Chapter Seven
1388 Words
Lucy’s gaze flicked to Hazel and then back to the Clyde representatives, like a needle spinning on a record. The room hummed with hushed conversation, but in Lucy’s head there was a single loud, poisonous thought: If they take her—if they take my advantage—everything I built will fall away.
Her eyes locked on Hazel like a predator sighting prey. Her pulse was a hammer in her ears.
If that girl is who they’re looking for… I’ll lose everything. No. Not happening. Not today.
Her red lips curled into a cold smile.
“I’ve got to act quick,” she murmured under her breath.
She stepped forward with the slow, careful smile of someone who had rehearsed the moment. Her arm found Daphne’s waist and closed around it like a possession.
“That’s right, Daphne,” Lucy said softly, loud enough to cut through the room’s murmur. The words landed like a stone. “You’re not my daughter.”
For a heartbeat the world paused.
Daphne’s face emptied of color. “What—? Mom? What are you talking about?” she began, shocked and uncertain. Her hand flew to Lucy’s arm, seeking reassurance.
A ripple went through the guests. People glanced to one another. A fork clinked against china.
Even Hazel froze, stunned. The words rang in her head, trying to make sense. Not… her daughter?
Guests glanced at each other in disbelief. Oliver and Ash exchanged a quick, sharp look, their trained eyes reading between the lines.
Lucy pulled Daphne in closer and let her voice turn to honey. “I should have told you sooner,” she said. “But I wanted to protect you. I couldn’t—” She blinked fast, breath shallow. “I love you so much.”
Daphne’s painted lips parted in awe, and she leaned into her mother’s side, sensing where this was headed.
“So… it’s true?” she asked softly, almost reverently. “I’m a Clyde?”
Hazel’s chest tilted with something like astonishment and an old, thin anger. She remembered hospital corridors and beeping machines. She remembered Lucy, pale and fragile-faced, announcing Daphne’s “match” with a triumphant sob. Hazel had stood in that doorway and watched Lucy smile as nurses carried Daphne into surgery.
“No,” Hazel said before she could stop herself. Her voice was small but it cut the silk-thin hush. “That isn’t true.”
All eyes snapped to her.
Hazel swallowed. “You did a DNA test when Daphne—when she needed that surgery. You were the match. You said so yourself.” Her fingers curled into the edge of a chair until her knuckles ached. “You told me. You told me, you told everyone.”
Lucy’s smile fell. Something colder moved through her features, a flash of something brittle and sharp. She stepped forward, heels ticking against the polished floor.
“No one asked you,” she said, dangerously soft. “You stupid b***h—”
The insult cut off into a raw slap that sounded too loud in the thick air. Hazel’s hand went to her cheek. The sting bloomed hot and white.
For a second Hazel’s world narrowed to the echo on her skin. Then the room came flooding back — Daphne’s mouth forming a smile of triumph, Portia’s eyes glittering, Anna already rising with that practiced, cruel amusement.
“She’s jealous,” Anna said, shrugging like it was obvious.
“Of course she is,” Portia added, smoothing the front of her dress as if nothing had happened. “Trying to steal the spotlight.”
Daphne glided forward, a newly minted queen. She raised the wine glass she had left on a side table and let the light hit the ruby liquid. “I’ve had enough of your lies, Hazel.”
“Grab your things,” Daphne said, cool as a verdict. “And get out.”
Hazel’s rage boiled to the surface, years of resentment clawing up her throat. She thought of every insult, every snide comment, every time she’d been shoved aside like dirt.
A slow, clean voice came from somewhere deep. Not tonight.
“Fine.” Hazel’s voice was flat. “But one last thing.”
She stepped forward, snatched the wine glass from Daphne’s hand, and with a sharp flick of her wrist, sent the red liquid cascading down Daphne’s shimmering gown.
The room gasped in collective horror.
Daphne froze, staring down at the spreading stain like she couldn’t believe it was real. Her lips trembled before curling into a snarl.
“You—”
But Hazel was already walking away, her back straight, her cheek still burning.
Daphne’s mouth fell open. Her hand flew to the ruined dress as if to staunch a wound. Portia made a small sound that might have been a laugh; Anna’s eyes flashed meanly.
Lucy’s expression twisted — not with sorrow, but with calculation. She took two steps forward, as if to strike again, but Oliver’s hand brushed her shoulder, a subtle restraint. He mouthed something to Ash: Keep them apart.
Hazel didn’t wait for their next move. She turned and left the room, the slap’s sting still fresh on her cheek. Her heart pounded a steady, offended rhythm. People watched, some whispering, some smirking.
Upstairs in her small room, Hazel threw open her closet and yanked out her duffel bag. Her breaths came fast, each inhale tight with fury.
The door shut with a small, final click that sounded like permission.
Hazel moved like someone waking up from a dream she’d been having her whole life.
On the top shelf sat the stuffed bunny — ears soft, one button eye slightly loose. Hazel lifted it with both hands as if it might break.
She pressed the bunny to her face and let the tears come because there was nowhere else to put them.
Hazel pressed the toy to her chest, the fabric dampening with her tears. Memories slammed into her — birthdays spent alone, chores while Daphne partied, whispers at school about her “real” family.
Lucy had told her that this was the only possession of her real home she had with her when George practically kidn*pped her.
She zipped her bag, wiped her cheeks, and forced her shoulders straight. I’m leaving all of this behind. All of them.
Downstairs, the hallway mirror reflected her tired eyes and flushed cheeks. She stared at herself, breathing in deep. No more. No more of this place, this poison. I’m done.
Her hand was on the doorknob when a voice sliced through the air.
“Not so fast, bitch.”
Daphne’s heels clicked on the stairs, her friends trailing behind her like a pack of vultures.
She swung Hazel around by the shoulder with a practiced viciousness. “Look what you did to my dress!”
In the scuffle, the bunny Hazel still clutched, which she had forgotten to put inside her bag, fell to the floor.
Daphne knelt and seized it with a theatrical gasp. “You still keep this smelly pathetic thing?” she asked, sneering.
Hazel felt something cold pool in her stomach. “Give it back Daphne, it’s mine,” she said simply.
Daphne held the bunny up like a trophy and thumbed one of its ears. “How dare you...” She began to say, and then the front door opened.
Three men filled the frame: Francis, Wayne, and Adrian Clyde.
They moved as a single unit, the kind of effortless, contained presence families born to power possess.
Francis — tall, broad-shouldered, face like chiseled marble — looked from the ruined dress to Hazel’s damp cheek. Wayne, quieter and alert, noticed the bunny and the way Hazel’s hand clenched on the duffel strap. Adrian’s eyes were the smallest and coldest; he took in the two girls.
There was a long, loaded silence.
Francis’s voice was low and careful. “Is everything all right here?”
“Take your stupid toy and get out of here now” Daphne said to Hazel with gritted teeth…
“Wait.” Wayne said just as Hazel got the bunny back from Daphne and was about to leave. “Who are you?”
Hazel, clutching her bag, felt the world press close.
The question hung like a missile about to land.
- Writer
