The Unwanted Fiancée And Her Spectacular Comeback

The first thing Avalon Hayes noticed was the smell—spoiled takeout, cheap perfume, and a certain sour smell clinging to the polyester sheets. Her eyes snapped open.

This is not her room. The ceiling is very low, covered with brown map-like stains left by old leaks. The morning light struggled through a dirty window, with dense dust particles floating in the light. She sat up, and the movement sent a sharp pain through her right temple—a familiar and nauseating throbbing pain. Her stomach tightened.

She swung her legs off the edge of the uneven mattress and staggered toward the cracked mirror on the wall. The face reflected in the mirror was hers, but something was off: too young, with a thick layer of foundation like putty, eyeliner under her eyes blended into a black crescent moon, and lips dyed a gaudy, mottled pink. That is the work of strangers—the work of "another her."

Without thinking much, she stumbled into the small, moldy bathroom. She turned on the cold water tap and dipped her hands—then her face—into the icy water. She scrubbed hard, scraping off the "mask" with her nails until her skin became red and swollen. The coldness struck her body, but it was clean, it was real.

As she straightened up and gasped for breath, the pain in her head intensified—a sharp, drill-like pain piercing her skull. Her vision began to blur. She gripped the edge of the sink tightly, her knuckles turning white, her breathing intermittent. It's been a year. For a year, she endured this pain, endured the amnesia, and her body was controlled by another person. These attacks became more frequent, and the pain became more intense.

A sharp, impatient knock pierced through her mist of pain.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

She didn't move. Through the peephole, she saw a man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit—Mr. Jennings, the butler of the Hayes family. He examined the peeling paint in the corridor, his face showing disdain. His presence was out of place here, like diamonds in a garbage heap.

Avalon's gaze swept over the filthy room. Information. Weapons. Anything. Her gaze fell on the mattress. She knelt down and reached under the mattress to feel around. Your fingertips touch cold plastic—a cheap flip phone and a compact encrypted USB drive. She stuffed them deep into the pocket of her thin jacket, and just then, Jennings knocked again, this time louder.

"Miss Hayes, I know you're inside." His voice was a bit muffled, but carried a hint of arrogance. "Mr. Hayes requests you to be present."

She took a deep breath to steady herself, brushed her wet hair away from her face, and then opened the door.

Jennings was halfway through the tapping, his hand frozen in midair. He stared at her cleansed face, pale skin, and the cold, hollow clarity in her eyes—not the wild, hysterical, or pitiful girl he was used to dealing with. He blinked, a trace of confusion flashing across his face, then returned to his arrogant mask.

"Finally willing to come out." He snorted. "Pack your things properly. You have five minutes. ”

"I'm not going anywhere." Avalon's voice was soft, hoarse from not speaking for a long time.

Jennings curled a cold smile at the corner of his mouth. "Stop playing tricks. After you did that to Clay Tate, your father was still willing to clean up your mess—consider yourself lucky. ”

The name Clai Tate sent a chill through her. A flash of memory flashes by, but not entirely for her: a crowded party, the spur of alcohol, overwhelming shame, and the immense pressure of public humiliation. That was the mess of "another her." But the body is hers.

She had to go back. She must regain control.

"Alright." Her sudden change in tone caught Jennings off guard. "Whoa."

She didn't tidy up anything. She walked out of the apartment, pulled on her jacket, as if shedding a layer of skin, and without looking back, left behind the dirty, messy, and cheap perfume.

The journey to Hayes Manor was spent in a quiet, air-conditioned Bentley. Jennings sat in the front row, occasionally muttering her shameful behavior and the disgrace it brought to the family. Avalon ignored him, his gaze fixed on the window. The view outside the window shifts from the decaying brick houses and rundown shopfronts of the "Rust Zone" to the neatly manicured lawns and grand mansions of Stirling's elite.

The car finally passed through a wrought iron gate and stopped in front of the Hayes Manor. It was a grand and imposing stone and glass building, a place she knew but had no emotional connection to. It was a cage.

She got out of the car and walked inside. Her father, Warren Hayes, was waiting in the living room. He sat in a huge leather armchair, his face clouded with restrained anger.

He didn't ask if she was well, nor where she had gone. His cold and harsh gaze was filled with disgust, sweeping over her simple clothes and pale face.

"Go to Tate's house." He ordered, his voice low and dangerous. "You kneel down and apologize to their son. Do you understand? ”

Avalon's gaze passed over him and landed on the portrait of her mother hanging on the wall—covered in a thin layer of dust. During the year she disappeared and was lost in the fog, this man didn't care at all about her life or death. He only cares about saving face, only about cleaning up the mess.

The "electric drill" inside the temples started ringing again, producing a deep, continuous hum. She forced herself to straighten her back and lift her chin.

"Did you hear me, Avalon?" Warren's voice rose, breaking the oppressive silence.

She finally turned her eyes and met his gaze. Her gaze was calm—so calm it was terrifying.

She opened her mouth and uttered a clear word.

"No."