The Banquet.

Matthew Hartman made a grand entrance with Olivia and her son.

Glasses clinked and laughter filled the hall; everyone praised how happy the three of them looked together, and quite a few took the chance to belittle Scarlett.

Only one of Matthew’s friends—a doctor—frowned and quickly walked over to him.

“Mr. Hartman, I’m sorry. My condolences.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your daughter… she died from a post-operative infection. Mrs. Hartman took her to the funeral home today.”

“How much did Scarlett pay you?” Matthew said coldly, raising his glass and draining it.

“I already sent you the death certificate, remember? You said you received it.”

At these words, Olivia nervously tightened her grip on her son’s hand.

Just then, Matthew’s phone rang.

“Mr. Hartman, the villa is on fire.”

The wine glass slipped from Matthew’s hand and shattered on the floor. He turned and left.

He didn’t even know how he managed to floor the gas pedal and rush to the villa. Staring at the raging flames, it felt as if something had driven a stake through his chest.

The curtains fell, revealing Scarlett sitting quietly in front of a birthday cake, an urn cradled in her arms.

She smiled at him, just like the first time they met.

“Goodbye. I hate you. If I could do it all over again…”

Before she could finish, the entire house collapsed.

Maybe it was an illusion before death, but Scarlett seemed to see Matthew fall to his knees.

Forget it.

Her Amelia had come to take her away.

“Mommy, mommy.”

*****

That afternoon, under the scorching sun, the atmosphere in the Hartman mansion’s main hall was as tense as if everyone was roasting over a fire.

A teacup smashed to the ground. The shards cut into Scarlett’s skin, the pain snapping her back to reality.

She was kneeling in the center of the hall, staring blankly at the crowd.

This is…

She had returned.

She was back, against all odds.

Scarlett clenched her jaw, ignoring the astonished looks cast in her direction, and pinched her arm with unforgiving force. Pain surged through her body, sharp and immediate. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision.

"Why are you crying? If anyone should apologize for this debacle, it’s Hartman family!”

The commanding voice boomed from the head of the table, resonant with authority.

Scarlett snapped out of her daze, her gaze lifting to meet Frank Hartman’s cold and disapproving eyes. He loomed in judgment from his seat above it all, his disdain evident.

She lowered her head instinctively, continuing the docile posture she had perfected in their household over the years—but her body betrayed her. It trembled, not with fear, but with the thrill of rebellion barely kept in check.

Around her, faint chuckles rippled outward, whispers exchanged like venomous secrets.

"She’s still so young, and already so shameless. How dare she drug Matthew and climb into his bed? The scandal has shaken the entire city, obviously part of her scheme to force him into responsibility. And yet now she lacks the courage to admit it. Some upbringing she must've had."

"Not one of ours, clearly. Hartman family wouldn’t raise someone so indecent. Did you see how the internet unearthed her diary? The way she wrote about her obsession with Matthew was downright mortifying. To think we spent money sending her to college, and she came back with nothing but cheap seduction tactics."

"I warned against it, didn’t I? Just bringing anyone into our house… and now look. A wolf among us, trying to trap Matthew. Makes you wonder if she picked it up on her own—or inherited it."

Eyes flickered toward the far end of the room, landing on Scarlett’s mother, Emily.

Emily’s face went pale, ashen with humiliation. One quick glance toward her daughter was all she could manage before she lowered her head, lips trembling as she sunk her teeth into the soft flesh inside her cheek to keep quiet. She dared not utter a word in defense of either of them; their position within this household was already precarious.

Scarlett had always felt like an outsider in this family, ever since she and her mother moved into the estate after Emily married Matthew’s older brother. Technically, she should have called Matthew "Uncle," but she never did. She never felt she had the right to address him at all.

In her previous life, Scarlett had been crushed by the weight of these accusations, bowing her head and apologizing—an apology that was taken as her acceptance of guilt. The scandal snowballed, culminating in her pregnancy, which ultimately forced Matthew into marrying her. The union brought nothing but loathing, both on his end and from those looking on, with the entire city branding her a manipulative woman who had clawed her way into wealth and power.

But not this time.

Scarlett swept her eyes across the room, taking in the expectant faces of the Hartman family with quiet resolve. Gone was the fear that had paralyzed her before. She felt a different strength coursing through her veins now, urgent and undeniable. Her lips parted, ready to speak—

But the sound of steady, measured footsteps halted her.

The room fell into silence, save for the heels’ rhythmic click against the tiled floor. Around her, shoulders straightened and heads turned, all eyes collectively drawn to the figure entering the room. Even Frank’s stern expression softened, his hands clasping the tea cup before him.

Matthew walked forward, his presence commanding attention; his motion fluid, as though bred from years of privilege. Tall and striking, his profile passed by Scarlett without so much as a glance, leaving her frozen in place. From his arm, the butler gently took a tailored coat before nodding deferentially and declaring, "Mr. Hartman."

Matthew replied tersely, nodding toward his grandfather at the head of the table before taking a seat. His movements were deliberate, every gesture laced with an air of authority.

Not once did his gaze flick toward Scarlett. To him, it seemed, her existence was negligible—a detail so insignificant it wasn’t worth examining.

But Scarlett’s gaze locked onto him, unwavering. She tracked every inch of his familiar form, every idiosyncratic detail etched into her memory from years past. And then, almost imperceptibly, his eyes shifted, dark and sharp, cutting toward her like blades.

And just like that, the memories surged.

In an instant, fear gripped her—the instinctive recoil of prey sensing a predator. Her hands clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms, almost cutting skin. Familiar coppery warmth seeped into her mouth, her teeth biting down reflexively until she tasted blood. Try as she might, she couldn’t tear her focus away.

She would never forget that face.