Without giving her a chance to argue, Elliot ushered Margaret away to change into formal attire and have her hair and makeup done.
The venue was an upscale private estate.
The moment Margaret stepped inside, Elliot's childhood friends turned to look—their tones and glances unmistakably mocking.
"So this is Elliot's... little girlfriend? Cleaned up, she's not bad-looking," one of them said, chuckling.
"I heard you grew up in the village. Do ghosts wander the hills at night? Tell us a story—it'll liven things up," another chimed in, smirking.
"Hey, girl. Is that soot I smell? I heard folks out in the sticks only bathe once a month," a third added, nose wrinkling.
It was then that Margaret understood: this wasn't a friendly gathering. It was a carefully orchestrated humiliation.
Elliot played the part of the composed gentleman, lightly scolding them, "Enough, everyone. Margaret isn't used to city ways. Go easy on her."
Just as he spoke, Victoria appeared in the doorway.
Draped in a custom burgundy gown, her hair falling in loose waves, she wore a bracelet worth millions and carried a Hermès Birkin. The room's attention immediately shifted to her.
"Victoria, you look stunning. Is that a new design from that European couturier? I heard it's nearly impossible to get."
"That bracelet—isn't it the one Mr. Novak went out of his way to win for you at that charity auction? So lucky."
Victoria smiled warmly, but her eyes kept drifting towards Margaret, sharp with undisguised contempt.
Elliot, too, turned towards Victoria, his gaze softening as he joined the circle around her.
Engrossed in conversation, the group soon forgot Margaret standing alone in the corner.
After drinks had been flowing for a while, Elliot remained deep in discussion with his friends.
Feeling stifled, Margaret slipped outside for air.
Victoria followed quietly, her tone as condescending as ever. "Margaret, I'm surprised you're still here. Surely you can see the truth now. Elliot loves me. A country girl from the poor village could never be enough for him."
Margaret's lips curved into a cold smile.
"Does it bother you so much that I once saved Elliot's life? Or that we had a childhood betrothal? If you were truly confident in his love, you wouldn't feel the need to warn me away."
Victoria's expression tightened. "So you do intend to hold that over him."
Not wishing to argue, Margaret turned to leave, but Victoria stepped forward and seized her arm, yanking hard.
Both women lost their balance and tumbled down the staircase.
A sharp cry pierced the air. Then Margaret lay sprawled on the floor, with Victoria on top of her, using Margaret as a cushion.
Elliot rushed over at the sound. His eyes went straight to Victoria, his voice frantic. "Victoria! Are you hurt?"
Though cushioned by Margaret's body, Victoria burst into tears. "I'm alright...just shaken. I only came to keep her company. I don't know why she pushed me."
Before Margaret could speak, Elliot looked at her—no concern in his gaze, only disgust. "Margaret, I expected better. How could you do this to her?"
His friends gathered on the stairs, their voices rising in accusation.
"No class, these country types. Vicious, too."
"Elliot, you should keep her away from Victoria."
"Just call the police. She's nothing but trouble."
Lying on the cold floor, her body aching, Margaret tried to explain. But the words stuck in her throat, trapped and silent.
A memory surfaced—a day in the mountains when she'd slipped on a steep path.
Elliot had found her, his face pale with fear. He'd held her, crying softly, blaming himself.
After that, he never let her walk those slopes alone, always keeping her hand firmly in his.
Elliot's words cut through the air, icy and final. "Alright, I'm taking Victoria to the hospital. You're all free to leave."
Without another glance, he walked away, Victoria cradled in his arms.
Margaret was left standing alone amidst fading echoes of mockery. The noise blurred, then dissolved into the heavy silence of the empty hallway.
She stumbled out of the manor. Night had fallen, deep and still, wrapping around her like a shroud.
Every movement sent a sharp, tearing pain through her body. Her gown was crumpled and torn, and each step was a fresh agony.
Suddenly, her phone rang, shrill and urgent against the quiet. It was a call from home.
A fellow villager's frantic voice crackled through the line, "Margaret, it's bad news! Your grandfather... he collapsed. The local clinic can't handle this. He needs to get to a proper hospital, now!"
Aksara