###Chapter 5
A flash of panic crossed Richard’s eyes, but he quickly forced himself to look cold.
“Back then, Margareth had just broken up and got drunk. She grabbed a random man on the street and said she wanted to marry him. I was afraid she would regret it, so I went with her to register the marriage.”
He looked at me with blame in his eyes. “Is this small matter the reason you kept targeting her after she came back?”
A small matter?
He gave the promise I begged for all my life to her so easily, just because he was afraid she would regret a moment of impulse.
And now he still had the nerve to accuse me for her sake?
“It’s all my fault,” Margareth said with teary eyes. “Hermione never liked me since we were young. Richard, let’s get divorced. You can go register with her instead!”
“Don’t talk nonsense!” Richard tightened his arms around her. “At our age, what divorce? I will never let you suffer this kind of grievance!”
What a loving couple.
He was so afraid she would suffer even a little. Then what about the thirty years of grievance I endured?
I was about to leave when Margareth’s elbow suddenly hit my shoulder on purpose.
Caught off guard, I fell and rolled down the stairs.
“Hermione, y-you did that on purpose, didn’t you? You threw yourself down the stairs just to frame me again?”
Through the dizziness, I heard Margareth’s shrill voice above me.
Richard immediately followed, calm and decisive. “Don’t worry. We all saw it. She fell by herself.”
He took her hand and walked downstairs. When they passed me, he didn’t even slow down.
“Maybe you’re really not fit to remain the mistress of the Hawthorne Family. If you keep acting this immature, losing this position and the children’s respect is your own fault.”
I had landed on the shattered pieces of a broken vase. My elbows were slashed open, thin lines of blood seeping out.
Yet he only worried that Margareth might get cut. He scooped her up in his arms, not sparing me a single glance and strode away.
“Grandma is bleeding…”
Leo’s trembling cry was quickly muffled by his mother’s hand.
I lay on the cold floor, so numb that I couldn’t even feel the pain.
After a long time, I forced myself up. Silently, I cleaned the wounds with iodine, wrapped them in gauze and went back to packing.
The cuts became inflamed. That night, I developed a high fever. Shivering, I dialed my daughter Jassy’s number.
It rang for a long time before she answered, her voice lowered.
“Mom, I’m accompanying Auntie at the spa. You know she’s in a bad mood because of you. There’s medicine in the drawer. Just take it yourself.”
Before the call disconnected, I heard her laugh lightly.
“Auntie, let me help you apply the essential oil.”
I curled up on the cold bed, tears soaking through the pillow.
After an unknown stretch of time, my phone screen lit up. It was a new post from Jassy.
In one photo, she was attentively massaging Margareth’s shoulders.
In another—“a family portrait”—her father, brother, sister-in-law and Jassy herself were gathered around Margareth like stars orbiting the moon, having breakfast at a top luxury hotel.
The caption read: “May time treat my goddess gently.”
The last flicker of light inside me went out.
Even disappointment felt like a luxury.
In a daze, I remembered years ago—my soft, sweet little girl stubbornly raising her tiny fists to pound my back after I came home exhausted.
“Mommy worked so hard. I will love Mommy forever.”
A cold draft slipped through the crack in the window, scattering that illusion.
I would never find my Jassy again.
I slept in a feverish haze for a whole day and night. Not a cup of water. Not a single word of concern.
When I woke, I gathered all the gifts Richard had ever given me, along with everything my son and daughter had given and handed them to the only housemaid in the home.
Just then, Richard’s call came in—shrill and relentless.
“Make a honey yam cake and bring it to the company immediately! Hurry!”
His urgent tone made me think his asthma had flared up again.
All these years, whenever he felt unwell—no matter how late—it was always me who made it fresh by hand and delivered it personally.
Richard would eat it with his coffee, a smile blooming on his face.
“Hermione, I want to eat the honey yam cake you make for the rest of my life.”
In moments like that, I truly believed we were in love.
Silently, I walked into the kitchen.
Unfortunately, there was no “rest of my life.” This would be the last time.
Carrying the food container, I stepped into Richard’s office—only to see Margareth reclining sideways on the leather sofa.
She wore his shirt loosely draped over her body, the buttons undone, her bare legs exposed. There was a lingering charm in her eyes; even at her age, she was still alluring.
And the beige lace cover I had carefully sewn and spread over that sofa—was tossed onto the floor, stained with something suspicious.
Rage surged through me. I strode forward. “On what grounds did you throw away my things? I stitched that piece thread by thread!”
Margareth covered her mouth, looking innocent. “Oh… I thought it was some cheap roadside item. I accidentally stained it. I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ll buy you a new one.”
Richard walked out of the lounge, adjusting his cuffs, his tone indifferent.
“Why compensate? It was old junk that should’ve been thrown out long ago.”
Old junk that should’ve been thrown out long ago?
That cushion…
He had once complained the sofa was too hard. I chose the softest yarn I could find and, through countless nights of his late returns, endured the ache in my neck and shoulders, crocheting for months before I finished it.
He walked over, ignoring my ashen face and took the food container from my hands.
Suddenly, Margareth’s gaze fell on my neck. Her voice rose slightly.
“Isn’t that our family heirloom—the ‘Tears of the Galaxy’ diamond necklace? I’m the eldest daughter. It should belong to me.”
I covered the necklace and stepped back.
“This was left to me by our parents! You have no right—”
Before I could finish, Richard’s hand was already reaching toward the back of my neck.
