Chapter 6
"I understand." Gabrielle hung up, her fingertips ice-cold.
She stood by the roadside, watching the endless stream of traffic.
Mechanically, she hailed a cab and gave the driver the Robinson estate address.
The journey stretched endlessly. Outside the window, neon signs blurred past at breakneck speed, severing her completely from the city's glittering prosperity.
She leaned back exhaustedly against the seat, studying her reflection in the window—deathly pale, utterly lifeless. A profound sense of helplessness welled up inside her.
By the time she reached the Robinson estate, night had fallen completely.
The ornate wrought-iron gates stood open. The courtyard overflowed with luxury vehicles, ablaze with lights, laughter and conversation drifting from within.
As Gabrielle stepped from the cab, a sharp movement sent fresh agony tearing through her abdomen. She gripped the car door, steadying herself for several moments before managing to stand upright.
She still wore the cream-colored trench coat from this morning's courthouse visit—wrinkled at the hem now from sitting all day on those steps.
Utterly out of place amid such opulence.
She forced her leaden feet forward, step by agonizing step, toward that door symbolizing the Robinson family's authority.
Just as she reached the entrance, low laughter echoed from inside.
Before she could knock, the door swung inward. A servant carrying wine bottles emerged, freezing at the sight of Gabrielle. Undisguised contempt flickered across their face.
"Well, well, if it isn't Ms. Anderson." The servant looked her up and down, voice dripping with mockery. "What time do you call this? Everyone else arrived hours ago. What kept you?"
Gabrielle ignored the sarcasm, her voice flat. "Move."
The servant flinched at the icy authority in her tone, instinctively stepping aside.
Gabrielle walked through the foyer expressionlessly. The cacophony from the living room hit her full force.
The Robinson estate's banquet hall radiated extravagance—crystal chandeliers casting dazzling light, perfume and silk rustling as Robinson family relatives and business elite mingled over drinks.
As Gabrielle appeared, the atmosphere shifted subtly.
Those engaged in animated conversation turned their gazes toward her in unison.
"Look, isn't that Gabrielle?"
"How does she have the nerve to show up? I heard Mr. Robinson's been neglecting everything for Ms. Garcia."
"Tsk, dressed so shabbily. An absolute embarrassment to the Robinson family."
"Still not divorced yet, but already so utterly beneath notice. No wonder Mr. Robinson can't stand her."
The whispers pierced her ears like countless needles.
She straightened her spine, clinging to her last shred of dignity as she wove through the crowd toward the head table.
The moment she saw what awaited her there, her steps froze. The blood in her veins seemed to crystallize instantly.
Christian sat in the place of honor, stripped of his usual glacial remoteness.
He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his posture relaxed.
And beside him, Evelyn leaned intimately against his shoulder, wine glass in hand, face glowing with blissful contentment.
Evelyn wore a pristine white gown, blooming like a lily—pure and perfect, forming a stark contrast to Gabrielle's disheveled state.
Christian's arm rested naturally around Evelyn's waist, the gesture effortless, as if they were the world's most inevitable pairing.
He appeared to be listening to Evelyn speak, lips curved in a faint smile—that tenderness Gabrielle had never once glimpsed on his face.
Relatives clustered around them, offering flattery, clearly treating them as the Robinson family's future power couple.
Gabrielle stood a dozen feet away, an intruder stumbling into a fairy tale.
Christian seemed to sense something, turning his head slightly. When his gaze met Gabrielle's, the warmth vanished instantly, replaced by irritation.
"Why are you so late?" He frowned, voice cold. "Where are your manners?"
Evelyn followed his gaze, surprise flickering across her features when she spotted Gabrielle. Then she clutched Christian's arm, smiling coyly. "Christian, don't be harsh. This must be Ms. Anderson? I'm so embarrassed—I actually mistook you for household staff at the hospital."
Her words seemed perfectly innocent, yet every syllable reminded everyone present: Gabrielle was merely an unwanted interloper.
Gabrielle's lips twisted. "It's fine."
After all, in the Robinson family's eyes, she differed little from the servants.
Christian said nothing, simply turning his attention back to Evelyn.
That single gesture stabbed at Gabrielle's eyes.
She stood frozen, feeling like a circus clown performing for this carefully orchestrated gathering, surrounded by spectators and ridicule.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. That piercing pain kept her tethered to her last thread of consciousness.
This was his "more important matter."
She'd thought her heart had died long ago. But witnessing this scene firsthand, her chest still contracted uncontrollably.
The sensation felt like someone tearing open her wounds, pouring salt into them, then forcing her to smile through it all.
Christian, is this the ending you've chosen for me?
The banquet hall's crystal chandeliers refracted brilliant yet frigid light, illuminating the chattering guests like figures in a painting.
Evelyn stood beside Christian, that pristine white gown making her appear saintly and untouchable. Christian's protective hand at her waist blatantly proclaimed absolute possession and favoritism.
Compliments flooded in like tidal waves.
"Mr. Robinson and Ms. Garcia make the perfect match. Three years later, and their devotion remains unchanged. Truly enviable."
"Indeed. With Ms. Garcia's return, the Robinson Group must be celebrating double blessings."
These people made no effort to lower their voices, as if Gabrielle—the nominal "Mrs. Robinson"—simply didn't exist.
Christian merely gazed down at the woman beside him, lips curved in the faintest arc. He neither contradicted nor explained. His silence served as the ultimate endorsement of Evelyn's position.
Gabrielle stood at the crowd's periphery, that dragging ache in her abdomen surging again—like a dull blade slowly sawing through her insides.
Her face drained of color, that old trench coat painfully conspicuous amid the room's designer fashions.
