A PUBLIC INSULT

Giselle's POV

The glass of whiskey she had been holding tipped forward, its contents splashing all over her pristine white dress.

“Oh, my dress!” she shrieked, her voice carrying through the room like nails on a chalkboard. Heads turned, and suddenly all eyes were on us.

I blinked, trying to process what had just happened. The woman was tall, impeccably dressed, and radiated an air of self-importance that could rival my mother-in-law’s. Her sharp, accusing eyes bore into me as she clutched her now-ruined dress.

“Watch where you’re going, maid!” she snapped, her voice dripping with disdain.

Maid?

Her words cut through the fog in my mind like a knife. Slowly, the shock of the moment gave way to anger. I straightened, meeting her glare with one of my own.

“You did that yourself,” I said, my voice steady but cold. I gestured to the whiskey dripping down her dress. “You bumped into me. I'm Patrick's wife and not a maid.

The woman's stunned expression only lasted for a moment before another woman standing next to her stepped forward. She was just as well-dressed, with an air of arrogance that rivaled the first.

“You?” she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Mr. Hilton’s wife? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The two women exchanged a look and burst into laughter, their mocking tones echoing around the hall. My cheeks flushed with heat, a mix of anger and humiliation washing over me.

I clenched my fists, trying to stay composed, but their laughter felt like daggers to my already fragile heart. My mind was racing, my throat tightening with unshed tears.

Before I could respond, a voice cut through the commotion.

“Oh, Miss White, relax,” came the sharp, dismissive tone of none other than Karen Hilton—my mother-in-law.

She appeared with two equally elegant women flanking her, their perfectly coordinated outfits and haughty expressions making them look like an entourage from an elite fashion magazine. Karen walked toward us with slow, deliberate steps, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Karen said, addressing the woman whose dress was stained with whiskey. Her tone was dripping with condescension, and it was clear she was more concerned with the woman’s dress than with me.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak. “I’m sorry, Mother,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been feeling really sick lately. I totally forgot it was your birthday today.”

Karen’s icy gaze shifted to me, and I felt the full weight of her disapproval. “Feeling sick?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Well, that’s no excuse for causing a scene.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said quickly, desperate to diffuse the situation. “I even designed a purse for you as a gift. I can go get it—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Karen interrupted, her tone curt. She turned slightly, gesturing to the woman at her side. “Becky’s Hermes bag is more than enough.”

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. I stood there, speechless, as the room seemed to close in around me. Karen didn’t even glance at me as she moved on, her attention already shifting to her guests.

Becky.

Of course, Becky.

Karen’s voice rang out, dripping with disdain, as she continued talking to me with a mocking smile. “I may be older, but I’m not desperate enough to carry around a cheap hand-made purse.”

Her words sliced through me, and I tightened my grip on the coffee cup in my hand, my knuckles turning white. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me, their judgment weighing me down like a heavy cloak.

I forced myself to respond, my voice trembling slightly but still holding onto a shred of dignity. “Mother, it was designed by Piper Windsor.”

The moment the name left my lips, Debbie Hilton, Patrick’s younger sister, let out an audible scoff. Standing beside Becky, the two exchanged a look that was almost gleeful in its cruelty before bursting into laughter.

Becky, with her perfect smile and air of effortless superiority, leaned closer to Debbie and whispered something that made them laugh even harder. My chest tightened as I watched the scene unfold, my humiliation mounting with every second.

Karen tilted her head slightly, her smile now resembling more of a smirk. “Giselle,” she said slowly, as if addressing a child, “you expect me to believe that Piper Windsor designed a purse for me?”

Karen Hilton’s eyes burned with a cold fury as she fixed her steely gaze on me, her voice slicing through the murmurs of the gathered guests. I could feel every unspoken slight, pressing down on my already shattered heart.

“You’ve been part of this family for years,” Karen continued, her tone as sharp as shattered glass, “and you can’t even give me a grandchild. You don’t have a proper job, and all you do is add to my stress. Patrick has taken the company public, yet I still don’t understand why he married someone as useless as you.”

 Before I could gather my trembling thoughts, a refined voice, laced with incredulity and disdain, cut through the tense silence.

“Wait, she really is Mr. Hilton’s wife? Damn, he is way out of her league,” declared a woman nearby, her tone dripping with sarcastic admiration as if I were an unwitting novelty on display. Her words made a few heads turn, and I sensed a ripple of amusement from those who were all too happy to indulge in this scandal.

another voice, equally crisp and judgmental, interjected with mocking disbelief.

“Is that what she’s wearing for her mother-in-law’s birthday?” The comment, seemingly casual, stung like acid, forcing me to glance down at myself, a look I had once taken pride in, only to now feel like a tragic costume in someone else’s face.

