Chapter 8 - Wedding Wreckage, a Silken Clue, and a Midnight Fury
I struggled against my father's grip, his fingers digging into my neck as spots danced before my eyes. Just as darkness threatened to overtake me, his hands suddenly released. I slumped forward, gasping for air.
"Ivy!" someone shouted.
Through watering eyes, I looked up to see my stepsister crumpled on the floor, Julian kneeling beside her. The perfect bride in her stolen gown—my gown—was unconscious, her face ashen.
"She's fainted!" Eleanor wailed, rushing to her precious daughter's side. "This is your fault, Hazel!"
My father abandoned me without a second glance, hurrying to Ivy's side as if I weren't worth his concern. Typical. I rubbed my neck, certain his fingerprints would leave bruises.
Julian scooped Ivy into his arms, her limp form draped like a broken doll against his chest. "I need to get her to the hospital," he announced, the heroic groom saving his bride.
I couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. Six years together, and he'd never once looked at me with the desperate concern now etched on his face for Ivy.
As they rushed out, carrying the fainting bride while guests murmured in shock, I straightened my shoulders and cleared my throat.
"Well," I announced to the stunned crowd, my voice raspy from my father's assault, "I believe that concludes today's entertainment. The bride has left the building, and frankly, so has my patience. Please enjoy the very expensive champagne and cake—both of which I selected and paid for."
I grabbed a flute from a nearby tray and downed it in one gulp.
"To the happy couple," I said sarcastically, slamming the empty glass down. "May your marriage last as long as your morals."
With that parting shot, I walked out, head held high despite the whispers that followed me. Only when I reached my car did I allow the tears to fall. I slumped against the steering wheel, my body shaking with sobs that tore from my throat.
Today was supposed to be my wedding day. Instead, I'd been publicly humiliated, physically assaulted by my own father, and forced to watch another woman marry the man I'd loved for six years. The man I'd literally given my blood for.
After several minutes, I managed to compose myself enough to start the car. As I adjusted the rearview mirror to check my tear-streaked makeup, something white caught my eye on the passenger seat. The handkerchief from earlier—the one the mysterious man had offered me.
I picked it up, running my fingers over the silky fabric. It was monogrammed with a single word: "Sterling."
Sterling. As in the Sterling family? The reclusive billionaires known for their influence in politics, military, and business?
My father's reaction to Mr. Sterling suddenly made sense. Harrison Ashworth was many things—abusive, cruel, manipulative—but he was never deferential to anyone. Except, apparently, to a Sterling.
What was someone from that family doing at my step-sister's wedding? And why had he seemed so... interested in me?
My phone buzzed, pulling me from my thoughts. Victoria's name flashed on the screen. I hesitated before answering.
"Oh my God, Hazel!" she practically shouted. "Are you okay? I just saw the videos online!"
My stomach dropped. "Videos?"
"It's everywhere—your toast, your father attacking you. Someone livestreamed the whole thing. Twitter's exploding with #WeddingFromHell and #JusticeForHazel."
I groaned. Of course someone had recorded it. "That's just perfect."
"People are on your side, though! Everyone can see what a snake Julian is, and your father—"
My phone beeped with another call. Seraphina Larkin, fashion editor at Vogue and a crucial industry contact.
"Victoria, I need to take this. I'll call you back."
I switched calls, dreading what was coming.
"Hazel, darling," Seraphina's crisp voice came through. "I've just seen the most extraordinary footage. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Well, everyone's talking. This could affect your brand, you know. Perhaps we should postpone our feature—"
"Please don't," I said quickly. The Vogue spread on my designs was critical for Ashworth Bespoke's growth. "What happened today has nothing to do with my work."
"But perception is everything in fashion," she replied. "Call me tomorrow. We'll discuss damage control."
She hung up before I could respond. My phone immediately buzzed with more notifications—messages, calls, social media alerts. The nightmare was spreading online even as I sat alone in my car.
With shaking fingers, I turned off my phone. I couldn't handle any more right now.
I drove home in a daze, the Sterling handkerchief tucked into my purse. By the time I arrived at my villa, my head was pounding and my throat still ached from my father's assault.
The empty house seemed to mock me. I was supposed to be leaving for my honeymoon tonight. Instead, I was alone, my reputation possibly in tatters, my family more dysfunctional than ever.
I wandered to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where I kept my emergency sleeping pills. The doctor had prescribed them during my darkest days after Mom died, when depression had nearly swallowed me whole. I hadn't needed them in years, but tonight...
I swallowed two pills with a glass of water, then dragged myself to bed without bothering to remove my makeup or change clothes. As the medication began to take effect, I found myself staring at the Sterling handkerchief I'd placed on my nightstand.
Who was he? Why had he been at the wedding? And why couldn't I forget those dark, knowing eyes that seemed to see right through me?
My eyelids grew heavy as the pills pulled me under into blissful oblivion.
I dreamed of my mother—her gentle smile, her soft hands. In the dream, she held me close and whispered, "Be strong, my Hazel. The storm always passes."
The shrill sound of my home security alarm jerked me from deep sleep. Disoriented and groggy from the pills, I struggled to sit up. The digital clock read 1:17 AM.
Pounding on my front door accompanied the alarm's wail. Someone was trying to break in.
Fear shot through me, momentarily clearing the fog in my brain. I reached for my phone before remembering I'd turned it off.
"HAZEL!" a familiar voice roared over the alarm. "OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
Julian. What the hell was he doing here in the middle of the night?
"HAZEL! Were you dead asleep? Phone off, not answering the door, do you know someone almost died?!"
His words sent ice through my veins. I stumbled out of bed, my head spinning from the sleeping pills and sudden awakening.
The pounding continued, each thud matching the hammering of my heart. "HAZEL! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"
I pulled on a robe with trembling hands and made my way to the door, dread pooling in my stomach. Julian sounded furious—more furious than I'd ever heard him.
As I reached for the lock, I paused. Who had almost died? And why was he blaming me?