I was once the eldest daughter of the prestigious Byrd Group, but now, I was nothing more than a pariah—a "street rat," despised and mocked.
I wanted to defend myself, to explain. But prison had instilled in me a habit of silence, of swallowing words and suppressing every instinct to fight back. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
Covered in wine stains and utterly humiliated, I stood frozen as Irene stepped forward, pinching her nose theatrically. "It stinks," she muttered, her voice dripping with disdain.
Gilbert instinctively shielded her, as though I might taint her with my presence.
As he wrapped his arms protectively around her, a flash of light caught my eye. The ring on his finger—designed and polished by me. I had once imagined us exchanging those rings on our wedding day, a symbol of love and commitment. But that day never came.
Irene now wore the matching ring, the one that should have been mine. The sight of it pierced my chest like a knife.
"Go clean yourself up," Gilbert said, his voice laced with disdain. "Look at you—you’re a mess."