Swallowing hard and fighting to regain some composure, I turned to my imperious mother-in-law with a tremor in my voice.

“You really think Patrick took the company public all by himself?” I asked, each word laced with a bitter edge of accusation and defiance. I could feel every pair of eyes in the room fix on us,

Karen’s face contorted with a mix of disbelief and derision. “Oh, so now you’re saying you help him?” she snapped, her voice rising as if to drown out any excuse I might offer.

Before I could muster a retort, Karen’s tone shifted abruptly, her words becoming as chilling as they were final. “Ah, I have had enough of this charade. Becky is the daughter-in-law I’ve always wanted. She is the ideal heiress, perfect for Patrick and a hundred times better than you. And most importantly, she’s carrying the Hilton heir.”

At that moment, I watched in numb horror as Becky, Patrick’s childhood friend turned paramour and now the woman expected to secure his legacy, lightly placed her hand on her rounded tummy. Her smile was warm, almost maternal, as if to punctuate Karen’s cruel declaration with an image of domestic perfection—a stark contrast to the shattered life I now led.

The laughter that followed from a few corners of the room was not one of shared joy, but of malignant triumph. It echoed in my ears, each chuckle a reminder of my isolation in a family built on appearances and power. The more I listened, the deeper the pit in my stomach grew, swallowing every ounce of hope I might have clung to.

 Karen’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper that sent shivers down my spine. “So do us a favor and divorce Patrick.

The words hung in the air, a decree from the woman whose approval I had desperately craved and whose rejection I now bore like a scar. My heart pounded in disbelief, my mind struggling to catch up with the cascade of accusations and revelations.

My voice, when it finally emerged, was barely audible, laced with shock and wounded fury. “You knew about the affair the whole time and you didn’t tell me? How could you?”

I squared my shoulders, trying to find the remnants of strength that had once carried me through life’s storms. With a ragged breath, I continued, my voice trembling with equal measures of defiance and sorrow.

“When the Hilton Group was facing that financial crisis—when everything was teetering on the edge—I was the one who stepped up. I kept you all afloat. Without me, you’d all be bankrupt by now.”

My words rang out across the hushed crowd, and for a split second, I felt as though I had reclaimed even a tiny piece of my shattered dignity. I looked around, expecting to see even a flicker of admiration, but instead, I was met with sneers and cold stares.

“Are you serious?” snapped one of the women from the family circle, her voice dripping with contempt. Patrick’s sister, Debbie, her eyes glimmering with bitter amusement, leaned forward as if to punctuate her scorn. “You’re just a small-town girl with no money, no degree. nothing. How dare you say you saved the Hilton Group? I replied, "You're lucky I married Patrick; otherwise, you’d never even be allowed near me, let alone to be in my presence.”

I forced myself to move. With every agonizing step, I tried to put as much distance as possible between me and the suffocating crowd. My wounded hand stung with each movement, and yet I had no choice but to press forward. I had to leave this charade behind.

I turned a corner along a quieter corridor of the mansion, I felt a firm grip on my arm. I froze. Looking up, I met the icy glare of Becky. Her expression was unreadable now, a warped mixture of satisfaction.

With venom in her tone, she hissed, “It is clear now that Patrick doesn’t love you or need you. Thank you for taking care of Patrick for the past three years. Patrick was never yours, he’s always been mine.” Her eyes burned with an emotion I couldn’t decipher, but the words that followed stung all the more.

“He's only with you to satisfy his grandfather’s wishes, he doesn’t love you, only me. If I hadn’t left the country, you’d never even have had the chance to be Mrs. Hilton. I replied, "You and Patrick are nothing but a bad match, you can have him.

 I tried to pull away, but her grip tightened on my arm. In a sudden, wild motion, she seized a nearby glass of wine from a table. Before I could process her intent, she poured the contents over herself, the deep red liquid cascading down her designer dress in a grotesque display of defiance. With a furious cry, she hurled the empty glass onto the polished floor, where it shattered, sending shards of crystal skittering in all directions.

In one swift, brutal motion, Becky shoved me. I staggered backward, my body colliding with the jagged remnants of broken glass. A sharp, burning pain exploded in my hand, I cried out as the cold, hard pieces dug into my skin, and I fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and despair.

I felt a gentle but insistent tug on my arm. I attempted to rise, but then I heard muffled cries behind me. I turned my head to see Becky, her face contorted with a mix of anger and tears, her body trembling as if overcome by guilt. She began to cry, an anguished sound that barely registered over the chaos of the moment.

Then, like a sudden break in the storm, I heard footsteps pounding across the polished floor.