Imperial City, the top-floor ballroom of a luxury hotel.

Tonight was Old Mr. Whitmore’s eightieth birthday banquet. Guests kept pouring in one after another, and just about every big-name businessman in the city had shown up. The whole place was buzzing.

Then, out of nowhere, a shrill scream tore through the evening air.

“Ah—!”

Everyone snapped their heads toward the sound. A flash of striking red dropped fast through their line of sight and plunged straight into the pool outside the hall, sending water crashing up in a huge splash.

The crowd gasped and rushed toward the pool all at once.

“Help me!”

The woman flailing in the water, struggling hard to stay afloat, had a face people recognized instantly the second it broke the surface.

“It’s the actress, Vivienne Lockwood!”

She was quickly pulled out of the pool. Her long hair was soaked through, clinging messily to her skin along with her evening gown. The night breeze brushed past, carrying a sharp chill with it. She hugged herself tightly, shivering all over, clearly still shaken.

Those tear-filled eyes of hers stirred up everyone’s protective instincts in a heartbeat.

“What happened?”

At the sound of that low male voice, the crowd immediately parted.

The man walking over wore a black suit. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and absurdly striking. High nose bridge, deep-set eyes, sharp features—his whole presence carried that cold, untouchable, keep-your-distance kind of vibe.

The moment Vivienne Lockwood saw him, the tears she had been holding back spilled out at once. Her eyes, full of grievance and heartbreak, slowly lifted toward the upper floor.

Everyone looked up with her.

On the balcony stood a woman with a cool expression, beautiful enough to make people pause even at a glance.

Someone recognized her.

It was Irene Weston, Julian Whitmore’s wife of three years.

The man’s expression turned dark almost instantly. His voice was icy, with anger barely held down beneath it.

“Irene, come down.”

Hearing him call her, Irene only shot him a cold look, her face unreadable, almost detached.

In the few seconds of waiting, Julian Whitmore frowned and glanced at Vivienne Lockwood, who was still trembling from the cold on the ground. Then he bent down, pulled her up, and took off his suit jacket to drape it over her shoulders.

Right then, Irene Weston, who had been strolling over at an unhurried pace, happened to catch the whole scene.

Her steps paused for just a beat.

Then she kept walking like nothing had happened, as if that tiny hitch in her stride had been nothing but an illusion.

She stopped in front of Vivienne Lockwood, lifted her pale hand, pinched the coat off the woman with obvious disgust, and then, right in front of everyone, deliberately let go.

The coat dropped straight to the floor.

As if that still wasn’t enough, she picked up a glass of liquor from the side and used it to rinse her hands, like she’d just touched something filthy and needed to disinfect on the spot.

That one move instantly set Julian Whitmore off.

He grabbed her wrist hard, his face dark as storm clouds. "Irene Weston, what exactly is your attitude?"

"What attitude do you think I have?" Irene’s voice was flat, calm, almost too calm. His anger didn’t stir even the slightest ripple in her expression.

At that moment, Vivienne suddenly spoke up, sounding like she was trying to smooth things over for Irene. "Julian, don’t blame Sister Irene. She didn’t mean to push me."

The second those words landed, every pair of eyes turned toward Irene.

She glanced around once and caught every single look in the room—the righteous outrage, the certainty, the way they had already decided she was guilty.

She missed none of it.

Irene curled her lips slightly. It was honestly ridiculous. Vivienne had tossed out one sentence, and everyone was already buying it.

Her voice turned cold. "So if you say I pushed you, that means I did? Who do you think you are? Your word some kind of royal decree? I’d feel gross just brushing against you, let alone pushing you. If you’re into jumping into freezing water and wrecking yourself, go ahead. But don’t throw your dirty water on me."

When Irene wasn’t smiling, she looked icy and distant, the kind of beauty that kept people at arm’s length.

But the moment she smiled, even faintly, she was stunning enough to make the whole room dim around her.

Yet in Vivienne’s eyes, that smile only brought fear.

Like she’d sensed some invisible threat, Vivienne shrank back and hid behind Julian.

Julian’s brows locked tightly together. To him, Irene was being unreasonable again, overbearing as always.

"Enough," he snapped, his tone sharp and cold. "How long are you going to keep this up? If you didn’t push her, then what? She jumped in herself?

Who would risk their life just to frame you?"

When it came to dealing with Vivienne, Irene had a thousand ways to fight back.

A thousand ways to prove she was innocent.

But when it came to Julian, all she felt was tired. Powerless.

No matter what she did, in his eyes, she was just making a scene.

He had never believed her.

Not once.

At that moment, Irene Weston suddenly felt like the whole thing was pointless.

She didn’t want to keep arguing with Vivienne Lockwood anymore. She just quietly lifted her eyes and looked at Julian Whitmore.

"Julian Whitmore, I’ll say this one last time. I did not push her. She jumped in herself. Who do you believe?"

It was the first time Julian had ever seen Irene this serious, this steady. And for some reason, a wave of irritation rose in his chest.

Why was it always like this with her?

Why did she always have to stir something up, always have to push him?

Couldn’t she just keep the peace for once?

Today was Old Mr. Whitmore’s eightieth birthday banquet. The place was packed with guests. In a setting like this, Julian had no intention of humiliating Irene in public.

