Hidden Scars- 2
1036 Words
The air in the grand ballroom had turned into a vacuum.
Every crystal on the overhead chandeliers seemed to vibrate with the frequency of a thousand judgmental whispers, shattering the last of my composure.
The walls were shrinking, the floor was tilting, and I was on the verge of a total, public collapse.
Then, a sudden, heavy warmth wrapped around my shivering shoulders.
A coat!
For a split second, a flicker of a thought crossed my mind—a desperate, foolish hope.
August? Had he finally seen me? Had he decided that the cellar deserved a shred of dignity in the light?
I looked up, my eyes blurred by unshed tears, only to find a face that was becoming a recurring anchor in my chaotic life. It wasn't my husband.
"Ashford?" I breathed his name in a soft exhale of shock.
He didn't look at me with pity, which I was grateful for but there was a sharp, focused intensity in his gaze.
He stood tall, his frame acting as a human shield between me and the prying eyes of the high-society vultures.
"Keep the coat," he said.
"You can thank me later."
Before I could find the words to respond, he turned and walked away.
I clutched the lapels of his jacket, pulling the warmth tight against my chest, and ran. I needed air. I needed the world to stop spinning.
The terrace was a sanctuary. I was just beginning to find the rhythm of my own breath when I felt a presence.
It was Ashford. Again.
"Thanks for earlier," I said, my voice small. I pulled his coat tighter.
He leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the city lights before turning to me with a mocking curve to his lips.
He chuckled, a sound that was surprisingly warm.
"Why do I always find you in such miserable situations? Are you always this much of a crybaby?"
The bluntness of it caught me off guard. After weeks of August’s cruelty and Martha’s sharp barbs, Ashford’s casual teasing felt... good.
"So, you came all the way out here just to laugh at me?" I puffed my cheeks, a sudden, indignant heat rising to my face.
I didn't know why, but I felt an inexplicable ease talking to him.
Even the act of puffing at a man who was technically a stranger felt more intimate, more real, than anything.
With Ashford, I was just a girl who had a very bad night.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he held out a packet toward me.
"What is this?" I asked, eyeing the high-end branding on the bag with suspicion.
"There’s still time before the bidding starts," he said.
"It’s a dress. Change into it. You can't exactly walk back into that den of lions wearing my suit jacket and a shredded soul."
He thrust the packet into my hands and turned to leave before I could stammer out a protest or a question.
"Wait—"
He disappeared into the corridor, leaving me alone.
He wasn't being an asshole today.
I stood up, the stiffness in my hip momentarily forgotten, and headed toward the luxury restrooms.
---
From a distance, in the dim light of the upper mezzanine, two figures watched the terrace.
"President... aren't you going to give the dress to Miss Willow?" Fanel asked, his voice hesitant.
He looked at the ornate box in August’s hand—a high-end, custom couture piece.
"She doesn’t need it," August hissed.
His fingers clutched the designer packet. His jaw tightened. He had watched the entire exchange. He had seen the way Ashford draped the coat over her.
He had seen the way Spring looked at the stranger, not with the terror but with a spark of genuine, effortless connection. They looked close.
In a fit of rage, August walked to a nearby trash bin and threw the priceless, one-of-a-kind gown inside as if it were nothing but scrap paper. He stormed away.
Fanel felt a cold shiver race down his spine. He looked at the discarded dress and then at the retreating back of his master.
---
In the rest room:
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the marble restroom, taking a final breath.
I had pinned my hair into a high, elegant bun, exposing the graceful line of my neck.
The dress Ashford had given me was a masterpiece. It was a deep, midnight blue that seemed to absorb the light around it. It fit my body perfectly.
"Oh!" I let out a small, breathless huff of laughter.
"He certainly has a good sense of measurement."
With a final look at the woman in the mirror I smoothed the skirts and headed toward the main bidding hall.
The room was packed. I walked through the center aisle, my head held high.
I made my way toward the front row, where the Harrington name was etched onto the reserved seating.
August sat there like a king on a cold throne. Beside him, Tricey and Shaila were already whispering, their eyes scanning the room for fresh prey.
As I approached, the whispers started again, but the tone had changed.
"Wow... she actually looks beautiful when she tries," someone whispered from the back row.
I could feel the heat of Shaila’s jealous glare and the sharp narrowing of Tricey's eyes.
I looked at August as I took my seat beside him. He ignored me with indifference, his gaze fixed on the auctioneer's podium.
He didn't ask where I got the dress. He didn't ask if I was okay. He simply sat there.
I scanned the room. Ashford was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had left after playing my guardian angel?
A small part of me felt a pang of disappointment, but I pushed it down.
The lights dimmed, and the auctioneer stepped onto the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, the gavel hitting the wood with a sharp crack.
"Let the bidding begin."
---
- Writer
