He gripped my shoulders, a flash of panic flitting through his eyes.
"What do you mean, 'forget it'? I said I'd punish the paparazzi. If you're scared, I'll assign more bodyguards to you, okay?"
Years ago, when the media slandered my parents, hounding them until their business collapsed, Joel had comforted me with these exact words.
He comforted me right up until the paparazzi chased their car off a bridge and into the sea.
Joel had stayed by my side for two months after the funeral.
I never suspected that he was the one holding the match that lit the fire.
Looking at his feigned concern now, a dull ache throbbed in my chest.
He stepped into his study to take a call. Through the door, I heard him scolding someone.
"Who told you to be so blatant? Get those reporters out of sight—don't push her too hard yet."
My face stayed blank.
It didn't matter what he was planning. I wouldn't be around to see it.
His tone shifted, becoming gentle. He was talking to Naomi.
Tomorrow was the company's new product launch. Naomi was hosting.
He coached her patiently on how to handle the cameras, reassuring her that she could leave the stage the moment she felt uncomfortable.
When *I* gave my first interview as Mrs. Mason, I mispronounced one word.
To "train" me, Joel forced me to stand under the strobe lights for twelve hours straight.
A dry laugh escaped my lips. I wiped a stray tear and continued packing my meager belongings.
The gown I had designed for the launch—a piece I spent half a month perfecting—went straight into the trash.
"Isn't that what you're wearing tomorrow?"
Joel's voice came from the doorway. "Why is it in the trash?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He reached into the bin, pulled out the silk gown, and inspected it.
"Luckily, it's not dirty."
He set up the ironing board and began pressing the fabric himself, meticulous and calm. "There. Wear this tomorrow. And remember—don't be late."
The launch event was a shark tank.
Hundreds of media outlets packed the venue. As the flashes erupted like lightning, my body went rigid. A stress reaction kicked in, my breath hitching in my throat.
Naomi Henson stood center stage, linking arms with Joel. Her poise was flawless; she looked like the mistress of the house.
When she spotted me, Naomi gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in exaggerated shock.
"Sister... how could you openly wear a plagiarized gown to such an important event?"