No matter what, she was still his wife.

He had to leave her some dignity.

Julian parted his lips, wanting to say, I believe you.

But before the words could come out, a sharp cry suddenly rang out behind him.

"Hiss—Julian, it hurts."

Vivienne shifted her foot slightly. At once, everyone could see that her entire ankle had swollen badly, bruised blue and purple, looking like it might even be fractured.

She swayed as if she couldn’t stand at all, then fell straight into Julian’s arms.

Julian reached out to steady her, his tone flat, neither warm nor cold. "I’m taking you to the hospital."

"Okay." Vivienne rested her face against the man’s chest. In the angle he couldn’t see, she curled her lips into a smug little smile at Irene.

That openly provocative look stabbed right into Irene’s eyes.

Seeing them about to leave, Irene lifted her gaze and stared at him, cold and sharp. "You’re choosing her, Julian Whitmore. Have you really thought this through?"

The pain hidden deep in her eyes made Julian pause for a second. His already furrowed brows tightened even more.

He shot her an impatient, chilly glance, mockery written all over his face. "Irene Weston, I’m cleaning up your mess."

"Today is Grandpa’s birthday banquet. Are you really set on leaving?"

She had thought that bringing up Old Mr. Whitmore would make him stay.

But clearly, she had still underestimated just how important Vivienne was in Julian’s heart.

Worse, those words only managed to irritate him all over again.

Julian took it as a threat from Irene and let out a cold, dismissive scoff.

Right there in front of everyone, he left while supporting Vivienne Lockwood.

Her husband, Julian Whitmore, walked away with another woman before the guests had even finished leaving, just like that, and left Irene Weston behind.

Feeling those looks from all around her—mocking, pitying, full-on gossip mode—Irene suddenly wanted to laugh.

But somehow, even though the curve of her lips looked like a smile, her chest felt heavy and bitter, like she was swallowing shards of glass.

Old Mr. Whitmore was helped over by someone at his side. His eyes were gentle, full of concern. "Child, come here. Walk with Grandpa and help me cut the cake, alright?"

His arrival gave Irene back at least a little of the dignity she had nearly lost.

She took a deep breath, forced herself to steady down, and tidied up every crack in her emotions. As if none of this had happened, she nodded and gave him a sincere smile. "Okay."

Old Mr. Whitmore lifted a hand to call her over, and Irene immediately stepped forward to support him. Guilt filled her voice. "I’m sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t manage your birthday banquet well."

"Who said you didn’t? It was handled just fine. A tiny incident happened, that’s all. No big deal." Old Mr. Whitmore raised his hand and patted the back of hers, quietly comforting her. Then he lowered his voice. "Don’t worry. Grandpa will stand up for you."

"Thank you, Grandpa." Irene nodded. Her nose stung, and she had to force the tears back down with everything she had.

In the Whitmore family, Grandpa was the only one who had ever truly cared for her.

Today was his eightieth birthday banquet. She shouldn’t cry, and she absolutely could not cry.

She was a daughter of the Hargrove family. She had her own pride, her own dignity. This would be the last time.

From now on, she would never give Julian another chance to trample over her again and again.

This time, she really needed to let go of that ridiculous attachment buried in her heart and choose to walk away.

After pulling herself together, Irene lifted a bright, harmless, genuine smile, as if nothing had happened at all. It was like she had become her old self again, her tone light and lively. "Come on, Grandpa, let’s go cut the cake."

"Grandpa, I got up super early to make this cake for you myself. You’re definitely going to love it."

"Hahaha, really? Then Grandpa has to taste it properly."

"Mhm!"

Through the entire birthday banquet, Irene stayed by Old Mr. Whitmore’s side the whole time. He did not say much, but with every small gesture, he made one thing clear—he was backing her up.

The guests who’d been whispering about her just moments ago instantly went mute, like none of it had ever happened. One by one, they put on those polished fake smiles and bent slightly to greet her.

Behind Irene Weston’s calm, graceful smile, there was still a trace of loneliness she couldn’t quite hide.

Julian Whitmore wasn’t there.

On the surface, the birthday banquet looked exactly the same as before. Same lights, same music, same crowd. But in truth, everything had already changed.

But so what?

Right now, she was still the Whitmore family’s granddaughter-in-law.

Through the entire banquet, Irene moved through the crowd with ease, handling every greeting and every exchange without a single slip. She was poised, steady, and impossible to pick apart. The wealthy wives who had looked at her differently earlier were now clearly changing their minds, their eyes carrying a little more approval, even a little admiration.

When the banquet finally ended, Irene politely declined Old Mr. Whitmore’s offer to stay the night at the family estate. Instead, she drove back alone to the home she had shared with Julian Whitmore for three years.

The house was cold and painfully quiet.

Even the staff had already gone to bed. At that hour, there was no one else in the huge house but her, and the emptiness made the place feel even more bleak.

She sat down on the sofa, drained to the bone, like every nerve in her body had been stretched too tight for too long. She picked up her phone, originally planning to call the man.

But the notification that popped up on the screen shattered the half-mended emotions she had barely managed to piece back together.

In an instant, everything cracked apart again.