"Sarah, my daughter, aren't you going to introduce your husband to your old man?" rang out a voice from behind, deep and sharp with authority.
Sarah turned at once, her spine instinctively straightening as she recognized the speaker. Her father, Mr. Whitmore, was standing just a few steps away, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his expression stern yet unreadable. Beside him stood Mrs. Whitmore, her stepmother, exuding cold elegance, her lips pressed into a thin, judgmental line.
Sarah's stomach tightened.
There was something about that woman that had always unsettled her. Since childhood, Mrs. Whitmore had perfected the art of false affection—smiling sweetly in front of Mr. Whitmore, calling Sarah her "precious girl," only to show blatant favoritism to her own daughter, Clara, the moment his back was turned. The air around her always carried quiet malice, wrapped neatly in silk and perfume.
Mark watched the exchange carefully, his gaze fixed on Mr. Whitmore. So this was the man who had tried to sell his daughter off like a bargaining chip. The same man who viewed marriage not as love, but as a transaction. Mark's eyes narrowed slightly.
Sarah's lips curved into a polite, practiced smile, though the spark in her eyes revealed more than she said.
"You're just too impatient, Father," she said smoothly. "You didn't have to come all the way here just to see your son-in-law. I was going to bring him home for your blessings."
She deliberately emphasized the words son-in-law, making sure every syllable carried weight. Her tone was respectful, but there was defiance underneath—measured, pointed.
Mr. Whitmore said nothing. His gaze shifted slowly to Mark, assessing, dissecting.
Then, Mrs. Whitmore spoke—her voice calm, controlled, and soaked with judgment.
"Sarah, why did you get married behind our backs," she said, pausing long enough to look Sarah up and down before continuing, "when your father had already chosen a man for you to marry?"
She let the question hang in the air, heavy with implication.
"You could have lived your whole life in comfort," she went on, eyes glinting. "If only you had married the man your father chose for you. Why make your life hard by marrying a beggar? You'll have to work your whole life in that small company of yours while providing for this man."
There it was—laid bare for everyone to hear.
Sarah's jaw clenched, but she didn't let her smile slip. She stood taller, fingers gently brushing against Mark's as if to draw quiet strength from his presence. Mark didn't flinch at the insult. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes—cool and calm—held the sharpness of someone who had already seen the worst of people and had come out stronger.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I let you down," Sarah said, then paused briefly before continuing, her voice firm yet sincere. "But I prefer love marriage over arranged marriage. I love my husband. I don't care how hard I'll have to work at my small company—as long as I come back home seeing the handsome face of my lovely husband and the aroma of delicious food, that's all I can ask for."
She said it while looking straight into Mark's eyes, completely ignoring everyone else in the room. For a moment, silence fell—Sarah's words hanging in the air like a quiet explosion.
Mrs. Whitmore was speechless. She had tried to make Sarah feel ashamed, tried to guilt her into questioning her choices. But it had completely backfired. Sarah didn't seem to care at all. Her peace—her love—was untouchable.
Then, with deliberate ease, Sarah turned back to her stepmother. "But there's still Clara, Mom." Her tone was deceptively light. "You can marry Clara to the man Father arranged. That way, she can live the rest of her life in comfort."
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes narrowed, and Clara stiffened immediately.
"Sarah, how can you say that?! Don't you know I'm already engaged?!" Clara erupted, stepping forward with flushed cheeks and raising her hand to show her engagement ring.
It was true. Clara had been engaged for years. But how could she accept marrying the man their father arranged? He was an old man—bulky, with yellow teeth and a stinking mouth. Even the thought made her skin crawl.
Sarah turned to her with a dry smile. "Clara, it's been four years since you've been engaged. Your fiancé hasn't even been in the country for four years. Don't you know he has no plans to marry you? Who stays engaged for four years?"
Clara's breath caught. "Sarah, are you cursing me?!" she shouted, her voice rising in both anger and desperation. Even though what Sarah said was true, Clara didn't want to believe it. She couldn't.
The man she was engaged to had gone abroad for studies. His return had been delayed once, then twice. Two years past the original date, and still no sign of him. Every time Clara tried to reach out, he gave vague excuses, claimed he was "busy," and barely answered her calls. He hadn't sent her a single clear message of commitment in years.
And now, with Sarah's words piercing through her fragile hope, Clara felt exposed—cracked open in front of everyone.
"Enough, you two!" Mr. Whitmore's voice cut through the room like a blade. All eyes turned to him.
"How can you even bring out our family business into public like this?" he barked, his face a mixture of fury and embarrassment.
But he had forgotten something important—it was his beloved wife who started it. She had been the one to bring up the arranged marriage, clearly hoping to shame Sarah in front of the elite crowd. Sarah hadn't planned to expose anything. She was just defending herself, responding to the blow she'd been dealt.
"That's why I said you could have waited until I brought my husband home, Dad," Sarah said, her voice calm but firm.
The murmurs around the hall grew louder. Now it made sense. People were beginning to connect the dots. Sarah hadn't just married a beggar for no reason—there had been a man already chosen for her. A wealthy man, no doubt. But she had rejected him. She'd walked away from a life of comfort and luxury… and chosen love.
It turned everything they thought they knew upside down.
Just as the tension in the room seemed ready to boil over, a composed voice rang out, authoritative yet warm.
"Okay, everyone—let's not make a scene."
Heads turned. Standing near the marble staircase was Mayor Anthony Wexley, tall and dignified in his dark suit, a soft smile on his face.
"Almost everyone is here, and the auction will begin shortly. Let's remember why we're gathered tonight—to give hope to sick children. Let's focus our energy on bidding generously and making a difference."
The room shifted. Conversations changed direction. Faces straightened, and a hum of polite agreement floated in the air.
Guests began moving toward the mayor, eager to greet him.
"Mr. Wexley, it's an honor."
"Mayor, thank you for hosting such a meaningful event."
"We're looking forward to the auction."
The mayor shook hands, nodded gracefully, and exchanged brief words of gratitude with each person. A few socialites took the chance to snap discreet photos with him, while others tried to charm him into pleasant conversation, hoping their influence would be remembered.
The earlier drama hadn't entirely faded—it lingered in the air, tucked between glances and whispers—but with the mayor's timely interruption, the evening's mood began to realign itself. The focus was shifting back to charity… at least on the surface.
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