A Poisoned Script Conceals a Trap

Selena's POV

Kane pulled me aside, his posture suggesting he was attempting to explain himself.

"Selena, are you still angry with me?" he said urgently, leaning in close. "I didn't reply to your messages the other day because my father suddenly required me to attend a dinner party, and phones weren't permitted. I didn't mean to ignore you—will you let me explain?"

How would the old me have responded? I probably would have softened immediately, touched that he was willing to explain. Or perhaps I would have said a few petulant things to make him coax me.

But the current me only felt his urgency at a great distance. A distance that felt unreal.

"Mr. Ashford," I said calmly.

Kane looked at me with some bewilderment. He clearly hadn't expected me to use that form of address.

"You're overthinking this. I'm not angry, and I don't need an explanation," I said, moving past him with polite courtesy in my tone. "There's nothing between us that requires explaining."

When those words landed, I felt Kane's entire body stiffen.

There was something wounded in Kane's blue eyes. He had always been proud. Wherever he appeared, people always gravitated toward him—especially me. My emotions had always followed his lead.

And now, his emotions seemed to be affected by mine. I didn't quite understand why. But I had neither the time nor the inclination to think about such things.

At that moment, the old butler, Mr. Finch, approached me with his characteristically steady gait. He held an exquisite deep blue leather folder in his hands.

"Miss, this is what the madam has prepared for you—the memorial speech for Lady Eleonora."

I no longer paid Kane any attention. I turned and walked past him, heading toward the center of the banquet hall. As I brushed past him, my gaze once again met Damian's. He still stood in the same spot. Under his observation, I felt exposed from the tips of my hair to the heels of my shoes.

Rather, his very presence was a form of silent judgment.

I opened the speech folder Finch had handed me.

The second joke—here it came. The document that had made me a complete laughingstock in my previous life.

Familiar paper, familiar printed typeface. With just one glance, that burning pain in my chest began to throb again. Not a single word different. It was identical, word for word, to the speech that had nailed me to the pillar of shame in my past life.

In the script, the publication year of my mother's most famous masterpiece, the "Morning Mist" series, had been deliberately written incorrectly by two years. This was a fatal, elementary error for the heir of a jewelry dynasty. More malicious still, it twisted my mother's profound philosophy of "letting jewelry record life's moments" into "using the most expensive gemstones to display unparalleled wealth."

Between the lines, there was contempt and distortion of my mother's life's work, even interspersed with several highly inappropriate internet slang terms, designed to portray me as an uneducated, frivolous, shallow spendthrift who only knew how to flaunt wealth.

In my previous life, under the influence of drugs, my brain simply wouldn't obey me. I clearly remembered that when I stammered through this speech, the industry veterans in the audience—people who had been mentored by my mother—their expressions shifted from initial anticipation to shock, and finally to complete disappointment and contempt.

If my pathetic display of chasing after Kane for a text message response was merely a laughable romantic affair, then this public humiliation was truly the beginning of my complete social ruin. People could never forget how the useless Windsor heiress had brought shame to her mother.

"Selena," Vera approached me and reached out to adjust the hem of my black dress. Her movements were natural, like a real mother helping her daughter arrange her clothing.

"Don't be nervous when you go on stage," she bent down and whispered in my ear with familiar intimacy. "Just read according to the script. Even if you make a mistake, it's fine—everyone will be forgiving."

Forgiving. Every time I made a fool of myself, Vera would stand beside me smiling and say, "It's okay, everyone will be forgiving." She packaged all her indulgence as love, and lined all her traps with cushions.

Until one day, she told me that forgiveness had run out, and I should go to the sanatorium.

I looked up at her and gave her the smile she was most familiar with—one that mixed gratitude with a touch of foolishness. "Don't worry, Mom. I've looked at the script, it's really well written. I'll definitely read it properly." I even deliberately let my voice carry a trace of nervous trembling. "Tonight, I absolutely won't let Mother down."

Hearing this, the hint of doubt in Vera's eyes disappeared. She smiled with satisfaction, patted my shoulder affectionately, then turned and melted into the crowd of guests, her swaying figure full of a victor's composure.

The memorial segment for my mother officially began.

The lights in the banquet hall dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated the main podium. My father, Richard Windsor, as the current head of Windsor Jewelry, took the stage first. His speech was brief and respectable, yet it sounded like he was reading a script written by a secretary, containing no personal memories of his wife. He didn't mention her laughter, her habit of drawing designs late into the night, or how she drank her coffee without sugar, saying it kept her mind clear while designing.

He didn't even mention the "Morning Mist" series.

He had never loved Mother—this realization was clearer to me now than at any point in my previous life. My heart sank.

When the speech ended, polite applause rippled through the audience.

The host took the microphone and said in an emotional tone: "Thank you, Mr. Windsor. Lady Eleonora's life was legendary. Now, let us give our warmest applause to welcome Lady Eleonora's only daughter, the continuation of her talent and spirit—Miss Selena Windsor—to share her memories of her mother."

The entire room's attention surged toward me like a tide. The spotlight shone on me, blindingly bright.

I could sense that somewhere in the darkness below the stage, Lillian was standing there. In her hands, she must be tightly clutching another perfectly prepared backup speech. She was ready, just waiting for me to embarrass myself so she could come to the rescue.

I lifted the hem of my dress and walked up to the podium step by step. The sound of my heels striking the floor had, in the silent hall, taken on a rhythm like war drums.

Further back in a corner, Damian stood motionless, his calm gaze carrying an invisible weight, focused on the center of the stage.

I stood before the microphone and opened the speech. I cleared my throat and slowly, clearly, read out the first sentence on the page.

"My mother, Eleonora Windsor, was a great jewelry designer. Her most brilliant work was born in..."

My voice stopped abruptly there.

The entire banquet hall fell into an unusually heavy silence.