I gritted my teeth through the pain, shaking off Steven’s hand as anger flared up inside me.

“Steven, does humiliating me in front of Steve make you feel proud?” I snapped. “You deliberately pressed on my injured left hand—what’s wrong? Are you that scared I’ll outshine you?”

This time, I didn’t care about Margot’s reaction. I had reached my breaking point. For once, I stood my ground and let all the pent-up frustration spill out.

Steven’s expression darkened instantly. His eyes darted to Margot as he put on his usual pitiful act. “Margot, I was just trying to help Frank, but he doesn’t appreciate it. Now he’s accusing me…”

Margot’s cold, indifferent gaze turned to me, her voice laced with disdain.

“Frank, stop making excuses,” she said icily. “You need to play with your left hand—no more theatrics. Steven is helping you out of kindness, and you should be grateful instead of acting like you’re too good for this. Because, honestly? You’re not anymore.”

Her words cut through me like a blade, extinguishing the last shred of affection I had for her. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Margot,” I said, my voice trembling but steady enough to convey my bitterness, “have you ever genuinely cared about me? Or was I just here today to make Steven look better?”

I could feel the weight of every suppressed emotion rising to the surface. My voice grew louder, steadier. “I’m done. I can’t keep watching the two of you flaunt your ‘love’ in front of me.”

With that, I yanked off the tie she had tied for me earlier and threw it at her feet.

Before anyone could react, I strode up to the stage. My heart pounded as I plugged in a USB drive and hit play. A video montage began to play on the screen, flashing memories of the two years Margot and I had spent together.

“Margot,” I announced, my voice echoing across the room, “even if you want to erase me from your life, you can’t erase the fact that we were together for two years.

“Consider this my final goodbye—I’m officially breaking up with you. From now on, we’re done. You and Steven stay out of my sight. You both make me sick.”

The crowd froze, murmurs spreading like wildfire.

Someone finally dared to ask, “Miss Kent, is it true? Did you date him for two years?”

Margot’s face drained of color. She stormed up to me, her expression twisted with rage and slapped me hard across the face.

“You picked the wrong place to pull this stunt,” she sneered, her tone full of venom.

To her, my actions were nothing more than a childish outburst of jealousy—a pathetic attempt to cling to something that no longer existed. Her slap wasn’t just physical. It was full of contempt, a reminder of how little she thought of me.

I lowered my head, swallowing my pride, as she continued her verbal assault.

“Frank, are you done embarrassing yourself yet?” she spat. “You’re pathetic!”

I felt the fight drain out of me entirely. It wasn’t just her words—it was the years of pain, humiliation, and betrayal finally catching up to me. I was exhausted. This twisted relationship had decayed beyond repair.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to leave.

But, of course, Margot wasn’t done.

“Frank,” she called after me, her voice sharp and biting. “You better think this through. Without me, you have nothing. No one will dare to help you.”

I turned back to face her, and for the first time, I saw my reflection in her eyes—a haggard, broken shell of a man who had endured far more than he should have.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The world spun around me, and it felt like I was plunging into an endless abyss, the same kind of soul-crushing pain I had felt when my parents died.

But back then, Margot had pulled me out of that darkness.

Now, she was the one shoving me back in.

I clenched my teeth, steadying myself with my injured left hand. A wave of searing pain shot through me as blood dripped onto the floor, vivid and jarring against the polished surface.

“Hey, Steven, the baker said this cake is pineapple, not mango,” someone remarked casually nearby.

My stomach twisted. Earlier, when I tasted the cake, the strong scent of mango had been unmistakable. And Margot had been standing right in front of me, watching me eat it.

Yet, she had believed Steven’s lie and, worse, punished me for calling it out.

Grinding the sharp heel of her stiletto into my injured fingers, she hissed, “Frank, what’s the point of lying? Stop slandering Steven. How does this help you? Apologize to us right now!”

Her voice was sharp, cutting through me like needles. My head buzzed, and the allergic reaction worsened by the second. The room blurred into indistinct shadows, and the chaotic noise around me faded into an eerie hum.

I yanked my hand free from under her heel, desperate to get away. I didn’t care if I had to crawl.

I just needed to escape this nightmare.

But Margot wasn’t finished with me. She barked orders at her bodyguards, who quickly blocked my path and dragged me back to her.

"It hurts..." I finally let out a cry, the pain overwhelming me.

Margot hesitated briefly before grabbing my injured left hand, her grip tightening.

"Oh, quit playing the victim!" she snapped, her voice laced with disdain. "Even if your left hand is broken, you’ll still have to play something for Steve."

Steven, ever the opportunist, chimed in with a faux concern, "Want me to help clean him up a bit? He’s looking pretty filthy."

Margot shot me a cold glance, her lip curling in disdain. "Don’t bother. No amount of cleaning will fix what’s already dirty on the inside." She paused, her voice dripping with venom. "Let him keep up this little charade. It’ll just show everyone what happens when you try to cross me."

Her words were a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of her cruelty. She had said something similar the last time we almost broke up.

'Frank, if you dare walk away from me, I’ll make sure you lose everything. Don’t forget—everyone already knows your father was a cheater, and your mother killed herself out of shame. You’ve got nowhere else to go.'

Now, here she was again, dangling the same threats over my head.

Except this time, I wasn’t falling for it. This time, I felt nothing but disgust.

"Don’t touch me!" I shouted, yanking my hand free.

My balance faltered, and I stumbled backward—straight into the cake. I hit the ground hard, frosting and mango filling smeared across my face. The crowd burst into laughter, their jeers cutting through me like a blade.

My chest tightened as the allergic reaction from the mango intensified. My throat felt like it was closing, a vice gripping my airway.

Panicked, I reached out toward Margot, silently begging her to stop them. But her attention was solely on Steven, her eyes fixed on him like I didn’t even exist.

"Frank’s bloody hand might be a little... unsettling for Mr. Schumann. Should we tie it behind his back?" Steven mocked

Margot hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Ugh, fine! Bind his hand. Let him see what defying me gets him."

Steven grinned at her approval and barked out the command. The next thing I knew, my face was shoved back into the cake. Every time I tried to lift my head for air, someone would shove me back down, laughing as I gasped and choked.

It felt like demons were tightening their grip on my throat. The world around me blurred as I struggled to hold on, despair closing in on me.

Then, out of nowhere, a strong hand yanked me upright.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

I heard a soft, commanding voice above me. "That's enough!"

Through my blurred vision, I saw her—a strikingly beautiful woman with sharp eyes and an unshakable presence. She gently wiped the frosting from my face, her movements careful and precise. The overwhelming scent of frosting and mango was replaced by a soft, fresh aroma of gardenias.

"Who the hell just kicked me?" one of the men snarled, rolling up his sleeves.

But before he could make a move, two men in black suits appeared and effortlessly tossed him aside.

"Too noisy," the woman said, her voice soft but with an edge that silenced the room.

She was stunning, her appearance and presence impossible to ignore. Though her expression was serene, the sharpness in her eyes froze everyone in place.

As she draped her coat over my shoulders, her gaze fell on my injured hand. Her brows furrowed.

"Who did this to you?" she asked, her voice low and laced with concern.

I stared at her, stunned and unable to respond.

Before I could say a word, a familiar figure stepped forward. Alfred Schumann—the renowned pianist and someone everyone here revered—bowed his head slightly as he approached her.

"Miss Lexington, is something wrong?" he asked politely, his tone almost reverent.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Alfred Schumann, the world-famous pianist, was acting deferentially toward her.

Even Margot, who had spent so much time trying to network with him, looked bewildered.

She stepped forward cautiously, her voice shaky. "Who... who are you?"