutched it tightly to my chest.

"Thank you, Mr. Ford..." I whispered. "I'll go fix my makeup."

I kept my head down, using my disheveled appearance as an excuse to leave.

Ethan, basking in his illusion of control, didn't stop me.

I ran for the back exit of the hotel. It led down a narrow, reeking service corridor—filthy, moldy, forgotten. I shoved open the rusted iron door. Outside, a sleek black Bentley waited. The car door flew open, and a tall figure rushed toward me. Without hesitation, he wrapped me in his arms, ignoring the filth and stench clinging to me.

"Clara..." Simon Chase's voice trembled. Hot tears spilled onto my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I was too late. I'm taking you home."

The car roared off, tires screeching as we disappeared into the storm.

I collapsed in his embrace, still clutching the urn.

For the first time in three years, I sobbed uncontrollably.

The day after the wedding. At the Ford Cliffside Estate, Ethan Ford wore his groom's suit, still in high spirits. He believed yesterday's public confession had finally broken me. He imagined I had reverted to the compliant wife I once was.

Even with Lila Ross seething in jealousy beside him—because last night, on their wedding night, Ethan hadn't touched her. He had sat alone, staring at an old photo of me, lost in thought.

He glanced at his watch, straightened his tie, and gave an order to his assistant. "Go bring my wife. Tell her that if she signs the final gallery transfer agreement today, I'll take her to Europe for eye surgery."

He had already envisioned my tearful gratitude.

But one minute later...

His assistant Mr. Tate burst into the room, stumbling, forgetting even to knock. His face was pale, and his hands shook as he held out a document. "Mr. Ford! It's bad! Miss Sullivan... she's gone! Her basement room is empty. She took everything!"

Ethan shot to his feet, the teacup in his hand shattering on the floor. "What do you mean she's gone? Find her!"

Mr. Tate swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he handed over the documents. "And... the Chase family just issued a statement. That world-renowned ophthalmologist, Simon Chase—he just purchased Seabreeze Gallery at a premium. And he's formally filed a lawsuit against you for illegal imprisonment and intentional harm."

"Also... he said—"

Ethan snatched the statement from his hands. His pupils shrank as he read.

Mr. Tate finished the sentence with a trembling voice. "Simon Chase said... he came to take his fiancée, Clara Sullivan—home."

Boom!

Something snapped in Ethan's mind. The tight string that had held his world together—snapped clean in two.