Three Years Wasted I Married Mr. Right novel Chapter 46

At 7:00 PM in the Grandon Hotel Ballroom, a colossal crystal chandelier hung from the twenty–meter dome, its Venetian glass shades, hand–blown by masters all over the world, scattering the candlelight like diamonds to the rhythm of a live symphony

Jelasburg’s elite drifted through the room, draped in luxury and exchanging polished small talk. The air itself seemed rich, thick with the scent of money and influence.

Helen had obsessed over every detail of tonight’s event. From the Beluga caviar flown in from the Caspian Sea to the nationally–acclaimed orchestra. Each element was meticulously chosen to scream one thing: the Westwoods had arrived.

Short of the untouchable top tier, families like the Sterlings, nearly every major name in the city had been invited. Especially the Evans family, the Westwoods‘ esteemed in–laws.

Emily had glued herself to Lucas’s arm the second they stepped onto the marble. From ten feet, she almost looked like the real thing.

But the entire room knew better. Three years ago, the Evans heiress switch had detonated across the news. Emily wasn’t the

real one.

Lucas kept scanning the crowd, thumb dancing over his phone. Still no answer from Sophia. Not a text, not a missed call, nothing.

His jaw ticked. ‘What game is she playing?‘ Missing his mother’s birthday party was a bold move, even for her.

‘Is she hiding after hitting us the other day? Scared?‘ He almost laughed. ‘If she shows up now and behaves, I might still let her keep the wife title. She should be grateful.’

Just then, Helen glided over, a polished smile on her face. “Lucas, where’s your wife? And why did you bring Emily?” Her tone was sugary when she said Emily’s name, but the glance she shot the girl was laced with caution.

Helen had no problem using Emily to knock Sophia down a peg, but she’d never stand for her son marrying some wannabe socialite.

Emily’s smile froze. She flicked her gaze to Lucas. His jaw locked. “I didn’t tag her with a GPS. How the hell should I know?” Resentment dripped off every syllable.

Helen’s mental countdown ticked: seven more days and the pre–signed divorce papers hit the courthouse. One ex–daughter- in–law, erased. She almost sighed in relief.

“Fine,” she murmured, patting his lapel. “Maybe it’s better the little mouse stays in her hole tonight.” Fewer witnesses, faster memory–wipe when she paraded the next Mrs. Westwood in front of this same crowd.

Her eyes sliced to Emily. “Come, darling. Let me show you off at a respectable distance.”

Emily could sense Helen wasn’t pleased seeing her so close to Lucas. She unstuck herself from Lucas, cheeks aching from the forced smile. The faint bruise Sophia had left on her face still pulsed under two layers of camouflage.

Every mirror reminded her of the slap, and every reminder brewed a fresh gallon of acid in her chest. ‘Payback is a bitch named Sophia, she vowed silently, ‘and I’m the hurricane that wipes her off the map.

She trailed Helen across the ballroom. “Mrs. Westwood,” she cooed the second they were alone, “Sophia lost her mind the other day. She attacked Lucas.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “She did what?”

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“It just breaks my heart,” Emily piled on, laying it thick. “She punched him while he was running a fever–watch at her bedside. Three nights, no sleep, and she rewards him with slaps. Savages behave better.”

She painted the picture carefully, making sure every bit of blame landed squarely on Sophia.

Helen’s nostrils flared. If it weren’t for the pending divorce, she’d have called Sophia right then and given her a piece of her

mind.

Emily tasted Helen’s rage and almost purred.

Before she could speak, he demanded, “Annabelle, is Sophia with you? Today’s my mother’s birthday. Shouldn’t my wife at least show her face?”

Her stilettos stabbed the marble, a countdown to public execution. A high ponytail whipped behind her like a battle standard, which was the only thing soft about the whole arrival.

A collective thrill of horror shot through the crowd. ‘Holy shit, this is drama,‘ some thought, barely containing their glee. ‘Bringing a coffin to Mrs. Westwood’s birthday? This isn’t just a scene. It’s a declaration of war.’

Lucas lunged into her path. “We’re not at war with you, Annabelle. What is the meaning of this stunt?” His voice was low, vibrating with controlled rage.

Annabelle’s crimson lips curled. “It’s a gift, pretty boy. Need me to read the card aloud?”

Her words dripped with enough venom to send a fresh wave of whispers cascading through the guests.

Chapter 40

“That’s Annabelle Quinn, the orphan. What grudge could she possibly hold against the Westwoods?”

“Bringing a coffin? You’ve got to admire the audacity

Most, however, simply leaned back, ready to enjoy the spectacle.

Lucas’s cheeks blanched. This is my mother’s birthday. Take your soap opera somewhere else. Security, get Ms. Quinn out

But before his command fully faded, two lines of black–suited bodyguards filed silently into the room, positioning themselves behind Annabelle. Their glares were fixed on Lucas, a silent, formidable challenge.

Helen stormed down from the podium. Her sharp eyes locked onto Annabelle. “Ms. Quinn,” she said, her voice frigid. “Explain yourself. Does this display represent the Quinn family declaring war on the Westwoods?”

Annabelle’s expression shifted into something deceptively pleasant. “Mrs. Westwood,” she began, her tone almost sweet. “Sophie miscarried your grandchild forty–eight hours ago. She couldn’t come. I’m merely here to deliver her gift.”