Chapter 5 Tearing Off the Mask, Revealing the Edge

Determination is a peculiar thing. Once it settles in the heart, it builds a wall of iron, shutting out all weakness, fear, and hesitation.

After that day, I remained silent, outwardly obedient. But I was no longer the same Sophia Lane who endured humiliation passively. My obedience had become my disguise—the best cover I could wear. Behind it, my eyes were open, calmly observing the world I was about to fight against.

And the opportunity came sooner than I expected.

The Caldwells hosted a grand business banquet, gathering nearly every elite in the city. As the nominal Mrs. Caldwell, my presence was required.

The day before, Vivian Caldwell had Mrs. Zhou deliver a dress—a dull, conservative gown, clearly chosen so I wouldn’t outshine anyone. I looked at the gown and, instead of meekly accepting as before, I said calmly, “Tell Mother, I already have a dress.”

Surprise and disdain flashed across Mrs. Zhou’s eyes, as if she thought I was bluffing. I gave no explanation.

On the night of the banquet, I descended the staircase in a black velvet slip gown I had found in a forgotten corner of the wardrobe—likely bought long ago by Ethan Caldwell and then forgotten. I heard sharp intakes of breath around me.

The gown wasn’t overly revealing, but its cut hugged my figure, highlighting every curve of my slender body. The dark velvet made my skin, pale from lack of sunlight, appear almost translucent. I wore no gaudy jewelry—only tiny diamonds on my ears, a faint sparkle, nothing more. I had done my own makeup, concealing exhaustion and emphasizing my best features, especially my eyes—no longer timid, but calm and steady.

Ethan’s gaze lingered briefly, surprise flashing before his expression froze into its usual coldness, tinged with displeasure at my defiance. Vivian frowned deeply.

Olivia Chen was there too. She wore a delicate pink gown, looking every bit the princess, standing at Ethan’s side with a gentle smile. But when her eyes met mine, a fleeting shadow of jealousy crossed her gaze, quickly smothered by her practiced smile.

Midway through the banquet, amidst the lively chatter and clinking glasses, Olivia approached me with a glass of red wine.

“Sophia, you look beautiful tonight,” she said warmly, her voice just loud enough for those nearby to hear. “But it’s so lonely standing here alone. Ethan really shouldn’t be so busy with business that he leaves you unattended.”

I nodded faintly, offering no reply.

She seemed unsatisfied, stepping closer as if to clink glasses. Suddenly, her wrist gave a delicate “slip,” and the wine threatened to spill down the front of my dress.

A trick she never tired of.

In the past, I would have panicked, retreating clumsily and embarrassing myself.

But not this time.

The moment her wrist moved, I stepped back swiftly and gracefully tilted my body aside.

“Splash—”

The red wine spilled across the carpet, only a few drops touching the hem of my gown—barely noticeable against the black velvet.

Olivia, having expected resistance, lost her balance instead. Her heel wobbled, and she nearly stumbled, looking far more awkward than me.

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to us.

Olivia’s face flickered with panic, but she quickly steadied herself. Her eyes filled with tears as her voice trembled:

“I’m sorry, Sophia, I… I didn’t mean it. The floor is slippery. I’ll buy you a new dress, alright?”

Her pitiful act drew sympathetic looks from those nearby, their eyes turning on me with silent reproach—as if I had bullied her.

Ethan hurried over, brows furrowed, ready to defend her.

But before he could speak, I did.

No panic. No grievance. Not even anger. My voice was calm, steady, almost cutting—and I spoke not in English, but in fluent, elegant French.

“Miss Chen, it’s only a dress. Just like some people—beautiful on the outside, but rotten within. That can never be hidden.”

(French original: “Ce n'est qu'une robe, Mademoiselle Chen. Tout comme certaines personnes, belles en apparence mais pourries à l'intérieur, cela ne peut être caché.”)

My words were neither rushed nor loud, yet they carried clearly through the room. Many of the guests were cultured enough to understand French.

In an instant, expressions froze—shock, disbelief.

Who could have imagined that the woman gossiped about as vulgar, silent, and unworthy of the Caldwell name could speak French so fluently, so elegantly? And her words—so sharp, so precise!

Olivia paled. She understood, her lips trembling, yet she had no retort. Her carefully crafted image of innocence crumbled against the weight of cultured wit and poise.

Even Ethan was stunned. His eyes locked on me with shock, as though seeing me truly for the first time.

The silence was broken by a laugh. An elderly man with silver hair, dignified and imposing, leaned on his cane and replied in French, his tone warm and approving:

“Well said! A fine quote indeed—‘beautiful outside, rotten within.’ This lady’s insight is truly remarkable.”

I recognized him. Mr. Renault, a major shareholder of a European luxury brand—and one of the most sought-after business partners of the Caldwell Group.

I turned to him, bowing slightly, wearing a poised smile, and answered smoothly in French:

“You flatter me, Mr. Renault. It was just a simple thought. I hope you won’t find it crude.”

“Oh? You know me?” His interest sharpened.

“Of course. Your speech at last year’s Paris Fashion Week, on ‘Tradition and Innovation,’ was unforgettable,” I said, my tone sincere, offering just the right detail.

Mr. Renault burst out laughing, delighted. He began conversing with me, and soon we were deep in discussion about French art and commerce. I responded fluently, confidently, with insights that drew his admiration.

The hall was silent.

Every eye was on us, watching in disbelief as the woman once scorned as a mere “placeholder” turned the tables in a moment—turning Olivia’s carefully crafted trap into a joke, and effortlessly capturing the attention and respect of the evening’s most important guest.

Ethan stood frozen, his expression darkening, eyes on me filled with shock, confusion, and perhaps… anger at being deceived.

But I didn’t look at him.

Because I knew—from this moment on, the game had changed.

I was no longer the woman waiting for judgment.

The real play had just begun.