Vivienne
The silence that followed Roman's command was heavier than the slap I got from Phoebe. I didn't argue back. I didn't defend myself. I simply lowered my head, my hair shielding my burning cheek as I began to pick up the shards of crystal with my bare hands.
I ignored the whispers around me, pretending not to hear.
A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into the pad of my index finger. I gasped softly as a bead of bright crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the white tablecloth I was trying to save. I looked up at Roman, my eyes pleading for just a shred of humanity, but he didn't even see the blood. He was leaning toward Isabella, his hand on her shoulder as he whispered apologies, his focus entirely on her.
"Get out of here if you are done," Cassandra sneered, her voice loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear. "Go on, Vivienne. Leave before you make a bigger mess of this family's reputation than you already have. You are an eyesore."
I gave no response as I gathered the tray with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. Every movement felt like I was moving through lead. I stood up, clutching the tray of broken glass and spilled wine to my chest, and murmured a hollow apology to the table. No one looked at me. To them, I had ceased to exist.
I rushed toward the service exit, hiding my face from the side-talk and the judgmental looks of every table. My vision was blurred by the hot, stinging tears streaming down my face. Once inside the kitchen corridor, I dumped the shattered remains of the crystal into a trash bin. The sound of the glass hitting the bottom echoed the state of my own heart.
Yet again, I was treated like trash by the people I called family.
"Why me?" I muttered as I made my way to the washroom, stumbling toward the sink. I turned on the cold water and held my bleeding palm under the stream. The water turned pink as it washed away the blood, but it couldn't cool the throbbing heat on my cheek where Phoebe's ring had left a mark.
I looked at myself in the mirror, staring at my stained dress, my disheveled hair, and my eyes that had turned red from crying. Tonight was supposed to be our wedding anniversary, but it had turned into a night where I was ridiculed by my husband and his family.
I let out a sigh, rubbed my face with my wet hands, and headed out of the washroom. But I didn't return to the hall. Instead, I took the stairs at the service exit and climbed until I reached a heavy metal door that led to the rooftop.
The night air hit me like a shock. I stepped out onto the gravel-lined roof, crossing toward the railing to catch my breath and let the wind dry my tears. But I wasn't alone.
A few yards away stood a man at the very edge of the roof. He was silhouetted against the glowing skyline of the city, his broad shoulders squared against the wind. He was perfectly still, staring out at the sky. I froze, my hand going to my chest as the light hit his face.
He was the man I had collided with near the washrooms earlier. The man with the deep voice.
What was he doing here? I thought. I stood there staring at him, but he didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the sprawling city lights below. I clutched my injured hand, the wind whipping my hair around my face.
Finally, he turned and started walking toward me. I looked away immediately, wondering why he was approaching me.
"I…" I tried to speak when he reached me, but no words came out.
The man didn't say anything. He didn't ask questions. Instead, his eyes fell to my hand and then moved up to the red mark on my cheek. Without a word, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a crisp, white silk handkerchief. He stepped closer—the scent of dark wood lingering on him—and gently took my hand. He began to wrap the fabric around my bleeding palm.
"Keep this on it," he said, his deep voice vibrating through my hand. "You need to avoid getting it infected."He tucked the edge of the silk to secure it, and then his green eyes met mine. "Why do you let them treat you like that?"
He saw.
It was no wonder he offered to help me. I didn't know if it was out of pity, but he cared enough to ask. I should have been embarrassed that he had seen it all, but I wasn't. Instead, I let out a short, hollow laugh, shaking my head as I pulled my hand back slightly.
"It's fine. It was all my fault, really. I am just clumsy."
The man's expression didn't change, but his green eyes seemed to darken. "It still doesn't change the fact that you don't deserve to be treated like that."
I cleared my throat, trying to shift the heavy atmosphere. "Thank you for your help," I told him. "And by the way, what are you doing here?"
He chuckled, turning back to face the sky. "The party was boring."
A genuine, small smile touched my face as I also looked at the sky. "That makes two of us."
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. I was tempted to ask him his name, because tonight he was my savior, but I didn't want to be forward. We just stood there in silence, with only the distant hum of the city and the wind whistling between the skyscrapers. It was the first moment of peace I'd had all day—standing in the dark with a stranger who didn't look at me with disgust.
Suddenly, a sharp beep broke the silence. I jumped in fright, looking down at the phone clutched in my other hand. It was a text from Phoebe.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? WE ARE ABOUT TO CUT THE CAKE. GET DOWN HERE NOW!
I winced and rolled my eyes, knowing that the reality of my life was rushing back. I looked up at the man and lowered my head in gratitude. "Thank you for your help, truly. What is your name? How do I get this back to you if I want to return it?"
"No need," he said.
"I insist," I murmured. "My name is Vivienne."
"Lucien. Just Lucien," he responded. "And there is no need for you to return the handkerchief. You can keep it."
I smiled and rubbed my hand over the soft silk. "Thank you again, Mr. Lucien," I said, hurrying back to the door.
When I reached the hall again, Phoebe was already at the service exit searching for me. The moment she saw me, she grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin.
"Where the hell have you been?" she hissed, her face contorted. "You are supposed to serve your husband's guests as a loyal wife, but you ran off after almost messing up everything. Now, don't you dare ruin things for my son tonight. You have already caused enough of a scene."
"I am sorry," I whispered. "I just needed air."
"Just get in line," she snapped, shoving me toward the front of the room where a massive five-tier cake stood under a spotlight.
I took my place beside Roman, who didn't even acknowledge my presence.
But as the photographers gathered and the crowd began to cheer, I was pushed further and further away from his side. Isabella replaced me immediately, standing at the center beside him, her hand resting over Roman's as they smiled for the flashing cameras.
I was forced to stand at the very end of the line, cropped out of the family's moment of glory.