Chapter3
1083 Words
“Mr. Bajusz, please! You planned a surprise for Miss Csány on the cruise tonight—give me a chance to fix this. I’ll make it right!”
She had served Emry for years, memorizing every detail of her preferences. If anyone could salvage this disaster, it was her.
Tristan’s jaw tightened. Emry had arrived unannounced, and the preparations were nowhere near complete. If tonight fell apart, it would be humiliating.
“I’m giving you one last shot,” he said, voice clipped. A glance at his watch made his irritation spike—three hours until the ship set sail. “Screw this up, and you’re out. Not just from the Bajusz family, but legally. You’ll be in court before you know it.”
His words were both a threat and a lifeline. Cicilia swallowed hard, nodding frantically before scrambling to her feet and hurrying off.
Tristan exhaled sharply, his gaze drifting toward the untouched dinner table. The scent of home-cooked food still lingered, a reminder of the meal Rosalind had spent hours preparing. But all he could think about was the way she had struck Cicilia—unapologetic, fearless.
For a fleeting moment, something about her seemed… different. But he dismissed it just as quickly. Rosalind would always be the same dull, obedient woman. Without him, she was nothing.
---
Outside, the deep hum of an engine filled the night air as a sleek black Bugatti rolled to a stop.
The moment Rosalind stepped out of the villa, Amelia was there, arms flung wide
“Rosalind, darling! You know you could move in with me forever, right? Hell, I’d put your name on the deed if I could.”
Amelia, the only daughter of the Trinity Group’s CEO, had more real estate than she knew what to do with. Offering a place to stay was the easiest thing in the world.
But as she pulled back, her nose wrinkled.
“Hold on. Do I smell cooking oil?” Amelia gasped in horror. “Tell me you weren’t slaving away in the kitchen for that ungrateful idiot.”
Rosalind let out a slow breath, exhaustion pressing in.
“Let’s talk in the car.”
The doors of the Bugatti shut with a quiet click, sealing them inside. As they sped down the dimly lit streets, Rosalind recounted the night’s events. Her voice remained steady, but the fury in Amelia’s eyes burned hotter with every word.
By the time she finished, Amelia looked like she was ready to commit murder.
“Unbelievable,” she spat. “So, Tristan gets dumped on his wedding day, and now he’s crawling after Emry like a lovesick dog? He actually thinks divorcing you will win her back?” She scoffed. “They’re perfect for each other—two pathetic, self-absorbed losers.”
Rosalind watched the neon lights blur past her window.
“It’s over,” she murmured. “We’re even now.”
Three years. Three years of trying to mold herself into what Tristan wanted.
She had abandoned heels for sensible flats. Swapped bold colors for muted tones. Worn bland, shapeless clothes that weren’t her.
But it had never been enough.
Amelia’s voice softened. “You do realize that family never deserved you, right?”
A faint smile ghosted across Rosalind’s lips. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Amelia took a sharp turn, pulling up in front of an exclusive boutique. Without missing a beat, she rolled down the window and waved over a tall, striking woman inside.
“Chloé! We need a miracle. Tonight.”
Chloé Jensen, an internationally renowned makeup artist, arched a brow before stepping forward.
“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this day,” she said, grinning.
Rosalind groaned. “I’m exhausted. I don’t have the energy for this.”
Amelia smirked. “What? You’re planning to keep that tragic ‘heartbroken ex-wife’ look?”
Rosalind sighed. “Yeah… definitely not.”
“Exactly.” Amelia clapped her hands. “So sit down, relax, and let the professionals do their thing. It’s time the world saw the real you.”
Thirty minutes later, the transformation was undeniable.
Rosalind barely recognized the woman in the mirror.
Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes, once dulled by exhaustion, were now framed with just the right amount of shadow, making them striking and intense. A tiny, strategically placed beauty mark near the corner of her eye added a rebellious edge—something daring, something new.
Even Amelia, who was rarely impressed, looked momentarily stunned.
“This,” she whispered, eyes gleaming, “is who you were meant to be.”
A row of designer dresses was wheeled in—silk, velvet, and lace in deep, bold shades.
“Pick whatever calls to you,” Amelia said with a grin. “Tonight, we’re celebrating your freedom. Luxury cruise, champagne, and a few ridiculously attractive men at your service.”
Rosalind shot her a look. “Not in the mood for men.”
Amelia groaned. “Three years, Rosalind. Three years! Are you telling me you haven’t had any… needs?”
Rosalind huffed, averting her gaze. She had. Of course, she had.
Three years of marriage, and Tristan had never touched her—not once. He had claimed he was "waiting" for Emry.
And she had been foolish enough to believe him.
Amelia studied her, eyes narrowing before she leaned back with a knowing smirk.
“Fine. Forget men.” She tapped her manicured nails against her chin. “How about this—tonight’s event has some very interesting guests. Including the mysterious genius behind Orchid.”
Rosalind’s fingers, which had been absently skimming the fabric of a gown, suddenly stilled.
Orchid.
The country’s most elite perfume brand. Its fragrances were unmatched, commanding astronomical prices.
Years ago, at an international perfumery competition, Rosalind had encountered one of Orchid’s scents—and for the first time in years, something about it had triggered a memory. A whisper of familiarity, a lingering note that reminded her of her mother’s style.
Yet no one knew the face behind Orchid. The CEO had remained an enigma, avoiding public appearances entirely. Even when she had tried hacking into Orchid’s database, she had found nothing.
Amelia grinned as she saw Rosalind’s interest pique.
“Well, well. Looks like I finally found your reason to show up tonight.”
Rosalind exhaled, considering. Then, slowly, she turned to the rack of gowns.
“Fine,” she murmured, selecting a dress. “Let’s see what the night has in store.”
- Writer
