Chapter 8
For a fleeting second, silence stretched across the room. Dozens of eyes fixed on me, their stares sharp, probing, almost alien.
Did I suddenly become a stranger to them?
No. I had only revealed what Hazel—the original Hazel—was too cowardly to embrace. The hidden beauty she smothered under dullness and obedience now shimmered in the open. My hair glowed under the chandeliers, my dress clung like fire, my lips were painted with danger, and my eyes carried defiance.
They looked at me as though I had sprouted two heads. I almost laughed.
So this is what it feels like—to command attention. To stand at the center of the storm.
Not caring about their shock, I strode forward, using the original Hazel's memories to guide my steps. My destination was clear: Aaron Vernon, the man who once called himself my father.
He looked to be in his late sixties, features sharp but weathered, and beside him stood Sandra Azrael—or Sandra Vernon now. From mistress to wife, from shadow to queen, she stood tall in her silks, every glance dripping with false elegance. At her side, their omega daughters glared openly at me, sizing me up with envy that was painted across her entire face.
Makeup, fashion, poise—so little effort, and yet the difference was everything. Hazel had buried herself, but I had chosen to rise.
No wonder people crave glory. Being the center of attention—it was intoxicating.
I raised my glass and stopped before Aaron. My voice was calm, cool, sharp.
"I thought I was disowned. So why the sudden invitation?"
My words struck like a slap, and the crowd rippled with whispers. Was I being disrespectful? Disregardful? Maybe both. But I was not here to play by their rules. I was here to ruin their expectations, to ensure they hated my wild, untamed self enough never to drag me into their games again.
Aaron's lips tightened. His eyes flared. "Hazel, you've grown so brazen that you can now disrespect your father in—"
"Ex-father," I corrected smoothly, raising the glass to my lips and sipping slowly, deliberately, before beckoning him to continue.
But he fell silent.
Respect was wasted on someone who did not deserve it. He had let his real daughter die—so what duty did I owe him as a filial child?
The shift in the air was palpable. Admiring gazes and lustful stares melted away. Now, their faces twisted into disgust, contempt, mockery. Hazel's reputation was even more tainted than I'd imagined. Good. Let them choke on it.
I caught the vein bulging on Aaron's forehead. His face reddened with fury, yet he couldn't even find his voice.
Did my words cut him so deep that silence was all he had left?
"Hazel!! Please, don't make things hard for Papa. He's only looking out for you."
Lora's voice rang out, soft and concerned, dripping with fabricated filial piety. She stepped forward, her daisy pheromones cloying in the air. It was so strong, so unnatural, that I almost gagged. She had laced her pheromones with perfume. Cheap and desperate.
My lips curved. "If you want me to keep quiet, then let's get straight to the point. Otherwise, my loose mouth won't spare anyone."
I drained the wine and placed the empty glass on the table. A red lipstick stain smeared across the rim—like a scar, like a warning.
The murmurs grew louder. Whispers surged like waves. For once, I welcomed them. Better open gossip than false smiles in front of me and knives behind my back.
Then—gasps rippled through the hall.
The doors opened.
They walked in.
The four of them. My ex-soulmates.
Their entrance was dramatic, calculated, reminiscent of Gun Jun Pyo and his gang from Boys Before Flowers. The same arrogant aura. The same presence that demanded the world bend. Back in my previous life, that scene had made girls swoon in front of their screens. Now, it made my stomach twist with disdain.
Of course. They were always here—to play saviors. To stand as shields for their little princess in distress.
They carried smugness in their posture, even as they cloaked it in false solemnity. Pitiful.
Their gazes fell on me instantly, confusion flashing across their faces. They stared, trying to unravel who this unfamiliar beauty was. Desire flickered in their eyes, but hesitation drowned it. They did not know yet. They had not realized.
I almost trembled with anticipation. Wait until you learn who I really am. Not your sweet little omega. Not your fragile flower. But the villainess you cast aside.
Across the room, Lora and Lena stiffened. Their eyes blazed with possessiveness, as though they feared I might steal what they had chained down. Their predatory glares amused me. