Chapter2
968 Words
"Ms. Lopes, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!"
Cicilia hurried down the staircase, her voice a blend of faux concern and barely concealed amusement.
"Maybe we can just toss everything into a bag for now?" she suggested, tilting her head with an innocent smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
To Cicilia, Rosalind was nothing more than an out-of-place country girl—someone who had latched onto Tristan for an easy life. And now that she was being cast aside, Cicilia relished every moment of it.
Tristan’s patience wore thin. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "You're impossible," he muttered, shooting an annoyed glance at the scattered clothes.
Rosalind’s suitcase had held so little—only a handful of plain garments, hardly any jewelry. Over the years, she had spent almost nothing from the wealth at her disposal. She had never demanded, never indulged. She had lived simply, as if wealth meant nothing to her.
But love, no matter how selfless, could never be bartered.
"Emry's luggage is the priority. Just throw her things into a storage bag," Tristan said dismissively, nodding toward the broken suitcase. "I'll have the housekeeper get you a new one tomorrow."
A quiet, detached smile curved Rosalind’s lips.
"That suitcase," she murmured, brushing dust from its fractured frame, "was the one I stole from the kidnappers when we escaped. If not for it, we would’ve drowned that night."
She had guarded that suitcase the way she had guarded their marriage—carefully, patiently, believing it was worth something. And now, like their relationship, it lay in pieces.
Tristan gave a cold chuckle. "That story might have worked on my grandfather, but not on me."
The memories of his childhood abduction were hazy at best. He had never quite believed Rosalind was there with him.
"Cicilia," he barked, "get on with it."
"Of course, Mr. Bajusz," she chirped, kneeling to gather Rosalind’s belongings. But as she picked up each garment, she made a show of dragging them against the floor, smearing them with dust.
She clicked her tongue. "You know, Ms. Lopes, Mr. Bajusz’s grandmother always says people are like clothing. Once they’re stained, no amount of washing will ever make them clean again."
Rosalind’s gaze darkened.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Years ago, Cicilia had been desperate. A single mistake had nearly put the Bajusz family at odds with Bobby Tapes, the eldest son of the Tapes family. It was Rosalind who had stepped in, negotiated with Bobby, and secured a land deal that saved the Bajusz business.
Back then, Cicilia had been humble. Grateful, even.
But power shifts. Allegiances change. And Cicilia, emboldened by the shifting tides within the Bajusz family, now acted as if she had never bowed her head.
Rosalind exhaled, slow and measured. Then, she looked Tristan straight in the eye.
"You're right about one thing," she said, her voice cool and steady. "Some stains never fade."
Then, with an air of disinterest, she shrugged. "I won’t be needing them anymore."
The clothes had never suited her, anyway. Bland, shapeless things—carefully chosen to be unthreatening, unremarkable.
"But when people make mistakes…" Her voice turned sharp, almost cutting. "...they have to pay the price."
Something in the room shifted.
Tristan hesitated. For the first time, Rosalind’s presence didn’t feel familiar. The quiet, obedient woman he had grown used to was gone.
Cicilia, oblivious, giggled. "Oh, I only serve the Bajusz family, Ms. Lopes. And since you’re no longer—"
Smack.
The slap cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Cicilia gasped, stumbling back, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"You—"
Smack.
The second strike came before she could recover, knocking her off balance. A cry left her lips as she hit the floor, her cheek already swelling.
Her ankle twisted beneath her weight, and a choked sob escaped as she clutched it.
Before she could spew another insult, Rosalind stepped forward, her fingers closing around Cicilia’s throat—not hard enough to suffocate, but firm enough to make her tremble.
Rosalind leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.
"That was for the suitcase and the clothes."
Cicilia’s breath hitched, her bravado crumbling.
"And now," Rosalind continued, yanking at the delicate chain around Cicilia’s neck, "I’m taking back what never belonged to you in the first place."
The necklace snapped free. The emerald pendant, encircled by diamonds, gleamed under the chandelier light.
Cicilia gasped. "You—you’re insane!"
Rosalind ignored her.
Then, realization dawned on Cicilia’s face.
A sharp gasp. A tremble in her limbs.
And then—the sharp scent of ammonia filled the air.
Tristan’s expression twisted in disgust.
"You’re pathetic," he spat, stepping back.
Cicilia scrambled up, panic turning to desperation. "Mr. Bajusz—please, I—"
His patience finally snapped.
With a swift, brutal kick, he sent her sprawling once more.
“The Bajusz family has no place for thieves," he said coldly.
Meanwhile, Rosalind had already crossed the threshold, stepping into the night. The cool air wrapped around her like a welcome embrace as she pulled out her phone and dialed a familiar number.
The call connected almost instantly.
"Amelia," she said, her voice light, almost amused. "I’m divorced. Moved out of the villa. My house and car are still in New York—mind if I crash at your place for the night?"
Silence. Then—
A delighted shriek.
"HOLY s**t! You finally dumped that moron?"
A peal of laughter crackled through the line.
"Forget crashing—you’re staying over for a celebration."
Even through the phone, Rosalind could hear the excitement bubbling in Amelia’s voice.
"If the folks at Trojan find out the founder is back…" Amelia’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. "...the servers might just explode."
Rosalind smiled.
It was time.
- Writer
