From a distance, I could already see the huge red banner hanging at her family’s front gate:
"Warmly Welcome Mr. Adrian Hughes, CEO of Hughes Group, to Pick Up His Bride!"
Beneath the banner, Sophie stood in a snow-white haute couture wedding gown, craning her neck expectantly for the groom’s arrival.
A group of our old high school classmates surrounded her.
"Sophie, you really kept this under wraps—only telling us at the wedding that your man is a billionaire!"
"Yeah, I heard Mr. Hughes is not only incredibly wealthy but also wields massive influence—no one dares cross him. You’re amazing to have landed a man like that!"
"Sophie, once you’re officially the billionaire’s wife, don’t forget your old classmates!"
Even our former homeroom teacher flattered her:
"Sophie, I knew from the first moment I saw you that you’d be destined for greatness."
"That’s why, even though your grades in high school weren’t great, I never criticized you—because I knew you were born for wealth, and grades wouldn’t matter for someone like you!"
Basking in their praise, Sophie’s lips curled high, her eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.
Adrian’s capabilities on his own were never that impressive.
If it weren’t for his marriage alliance with me, which made his rivals tread carefully,
he would have been torn apart long ago, down to the last bone.
Without that, he never would have been sitting in the billionaire’s chair.
I hadn’t expected this to become Sophie Lane’s newest trophy for showing off and soaking in praise.
The moment they saw me arrive, the same classmates who had just been fawning over her instantly frowned, their faces twisting with disdain.
One of Sophie’s little cronies spotted the car behind me and immediately sneered:
"Claire Bennett, ten years on the job and this is all you drive—a piece of domestic junk?"
The others burst into loud laughter.
"Hilarious! If I had to drive a trash can like that, I’d rather die!"
"But wait—why does her plate have so many zeroes? You can’t buy that kind of special number at any price!"
"Obviously a fake plate. Like she could ever have a license plate like that on such a beat-up car!"
"No wonder she dared to show up—she slapped a fake plate on it so she could pretend she’s somebody! This is killing me!"
Unmoved by their jeers, I said evenly:
"The plate is real."
"And this isn’t a junk car—it’s a government-issued armored Cadillac."