Chapter 4

Richard Harrington's expression, along with those of Edward and Margaret, turned grim. They likely didn't care about the price of a single dress, but they certainly cared about Karen Blackwell's blatant hypocrisy—acting one way to their faces and another behind their backs.

"Matthew, watch how you speak to your mother!" Richard scolded in a deep voice, though there was little actual reproach in his tone.

Karen's face flushed red. She knew that anything she said now would be the wrong thing, so she simply bit her lip hard, looking at Richard with a gaze full of aggrieved hurt. Her eyes quickly welled up with tears. This was a tactic she used frequently. She knew most men were defenseless against this display of frailty.

Sure enough, Richard's expression softened slightly. He let out a weary sigh. "Alright, Emily just got here. Let's have less talk and more eating."

The storm was temporarily suppressed.

The atmosphere at the dining table remained heavy and suffocating. Karen busied herself serving food to the Harringtons, desperately trying to mend the relationship. Although Richard and the elders responded politely, it was obvious their minds were elsewhere. Matthew kept his head down the entire time, staring at his phone with an air of cold indifference.

I, however, became the center of attention. Margaret kept placing portions on my plate, her voice gentle as she encouraged me to eat. "Emily, you're far too thin. You need to eat more."

Seeing this, Karen immediately picked up a pork rib and placed it on my plate, her voice more tender than I had ever heard it. "Emily, have a rib. It's your favorite."

I looked at the meat and felt a wave of nausea. It wasn't that the expertly prepared rib was disgusting. It was the years of psychological conditioning. She had spent my childhood telling me that if I ate meat, I would turn into a "disgusting pig." Her verbal abuse had carved a deep-seated physical rejection of rich food into my mind. It was a trauma I knew I would have to overcome for my own health, but right now, I truly couldn't swallow it.

Just as I was fighting the urge to gag and reached to move the rib aside, Karen seemed to anticipate my move. She moved even faster, picking up a bowl of soup.

"Here, Emily, have some soup. Be careful, it's hot..."

Her movements looked natural, but in the split second she brought the bowl before my face, her wrist gave a sharp, nearly imperceptible tilt. The scalding liquid flew directly toward my face.

She wanted to disfigure me. To Karen, a "drag" with a scarred face would be even more repulsive to the Harrington family, ensuring I would never overshadow her.

In that flash of movement, I didn't even have time to flinch.

Just as I thought I was about to suffer once again, a massive force from the side shoved me out of the way.

"Watch out!"

It was Matthew.

At some point, he had tossed his phone aside. In that moment of danger, he lunged across to shove me out of my chair. I tumbled onto the floor in a heap, disheveled but unharmed.

He was not so lucky.

"Hiss—" He let out a sharp, pained hiss.

The bowl of hot soup splashed squarely onto his arm. The sleeve of his white T-shirt was instantly soaked through, and the skin of his exposed forearm turned a violent, angry red before our very eyes.

"Oh, my god! Matthew!"

Everyone was stunned. The dining room descended into chaos—the sound of chairs scraping, shattering porcelain, and panicked shouting filled the air.

Karen was paralyzed with fear. She likely never dreamed that the soup she had so carefully calculated to hit me would land on the Harringtons' golden boy, the heir to the family. She rushed forward frantically, grabbing a napkin to wipe Matthew's arm, her words a jumbled mess. "Matthew, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it—my hand slipped! I truly didn't mean to..."

Grimacing in pain, Matthew violently swiped her hand away and roared, "Get away from me! Don't touch me!"

His eyes, fierce and burning, fixed on Karen like those of an enraged lion.

I sat there on the cold floor, watching this absurd scene play out, and slowly lifted my head. I looked toward Richard and asked in a small, trembling voice, "Richard... why did Mom tilt the bowl toward my face when she was handing me the soup?"

Every movement in the room froze.

Richard's face darkened. He whipped his head around, his gaze piercing through Karen like a sharpened blade. Then, turning to Mrs. Jenkins, who stood nearby, he spoke in a voice that was chillingly calm.

"Go and pull the security footage from the corner of the study. I want to see exactly what happened."