IRIS: Fallen for him

CHAPTER SEVEN

No sooner had Iris turned to head back upstairs than she heard the sharp clack of heels descending from the west wing. Merlida appeared, followed by Flora, both dressed in muted pastels and an air of expectation.

“Iris,” Merlida said, her tone formal and clipped. “Go change. We’re heading somewhere important.”

Iris blinked. “We’re… going out? Together?”

Merlida raised a brow. “Yes. You’re part of this household, aren’t you? Or has that changed?”

Iris hesitated, confused but too j to question it further. Merlida had never invited her anywhere—not to the market, not to brunch, not even to family gatherings. Something felt… off. But she simply nodded and went to her room.

When Iris stepped out of her room, dressed in the long shirt and tailored trousers, her soft features and modest elegance gave her a quiet glow. She didn’t wear anything extravagant—just the soft scent of vanilla and rosewater on her skin, a neat bun, and her usual calm demeanor. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t scream for attention, yet impossible to ignore.

Merlida gave her a quick once-over and said nothing. Flora, however, smirked.

They drove in silence to the venue, which turned out to be the opulent Lysandra Royale, a five-star hotel known for hosting only the elite. The parking lot shimmered with sleek black cars and sharply dressed chauffeurs. Upon stepping inside, a chilled fragrance of white orchid and sandalwood lingered in the air. The chandeliers above glowed like a thousand golden suns, and the marbled floors gleamed with mirrored perfection.

As they approached the reserved hall for “The Women of Worth” private gathering, Iris hesitated.

“This… place? Why are we—?”

“You’re here to assist,” Merlida cut in smoothly, not even looking her way.

Before Iris could respond, the heavy double doors were opened for them, and a line of sharply dressed women turned to look. Every pair of eyes scanned Iris in silent judgment. The women wore tailored power suits, designer heels, diamonds that whispered of old money, and eyes that knew the price of everything—including people.

Merlida smiled graciously and stepped forward. “Good morning, ladies. Sorry we’re a bit late.”

She turned toward the group and gestured toward the two women with her.

“This is Flora,” she said, her voice full of pride, “Aziel’s future wife. Brilliant, educated, elegant—she's everything we dreamed of in a daughter-in-law.”

The women clapped politely.

Then, Merlida turned her head, eyes barely touching Iris.

“And this is Iris. She used to be close to the family, and now she works closely with me as my personal assistant. If you need anything—water, refreshments, note-taking—she’ll be glad to serve.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Iris felt the air leave her chest.

It was like someone had reached into her throat and ripped out her voice. She froze for a second, then lowered her eyes as the murmurs began.

One of the women leaned toward another. “That’s the girl that lived with Aziel, right? Heard she was the… what do they call it now—nanny?”

“She looks decent, but I see why they picked Flora,” another said under her breath.

Flora, fully aware of the performance Merlida was staging, walked ahead with a practiced poise and kissed the cheek of one of the older ladies. Iris, meanwhile, stood behind them like a misplaced shadow.

A woman turned to her with a tight smile. “Could you help me with my bag, dear?”

Iris hesitated.

Merlida gave her a look. “Don’t keep her waiting, Iris. Serve with a good heart. It’s part of your training.”

Iris took the bag with trembling hands.

The entire room felt like it was spinning slowly. Her ears rang with shame. She didn’t even notice the sharp sting from her palm as the cut reopened while gripping the heavy purse. No one noticed—no one cared.

As the women began discussing stock portfolios, spa retreats in Dubai, and private schools in Switzerland, Iris stood at the side like furniture. A few chuckled when Flora addressed her to bring a drink, and someone casually said, “She’s not used to this environment, is she?”

Merlida laughed.

“Don’t worry, with time, she’ll learn her place.”

Something inside Iris cracked.

But she said nothing.

She served, smiled tightly, and swallowed every word that rose in her throat. All she could think about was Imani—her daughter’s laughter this morning, the way she called her “mummy” with so much love. That was her reason.

She didn’t belong here—not in this toxic room of painted smiles and invisible daggers.

She pushed the bathroom door open and stepped into the quiet, gold-lit space. The silence was almost too gentle. She leaned on the sink, her reflection staring back at her—tired eyes, soft skin, blood seeping slowly from the cut on her palm.

Gently, she peeled off the loose plaster. The wound had reopened. She let out a dry, bitter chuckle.

"I must be crazy," she whispered, her voice cracking. “Staying. Smiling. Obeying.”

As she rinsed the blood off under the cold water, she didn’t notice the soft click of heels behind her.

An elegant woman in her early fifties stepped out from one of the stalls. Tall, graceful, and dressed in a silk wine-colored blouse with wide gold cuffs, she had the air of someone who had seen the world—and refused to let it see her fall.

She washed her hands beside Iris in silence, then turned and asked softly, “Do you know me?”

Startled, Iris looked up at the woman through the mirror. Her features were striking, mature yet regal. But Iris shook her head. “No, I’m sorry… I don’t.”

The woman smiled faintly. “But I know you. You look so much like my late sister... it’s uncanny.”

Iris offered a polite, slightly confused smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, but my mum—she was an orphan. I don’t think we’re related.”

She looked back down, unwrapping a fresh plaster with trembling fingers. Her palm throbbed.

The woman reached out gently. “Let me.”

