Running Away from Marriage, Leaving Deception Behind

"Mom, I want to call off the wedding."

On the eve of her wedding, Hazel Bell called her mother, who was thousands of miles away overseas.

Her mother paused, stunned for a moment, but didn’t press her with questions; she knew her daughter all too well.

With a calm and reassuring tone, she readily agreed, "Alright. I’m getting older anyway, and this business will end up in your hands sooner or later. The sooner you come, the sooner you can adjust."

Hazel responded with a light laugh, masking the ache in her chest. But her eyes betrayed her, drifting toward the bridal suite.

Through the dim light filtering from the window, she could make out the shadows of two entwined figures; one was her fiancé, and the other, her stepsister.

She fought desperately to keep her composure, but her voice betrayed her, trembling with the faint trace of a sob.

Her mother sighed softly, a weight of shared pain in her words.

"I thought he was different. I didn’t expect him to walk the same path as your father and me. It’s alright, Hazel. You’re still young. I’ll be here waiting for you."

After a few quiet words, they ended the call.

Hazel crumbled onto the side of the road as the silence wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. The dam she had held back burst, and her sobs spilled into the quiet night.

The moonlight poured over her, its cold brilliance amplifying the ache in her heart.

——

Before tonight, she had clung to the belief that Ambrose was different.

They had grown up side by side, their bond unshaken, and their relationship officially sealed when they turned eighteen.

Ambrose Wright, born into a distinguished family of scholars, carried himself with effortless grace, his charm and refinement setting him apart.

As the heir to the Wright legacy, he exuded a maturity that set him apart from his peers.

In their ten years together, not once had they quarreled. Ambrose treated Hazel with tenderness and indulgence that bordered on devotion, as though he were the steady, protective older brother she could always rely on.

He showered her with gestures that spoke louder than words, lavish bouquets that filled entire car trunks, glittering jewels piled in velvet cases, and an unwavering willingness to grant her every wish.

To everyone who knew them, Ambrose’s quiet acts of devotion were proof of a love so profound it required no grand declarations.

They were the golden couple of their circle, envied and admired equally.

But that night, at what should have been the pinnacle of her happiness, Hazel’s ten-year dream came crashing down at their engagement party.

Ambrose had invited Hazel's stepsister, Scarlett Jones, the one person she wished to banish from her life forever.

The moment Scarlett appeared, memories Hazel had buried deep came rushing back like a relentless tide.

She remembered how Scarlett and her mother had tormented her endlessly, their cruel words and actions driving Hazel’s mother to the edge of despair.

She recalled the years of torment and humiliation she had suffered, the scars they left behind still aching like fresh wounds.

For once, Hazel, who was always calm and composed, let her emotions take over.

Her usually soft voice now carried a sharp edge as she demanded Scarlett leave.

But Scarlett, ever calculating, refused to back down. She invoked her mother’s name, a taunt that cut Hazel to the core.

Their heated exchange spiraled out of control, turning the engagement party into an utter spectacle of chaos.

Hazel instinctively turned to Ambrose for support, but his hand struck her cheek with a resounding slap before she could utter a word.

“Go home and sober up if you’re drunk. Stop making a scene! Look at yourself; how could you ever expect to be the future mistress of the family?”

His cold words stung far worse than the slap, but the pain didn’t end there. Her father, instead of defending her, added fuel to the fire.

“Your sister just returned, and this is how you treat her? Where’s your dignity as the elder sister? If your Aunt Althea takes offense at this, I won’t forgive you!”

The crowd stood silently, their eyes fixed on Hazel as the two men berated her mercilessly. Every word felt like a dagger, stripping away the last shred of her composure.

Then, as if to twist the knife deeper, Ambrose turned his back on her, escorting Scarlett away without a glance in her direction.

Left alone to endure the whispers and scorn of the onlookers, Hazel felt the humiliation seep into her very bones. Her face burned crimson, though whether from the alcohol or the unbearable shame, she couldn’t tell.

Without a word, she fled the engagement party, her footsteps echoing like a desperate escape into the night.

It was nearly impossible to hail a cab at this hour. After wandering through the deserted streets for over three hours, the cold wind gnawed at her skin and left her head pounding. Eventually, she stumbled her way back to Belmont Villa.