Our Thirtieth Wedding Anniversary is His First Love’s Birthday

###Chapter 6

“Click.” The clasp of the necklace was yanked open.

The chain slipped free and was gently placed into Margareth’s palm.

“If you like it, wear it,” he said softly. “It was yours to begin with.”

Her fingertips brushed over the diamond, a radiant smile blooming on her face. Her gaze slid past his shoulder and landed on me—openly triumphant.

I stood there, my neck suddenly bare, nothing left but cold air against my skin.

When Margareth left years ago, she never once came back to see our parents. More than twenty years ago, when they died in a car accident, I called her in tears, begging her to return. But she refused to even attend the funeral.

She only said, “They were old anyway. People die sooner or later. Don’t interrupt my date with a handsome French guy.”

And now, she wore our parents’ keepsake around her neck, acting every bit the rightful heir of the Summers Family.

“Give it back!” I lunged at her.

Richard reacted instantly. He shifted to shield Margareth behind him and swung his arm, striking me.

I crashed to the floor. The wound on my hand split open again, beads of blood seeping out.

“It’s just a necklace.” He looked down at me, his eyes icy. “Are you done making a scene?”

Just a necklace?

When my parents passed away, I was devastated beyond words. He had personally put that necklace around my neck, knelt before their graves and sworn:

“Mom, Dad, don’t worry. I’ll protect Hermione for the rest of my life. If I break this oath, may heaven strike me down.”

His “lifetime” was laughably short. Before my parents were even laid to rest, he was already someone else’s husband.

I pressed my bloodied hand against the floor and struggled to stand.

“Richard, that was the last thing my parents left me!”

He looked utterly impatient. “Hermione, who are you putting on this hysterical act for? Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?”

Only then did I realize the doorway was crowded with whispering employees.

“She cheats and makes a scandal out of it and still has the nerve to come here and cause trouble?”

“Margareth is so elegant. She and Mr. Hawthorne are the perfect match. How could that old, washed-up wife compare?”

I opened my mouth to defend myself. “I didn’t cheat. I was framed!”

But my voice was weak and powerless, drowned out by even more contempt and speculation.

Suddenly, Margareth began breathing rapidly. One hand clawed at her own throat while the other pointed at the smashed honey yam cake on the floor.

“There are… peanuts in this… I’m allergic to peanuts… Hermione… knew…”

But she had never been allergic.

“Stop acting, Margareth!” I roared.

Richard’s eyes instantly turned bloodshot. The tip of his shoe slammed viciously into the shin that had once been broken.

“You vicious, poisonous woman!”

A piercing pain shot through me. I collapsed again beneath the desk.

There, crumpled at the corner, lay a wrinkled, semi-transparent lace bra. The stains on the cushion were exactly what I had thought…

Covering my mouth, I remembered a rainy night more than ten years ago. Richard had nearly been hit by a drunk driver.

Instinctively, I shoved him away. I was the one who got struck instead, my left leg fractured.

Ever since then, every damp and rainy day made the bone ache faintly.

Back then, he had stayed by my bedside for three days and three nights, heartbroken and devoted.

Now, he struck that very injury with precision—using it to trample me.

And while waiting for me to arrive, he had been that impatient.

Disappointment reached its limit. I lifted my head calmly.

“Let’s divorce, Richard. Oh, no need. Congratulations. You should give her the grand wedding she deserves.”

“Shut up!” he snapped like a beast whose tail had been stepped on, cutting me off in fury. “Stop using these ridiculous tricks to get my attention. Look what you’ve done to Margareth!”

Then, in a rush to carry the “allergic” Margareth to his private helicopter, he handled her with the utmost care—as if she were some priceless treasure.

“No one is allowed to disturb me!”

I watched as the helicopter disappeared toward the hospital. Then, limping, I walked out of the Hawthorne Group building. Every step felt like I was treading on knife blades.

No car would take me. The drivers recognized me. One even rolled down his window and spat in my direction.

“Old slut. Go look at yourself in a mirror.”

The setting sun stretched my shadow long across the pavement—long, cold and utterly alone.

I walked for five full hours. My feet felt like they were about to break before I finally made it back to that cold, luxurious “home.”

It was already pitch dark.

On the dining table sat a slice of Black Forest cake my grandson had left for me. Beneath it was a note:

“Grandma, take good care of yourself. Love you, Leo.”

Beside the words was a crooked little heart.

The freezing weight in my chest thawed by that tiny warmth, though only half.

I picked up a spoon. Just before it reached my mouth, a shrill ringtone exploded through the silence.

“Hello, is this Ms. Summers? This is the city police. We’ve been unable to reach your family. Please come to the station immediately.”

A sense of dread clenched around my heart.

“May I ask… what happened?”

As the officer’s words fell, a loud buzzing filled my head.

The cake slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.