Charlotte was drained.
Not just physically—but emotionally, mentally, existentially drained.
She lay on her bed, still in her robe, the weight of the day pressing down on her like bricks.
I don't think I'll be able to attend the banquet…
But then reality hit her like a cold slap across the face.
David and Melody Rosewood will be there.
The mere thought of them made her stomach churn.
Ugh. So annoying. I can't skip. Not unless I want to deal with that kind of drama later… and honestly, I'm not emotionally built for it tonight.
She dragged herself to her wardrobe, staring at the rows of designer gowns. Options? Too many. Patience? None.
Pastel pink? No. Too sweet.
Black? Overdone.
FUCK IT—forest green it is.
She slipped into the gown, the silk wrapping around her like second skin. It shimmered darkly, like an emerald in shadow. She did her makeup—smoky eyes, matte lips—and styled her hair into effortless, loose waves that framed her face like she'd stepped out of a Vogue editorial.
She looked in the mirror.
LOOKING LIKE A FUCKING WHOLE MEAL.
That wasn't vanity.
That was survival armor.
Moments later, chaos entered—on cue.
Melody burst into the room, nose high, attitude higher.
"Your dress looks shitty, Charlotte," she said with that trademark sneer.
Charlotte didn't even blink. Her voice was cold, unmoved.
"Look at yourself before commenting on someone else's dress."
Melody's mouth twitched.
"Whatever. We're late because of you. And no matter what you wear, your ugly face will never let you look beautiful. You fucking daughter of a mistress."
Charlotte smiled faintly.
"I really don't have the energy to argue with a spoiled, rotten brat. Let's go."
Banquet Hall: 9:30 PM
The room glittered like a chandelier had exploded and scattered elegance everywhere.
The moment Charlotte entered, it was as if the entire hall paused.
Eyes turned.
Whispers started.
She walked slowly, every step controlled, distant, untouchable.
She sat at a corner table, avoiding everyone and everything. The lights felt too bright. The music was dull. The conversation around her? White noise.
Then her stomach dropped.
Vincent.
There he was, walking in like he belonged, head held high, tailored suit clinging to him like entitlement.
What the hell is he is doing here!?
My siblings must have told him I'd be here. I swear…
She stood quickly, eyes darting away. She needed to vanish.
If he sees me, he'll cling. He'll nag. He'll manipulate. Just like before. I can't do that tonight. Not again.
But of course—he saw her.
Of all the people in this room, why did it have to be me?
Vincent's eyes locked onto hers.
He began walking toward her—purposeful, cocky.
Charlotte pivoted fast and walked in the opposite direction, slipping through the crowd like smoke.
Then—collision.
Strong hands caught her before she could stumble.
"Oh—are you alright, miss?" a calm, deep voice asked.
She looked up, still breathless. "Yes. I'm sorry... I'm Charlotte. Charlotte Rosewood."
The man smiled. Polite. Curious. Dangerous.
"Ah, from the Rosewood family—Rosewood winemaker and Rosel Opera Hall?"
She nodded. "My brother owns the winemaker . The Opera's my sister's. I just have the highest share in both."
The man held her gaze, then offered a hand.
"Sebastian Ellington."
Charlotte froze for half a second.
Wait… what?
Her mind raced.
This is Sebastian Ellington. The culinary king himself.
He wasn't just rich—he was untouchable.
He owned the biggest, most exclusive restaurant empire in the world. Maison Ellington wasn't a brand—it was a global empire. There was an Ellington restaurant in literally every country. Michelin stars followed him like shadows. His name echoed in the corridors of luxury, whispered with reverence by celebrities, CEOs, politicians—even royalty.
If you pissed off Sebastian Ellington?
You didn't just fall from grace. You disappeared.
And he's talking to me?
They chatted for 30 minutes—his questions light, yet probing. His interest was casual, but intense. Charlotte didn't know whether to be intrigued or annoyed.
Why is he talking to me like he's trying to read me cover to cover?
Across the room, Vincent stopped in his tracks.
His eyes narrowed as he watched Charlotte—his Charlotte—talking to Sebastian Ellington like they'd known each other for years.
He stepped forward—about to interrupt.
Then he paused.
The realization hit him like a cold punch.
That man is not just any man.
"That's Sebastian fucking Ellington."
Vincent swallowed.
His ego told him to keep walking, to reclaim what he believed was his.
But his instinct told him otherwise.
" if I mess with Ellington... I might not walk out of this banquet alive."
He stepped back slowly, pretending he'd just been going for a drink.
Charlotte didn't even notice.
Or maybe she did—and chose not to care.
"Charlotte! Are you serious right now?" Melody appeared beside her, her voice shrill and impatient. "Because of you we were waiting like ten freakin' minutes. Do you enjoy exhausting people?"melody says in a rude manner.
Charlotte blinked slowly, then turned toward her with zero expression.
"Yes, I'm coming, Melody."
She glanced back at Sebastian.
"Sorry—I have to leave. Goodbye, Mr. Ellington."
She walked away, her spine straight, face unreadable.
Later That Night
Charlotte returned home in silence.
She didn't bother with lights. She walked into her bedroom, kicked off her heels, peeled off her gown, and changed into a silk robe. Her makeup was smudged. Her hair was messy. But she didn't care.
She collapsed into bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Her mind raced.
Why was Vincent there?
He hates crowds. He hates banquets.
My siblings. They told him. I know they did.
And Melody... that little snake.
Her fists clenched the silk sheets.
Tomorrow. I'm done playing nice.
Tomorrow, we're going to the Opera.
And I'm taking back my story.
THE GRAND OPERA.
Let the revenge begin.