11 The Victor’s Smile
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I watched as Alistair scooped Ivy into his arms and rushed out of my office, her blood–stained hand hanging limply over his arm. The door slammed behind them, leaving me in deafening silence.
My legs finally gave out. I collapsed into my chair, trembling hands covering my face. No tears came. Just emptiness and a hollow ache spreading through my chest.
The office phone rang, startling me. My assistant’s concerned voice filtered through.
“Ms. Shaw? Is everything alright? I saw Mr. Everett rushing out with-”
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, my voice steadier than I felt. “Hold my calls for the next hour.”
I hung up before she could respond and pulled my laptop closer. Work. I needed to lose myself
in work.
For the next three hours, I buried myself in design sketches and fabric swatches, forcing my brain to focus on hemlines and color palettes instead of blood–stained lips and accusing eyes.
My phone vibrated aggressively against the desk. Father. I stared at his name flashing on the screen, considering ignoring it. On the fourth ring, I picked up.
“What have you done?” His voice exploded through the speaker before I could even say hello.
“Hello to you too, Father.”
“Don’t get smart with me!” he shouted. “Ivy is in the hospital! They had to give her a transfusion!”
I gripped the phone tighter. “I didn’t touch her.”
“That’s not what Alistair said. He told me everything–how you shoved her to the ground in a jealous rage!”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Of course that’s what he said.”
“This isn’t funny, Hazel! Your sister could have died!”
“Step–sister,” I corrected automatically. “And I have security cameras in my office. Would you like to see the footage of what actually happened?”
He dismissed this with an impatient grunt. “It doesn’t matter what happened. She’s dying, Hazel. Dying! Could you show some basic human decency?”
The familiar pressure built behind my eyes. Always the same. No matter what Ivy did, I was always painted as the villain.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, suddenly exhausted.
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“I want you to apologize to your sister. And…” He paused. “They’re moving the wedding up. This Friday.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. Three days from now.
“The doctors say she doesn’t have much time left,” he continued. “They want to make sure she gets her final wish.”
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“Ivy still wants you there. As the officiant.””
I nearly dropped the phone. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious. She wants you to be the one to marry them.”
The cruelty of the request stole my breath. It wasn’t enough that she’d taken my fiancé, my wedding dress–now she wanted me to personally hand him to her.
“No,” I whispered. “I won’t do it.”
“Damn it, Hazel!” His voice rose again. “Why must you always be so difficult? She’s dying!”
“So you keep reminding me.” My voice hardened. “But dying doesn’t give her the right to torture
me.”
“It’s just one day. One hour, really.” His tone shifted, becoming wheedling. “Do this one thing for your family.”
Family. The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
Then, an idea formed. “You want me to do something for family? Fine. I want something in
return.”
“What?” His voice was immediately suspicious.
“Mom’s shares in Shaw Designs.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Those shares belong to the family,” he finally said.
“They belonged to Mom. And she wanted me to have them.” I pressed harder. “You’ve kept them from me for years.”
“You’re blackmailing me? Using your dying sister’s wish as leverage?”
“Just using the situation to my advantage. Isn’t that what you taught me?”
More silence. I could practically hear him calculating, weighing his options.
“Fine,” he finally spat. “The shares for your participation. I’ll have the papers drawn up.”
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11 The Victor’s Smile
“I want them signed before the ceremony.”
“You really are your mother’s daughter,” he said, disgust dripping from every word. “Cold and calculating.”
“Good,” I replied. “Then we have a deal.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, tossing the phone onto my desk. A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Friday arrived with brutal swiftness. I stood in the hospital chapel, wearing a simple black dress that felt appropriate for what was, to me, more funeral than wedding.
The door opened, and my stepmother entered, her face pinched with disapproval.
“There you are,” Tanya sniffed. “You could have worn something more cheerful.”
I stared at her, refusing to dignify that with a response.
“Ivy’s almost ready,” she continued, checking her watch. “She’s been dressed. The makeup artist is just finishing.”
“Where’s Father?” I asked.
“Bringing the papers you demanded.” Her lips thinned. “I hope you’re satisfied, holding your sister’s happiness hostage.”
“Those shares were legally mine years ago.”
Tanya waved a dismissive hand. “Always about money with you, isn’t it?”
Before I could respond, the chapel door opened again. My father entered, a folder tucked under his arm. Behind him came Ivy in a wheelchair, pushed by an attendant.
She wore my wedding dress. My custom–designed, hand–stitched wedding dress that I’d spent months creating. It hung loosely on her emaciated frame, the bodice awkwardly pinned to accommodate her much smaller chest.
For a moment, the sight was so surreal that I could only stare. The dress I’d created with such love and hope, now draped over the woman who’d stolen everything from me.
“The dress is too big,” Tanya complained, adjusting the fabric around Ivy’s shoulders. “It looks
terrible.”
“Maybe that’s because it wasn’t made for her,” I said coldly.
Tanya’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Watch your tone. This is your sister’s wedding day.”
“It was supposed to be mine.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
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“Hazel,” Father warned, stepping between us. He held out the folder. “The papers. Signed and notarized, as agreed.”
I took them, flipping through quickly to confirm everything was in order.
“Mom,” Ivy’s weak voice interrupted, “please don’t fight. Not today.”
I looked at her, really looked at her. Beneath the bridal makeup, her skin was ashen, her eyes sunken. She did look genuinely ill. But the slight curve of her lips held that familiar, calculating edge I’d grown to recognize over the years.
“Where’s Alistair?” I asked, tucking the folder into my bag.
“Getting ready in another room,” Father answered. “He’ll be here soon.”
Ivy reached a thin hand toward me, her diamond engagement ring–my engagement ring— glinting on her finger. “Thank you for doing this, sis,” she said, voice fragile but eyes sharp. “It means everything to me.”
I stepped just out of her reach. “I’m only here because of our agreement.”
“Still,” she persisted, “I’m grateful.”
Tanya fussed with the dress again. “This really does fit terribly. Couldn’t you have made something that would flatter her more?”
“Mom,” Ivy interrupted, her eyes never leaving my face, “it’s fine. I love wearing it.” Her lips curved into a smile that showed too many teeth. “Sis, thank you for making my dream come
true.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Not because of their surface meaning, but because of what lay beneath the absolute confirmation that this had all been deliberate. Each piece of my life she’d stolen was another victory, another trophy.
And looking into her eyes, seeing that victor’s smile, I finally understood what I was dealing with. Not just jealousy or spite, but something far more calculated.
I smiled back, a smile just as sharp as hers.
“You’re welcome, Ivy,” I replied softly. “But remember what they say about dreams coming true…” I leaned closer, keeping my voice just between us. “Be careful what you wish for.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her face.
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