LYDIA’S POV
I stepped out of the taxi, my hand instinctively clutching my purse tighter.
I looked up at the entrance of the grand hall and I felt the air being sucked out of my lungs.
Banners draped the pillars, fluttering in the evening breeze.
“To the Everlasting Us.”
“The Engagement of Mr. and soon-to-be Mrs. Moore.”
“Welcome to the Patrick Moore and Lydia Scott Engagement Party.”
Ironic how my name was everywhere, but it wasn't for me…I wasn't the one getting engaged.
Two hours ago, I was picking glass shards out of my skin and taping bandages over a bleeding ankle. Now, I was walking into the funeral of my own life.
I took a shaky breath and pushed through the doors, walking into the hall.
“Oh, if it isn’t my namesake.” The voice was high, airy, and laced with a sugar-coated poison.
I looked up to see her—the other Lydia. She stood there in a gown of pure white, a soft, victorious smirk playing on her lips.
I made to walk past her, my gaze fixed on the floor. Suddenly, I felt her arm on mine pulling me back to face her. I stumbled, the hem of my dress catching under my heel, and I fell flat on my face. My palms slapped against the cold marble, the impact jarring my bandaged ankle, my purse flying.
“You’re really pathetic, aren't you?” she snarled, her voice dropping so only I could hear it. “He dumped you, yet you’re still crawling around at our engagement.”
The room went quiet. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me.
Almost immediately, people began to circle, their whispers like the buzzing of flies as I tried to recoil away from them.
“How does it feel to see him with me? To see him trash seven years of your relationship—even after you had three abortions just to keep him to yourself?” She raised her voice, ensuring the crowd heard every word.
The room erupted in a collective gasp.
“Three abortions?”
“How shameless.”
“She’s nothing but a slut.”
I could feel the air jarring out of my throat in a rush. I stayed on the floor, my eyes stinging. They were right—not about the abortions, a lie she’d clearly fabricated to bury me—but about me being a fool. I had been a lovesick bitch for seven years, and this was my reward.
I picked up my purse and forced myself to stand, ignoring the pain shooting up my ankle as I did, swallowing the lump in my throat. “There’s no need to be so brutal, Miss Scott,” I whispered. “We are both women.”
She stumbled back, a harsh, ugly laugh bubbled out of her.
“Woman? A woman with no self-respect doesn’t deserve the title. I wonder, didn't your mother teach you any better?”
She stepped closer, her eyes flashing with malice. “Oh, I forgot. Your mother died because she couldn't control her man either. You’re just following in her footsteps. A mother no one loved, and a daughter begging for it. A pathetic combo made in heaven.”
My blood boiled. The years of restraint, the
high-society training, the fear of my father—it all vanished. Before I could think, my hand flew out.
Slap!
The sound echoed through the silent hall. Lydia’s head snapped to the side, her hand flying to her reddening cheek.
The crowd let out a shocked breath.
“You dare?!” she screamed, her face contorting.
“No,” I hissed, my teeth gritted, “how dare you.”
My fist balled at the sides, trying to calm my nerves.
Suddenly, footsteps thundered toward us and before I could say another word, Patrick was there. He moved like a shield, draping his arm protectively over Lydia’s shoulders as he glared at me with a disgust so deep it made my stomach turn.
“What the hell are you doing?” he roared at me.
Lydia immediately collapsed against his chest, her voice turning into a pathetic whimper. “Patrick... I’m sorry. I think my being with you upset her. She just hit me... You know how fragile I am, I didn't know how to retaliate.”
My chest heaved. My fists were balled so tight my nails were drawing blood from my palms.
“You can’t force Patrick to love you,” she continued, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes. “He doesn’t like trash like you. I shouldn't have mentioned your mother... I know she’s just a pawn to your father and so she couldn't raise you right.”
I saw red.
I swung my hand again, but this time, Patrick’s hand shot out, catching my wrist in a crushing grip.
“Do you always have to be so violent?” he yelled.
I stared at him, my heart breaking all over again.
I was the one being violent? After what she said?
“Apologize to my girlfriend,” he commanded.
I scoffed, a bitter sound. “I will not. You just saw her insult my mother, she did it twice! I will never apologize.”
“And that’s why you raised your hand to her?” he sneered. “Over something so minor?”
“Minor?” My voice cracked. Tears finally clouded my vision.
This man had once promised my mom to protect me. He had treated my mother like his own before she passed because he’d never had one and now, her memory was minor to him?
I wrenched my hand out of his grip.
Patrick’s gaze hardened, turning icy. “You’re starting to get some guts, aren't you? I said: apologize!”
“I won’t!”
Slap!
His hand connected with my cheek. I stumbled backwards, my face snapping to the side.
The hall went deathly silent.
People pulled out their phones, the flashes recording my humiliation for the world to see.
I turned to look at him, a single tear skidding down my cheek.
Patrick stared at his own hand, a brief flicker of bewilderment and guilt crossing his face.
“I... I didn’t do it on purpose,” he stuttered, though he didn't move toward me. “You forced me. If you had just listened and been obedient, I wouldn't have hit you. You caused this.”
I let out a broken laugh.
Seven years.
In seven years he had never raised a hand to me, but for her, he had broken that streak and then had the audacity to blame me for the blow.
He reached out, his hand trembling to wipe away my tears. I stepped back, recoiling from his touch as if it were acid.
Just then, an announcement blared.
“It is time for the exchange of rings!”
Lydia beamed, her trauma forgotten as she pulled Patrick toward the stage.
“Come on, darling.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to find a shred of dignity.
“We invite Miss Lydia Parkers to the stage to present the rings to the happy couple.” The announcer's voice echoed again.
I pushed back my emotions as I made for the stage. I walked up the stairs, my legs feeling like lead.
I stopped right at the table and slowly picked up the velvet box from the table and held it out.
“Open it,” Patrick said, his voice smug. “Hand the ring to me.”
I forced a smile. He wanted to squeeze every last drop of blood from my heart and I'd let him.
I opened the box, my fingers trembling so much the gold band clinked against the velvet. I pulled it out and placed it in his palm.
I watched, blurred by tears I refused to let fall, as he took Lydia’s hand and slid the ring onto her finger. She beamed, planting a kiss on his cheek.
My chest tightened even more.
“Excuse me,” I choked out.
I didn't wait for a response. I turned and ran through the maze of the fancy gathering until I found the sanctuary of the bathroom.
I slammed the door, gripped the edges of the faucet, and let out a sob that had been seven years in the making.
I cried until my chest ached, the sound of the party outside mocking the ruin of my life.