Iris hesitated, but the warmth in her voice was different from the biting cold she had faced in that hall. She allowed the woman to take the plaster and watched as she carefully wrapped it over the wound.

“You don’t have to endure hardship to prove anything,” the woman said, her voice calm but firm. “There is no reward for poverty or silent suffering. Strength is not measured by how much you can tolerate from uncultured people. It’s shown in how you rise above them.”

Iris blinked. Something about the woman’s words struck her deeply—like a key sliding into a door she’d long accepted as permanently locked.

The woman finished tending the wound, wiped her hands, then reached into her purse and pulled out a card—white, elegant, embossed with her name in gold lettering.

She pressed it into Iris’s palm.

“Call me.”

Iris stared at the card as the woman turned and walked out with the same graceful air she'd entered with. On the card was a name:

Elora Westmont.

And underneath it in neat cursive:

Founder, Everlight Foundation for Women.

"Where dignity begins again."

Iris stood frozen in the bathroom, her mind spinning.

That brief moment… felt like the first breath of air after drowning.

By the time Iris returned to the banquet hall, her face was pale and her fingers still slightly trembling despite the bandage that now covered her reopened wound. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. Her feet were heavy, her heart heavier. She was just reaching for a glass of water when someone bumped into her from behind — her elbow jolted, and the entire content of the glass flew forward, landing squarely on a wealthy woman dressed in pearled white silk.

A sharp gasp erupted from the crowd.

“You animal!” the woman screeched, staring down at her now-stained dress. Before Iris could even mutter an apology, a resounding slap met her cheek. The sound echoed across the room.

“She doesn't belong here!” another voice chimed in. “You let people like this in now?”

“I—I’m so sorry,” Iris stammered, eyes wide, throat closing in shame.

Flora stepped forward, her voice sweet but soaked in venom. “These things happen when you let strays mingle with the elite.”

Laughter. Gasps. Whispers. Iris stood there, frozen and humiliated.

That was when her eyes locked with Elora, a graceful woman sitting not too far away. Their gazes met for a heartbeat — and then Elora looked away, calm and detached, as if Iris were a smudge on glass she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Something shattered inside her.

Eyes stinging, throat tight, Iris turned and ran, pushing past waiters and guests until she burst out into the cool night. Her breath came in ragged sobs. She didn’t know where she was going. All she saw was a car parked by the curb, engine idling. Without thinking, she opened the door and climbed in.

“Drive,” she choked.

The man in the driver’s seat looked startled but said nothing. He glanced at her face once, then simply pulled off into the road.

She cried silently, her head turned to the window, hiding her tears from the stranger. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Finally, her heartbeat steadied. She blinked away the tears and sat up straighter. Only then did she notice something strange — there were no stickers, no ID card, no signs that this was a rideshare or hired vehicle.

“Hey,” she said, alarm dawning in her voice. “Who are you? And where are you taking me?”

The man calmly pulled over and turned to her, expression neutral.

“You got into my car,” he said simply, “and told me to drive.”

Her mouth fell open. “I—I'm sorry. I didn’t realize... I thought you were—"

She didn’t finish. Instead, she grabbed her bag, pulled out some cash, and dropped it on the seat.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then stepped out of the car, heels clicking softly against the pavement as she walked into the night, utterly alone.

While Iris was breaking… Imani was glowing.

Vincent and his great-granddaughter had become quite the pair. They had spent the morning shopping—Imani picked out a beautiful sky-blue dress, tiny gold sandals, and even insisted on a matching scarf for her mummy. Vincent let her run wild in the children’s section, smiling at her every delight.

Later, they both got their hair styled—Imani chose two puff buns and a tiny tiara comb. Vincent allowed the stylist to curl the ends of his silver hair and teased, “Do I look young again?”

Imani giggled. “You look like a prince!”

They went next to the amusement park, where the old man—famous billionaire or not—rode the merry-go-round with his great-granddaughter, laughing like a child.

But when they reached the Ferris wheel, Imani suddenly shook her head.

“No, thank you.”

Vincent raised a brow. “Why not, sweetheart?”

“I’ll just wait here. I want strawberry and vanilla ice cream. Two cones,” she said with a sweet smile, skipping over to a nearby bench.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Be right back.”

---

The Ice Cream and the Truth

When he returned with two giant cones, they sat on the bench side by side, the Ferris wheel glowing before them.

He handed her the cone. “So… why didn’t you want to ride?”

Imani licked the top slowly. “My friend at school said it’s magical to ride in-between your parents. She said it feels like flying when they hold your hands.”

Vincent paused, his ice cream forgotten.

The little girl continued, “And that’s what I want. Mummy’s here. But daddy…” she trailed off, then turned and whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded.

“I love daddy so much. But he doesn’t know. In class, when my classmates say they want to be like Aziel Valen, I feel so proud. I want to scream, that’s my daddy!” she said with a shy grin.

“But when they ask if I’m related to him… I say no. Because if I say yes, they ask me to prove it. And I can’t. Because daddy won’t take me to school. He won’t even look at me.”

She took another lick of her cone and quietly added, “Some call me fatherless. Some say I should change my name. I think… daddy hates mummy.”

Vincent’s chest ached.

He looked at this little girl—so brave, so gentle, and far too mature for her age—and felt something rise in him. Shame. Guilt. Fury.

How could Aziel, his own grandson, turn his back on this child? This light?

He didn’t answer. Not yet.