Shattered Jade, Broken Ties

The autumn night in S City carried a chill, yet the penthouse banquet at the financial center was warm and vibrant. The light from the crystal chandelier danced across the champagne tower, making my head spin. My fingers clutching the gilded wedding Invitation Card went slightly white, the patterned edges worn soft from my touch. This was my third time at a Thompson family party; the first two I was just an accessory to Cyril Thompson, but this time, things were different. I took a deep breath and stepped beside the champagne tower, pretending to fix my dress while actually waiting for the Thompson brothers. "Isn't that Fiona Ivens? What is she doing here?" "I heard she left the Thompsons ages ago—how dare she show up at an event like this?" The whispers around me stabbed into my ears like needles. I straightened my spine and didn't look back. As soon as the Thompson brothers appeared at the revolving door, the murmurs immediately died down. Wesley Thompson wore a sapphire blue suit, his hair slicked back meticulously. When he reached me, a familiar smirk curled at his lips: "Fiona, haven't you already overstayed your welcome at the Thompson family's doorstep? Or is it that once you're out, you can't even get into these kinds of party anymore?" I handed over the invitation card, deliberately keeping my fingers away from his. "I'm only here to deliver the invitation—nothing else." He glanced at the Invitation Card inscribed with "Groom: Gene Charles," then suddenly threw his head back, laughing loudly enough to draw everyone's attention: "Gene Charles? The Charles Family from A City? You really think he'd marry you? Don't fool yourself—he's just toying with you!" Cyril beside me stayed silent. Dressed in a dark gray suit, he appeared more mature than three years ago, yet when his eyes landed on the jade pendant at my neck, they still held that old complexity. The jade pendant was a warm white, its edges worn smooth by my touch, with a tiny "Fiona" character delicately carved in the center. On that rainy night three years ago, he stacked all my law books in the empty yard behind the Thompsons' house. The flicker of the lighter cast shadows on his face as he said, "Stop dreaming about becoming a lawyer; wouldn't it be better to stay with the Thompsons and keep quiet?" I lunged forward to grab the books, but he blocked me. As the flames licked the pages, he pulled this jade pendant from his pocket and tossed it to me: "This is your compensation; don't ever mention being a lawyer again." I clutched the pendant tightly, my nails digging into my palm, blood dripping onto the jade before I wiped it clean. At that moment, Wesley suddenly snatched the invitation card from my hand and, without even glancing at it, threw it fiercely into the nearby silver trash bin. He grabbed my wrist with such force that I winced, and said, "The Thompsons have raised you for over ten years, fed you, clothed you, and yet you still try to climb higher? Heartless creature!" Cyril spoke up as well, his voice tighter than usual: "Fiona, don't make a scene. If you have something to say, let's talk in private." I glanced up at him briefly, then answered calmly, "Cyril, there's nothing for us to discuss." Wesley, angered by my attitude, immediately reached into my pocket—knowing I always carry a spare invitation card. With a ripping sound, he tore the spare invitation card into pieces. The scraps of paper drifted onto the tips of my black high heels, like shattered snowflakes. "If Gene truly recognized you as his wife, then let him come right now!" He flung the torn paper at my face. "Who do you think you are? Nothing more than an orphan picked up by the Thompsons!" I swallowed my anger and looked up, just as the revolving door swung open again. Gene Charles stood tall in a black suit, flanked by two assistants, his presence instantly silencing the entire room. He walked through the crowd at an unhurried pace, yet everyone instinctively stepped aside to clear his path. When he reached my side, he naturally slipped his arm around my waist, the warmth of his palm pressing through the dress, loosening the tight knot in my chest. "Wesley Thompson," his eyes locked on Wesley's face, calm but charged with a quiet menace, "how dare you touch my wife?" Wesley's face flushed immediately. He likely hadn't expected Gene to actually come and stammered, "Gene! Do you even know who she is? She's just a..." "She's my legally wedded wife, the wife of Gene Charles." Gene cut him off, raising his other hand to gently stroke my reddened wrist with his fingertip. "Where exactly did you touch her just now?" Cyril took a step forward, his voice pleading, "Mr. Charles, this is all a misunderstanding. For my sake, please let it go." "Since when does the Charles family need to spare your feelings?" Gene's cold sneer was icy. He turned to Cyril and said, "Or has Mr. Thompson forgotten who, three years ago on that rainy night, was in the Thompson backyard burning all of Fiona's law books?" Cyril's face went suddenly pale, his lips moving slightly, but no words came out. This reunion isn't about me clinging on; I've come to say goodbye. Goodbye to the Fiona who lived under the Thompsons' roof like a stranger, whose dreams were cruelly burned away.