When Lyndon came to pick me up for the concert, he introduced the woman in the passenger seat.
"This is Claire. I've mentioned her before—you should call her 'younger sister.'"
Oh, so she was the woman everyone in the circle gossips about. The one all the society wives were waiting to use as ammunition to laugh at me.
She was wearing a cheap dress, color washed out from too many hand-washes, yet she still managed to lift her chin with delicate, self-important arrogance.
I forced out a greeting. "Hello, sis."
She answered softly, "Hi."
Then I reached out and pulled open the passenger-side door. "You're sitting in the wrong seat."
——
The aloof pride on Claire's face collapsed in barely a second. Her eyes instantly reddened. "Lyndon..."
"I told her to sit there." Lyndon's voice was steady, carrying an unquestionable authority.
"Claire gets carsick, and she's sensitive to the cold. The front seat is better for her."
I didn't move. I simply smiled at him. "Oh? Carsick? Then why doesn't she drive instead? I heard drivers never get dizzy."
His eyes darkened. Claire stiffened.
"And," I added lightly, "there's still your body temperature on the driver's seat. That spot isn't cold at all."
"Reina, what are you saying?" Lyndon snapped.
I ignored him. My gaze stayed glued to Claire, unblinking.
Her cheeks flushed—whether in shame or triumph, who knew—and tears gathered beautifully along her lashes.
Finally, she stepped down from the passenger seat with a dainty, pitiful sway.
"Lyndon, thank you for today." Her voice trembled sweetly. "I—I won't go to the concert. Just because everyone rushes toward something doesn't mean it's good."
"Music is like people—it doesn't need a grand hall to show its worth."
"As long as I stay true to myself, that's enough."
I arched an eyebrow.
Over the years, I've dealt with countless women buzzing around Lyndon like bees.—the ones after money, the ones after his looks... I'd seen every type.
Except this one. Proud, self-sufficient, and radiating a quiet, unattainable beauty.
No wonder he hadn't been able to forget her ever since hearing her play on the street.
He sent her a violin, bought her flowers, sponsored her studies. And even invited her to our wedding anniversary.
How generous.
Lyndon got out of the car and grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave.
"Claire, this is a rare opportunity for you—don't miss it."
"I'll make her apologize to you..."
I cast a cool gaze at their intertwined hands. I noticed his wedding ring had been removed, leaving only a faint mark.
"No need. You don't have to force someone to apologize for me, Lyndon," she said.
"I won't forgive everything just because of a simple apology."
Claire lifted her head, trying to look composed, but cracks ran across her expression—her years of cultivated gentleness crumbling.
I almost felt an itch to do something about it.
But I held back.
I turned to get into the car—but froze.
On the beige leather seat was a stark, wet patch of dark red.
Blood.
The hem of dress was stained with it.
"Claire, you—" Lyndon's voice cut off abruptly as he saw it too.
He hurriedly shrugged off his six-figure suit jacket and wrapped it around her waist.
"I'll get something from the convenience store. Wait for me."
They exchanged a glance—silent, intimate. Claire's cheeks flushed as she nodded.
They looked sickeningly in sync.
I lifted the Hermès bag in my hand... and smashed it against the car door.
A loud crack echoed through the parking lot.
Just like that night years ago—when I stacked ten champagne towers to impress Lyndon at the bar he worked in.
And then smashed every one of them. Just to scare away all the women who dared covet him.
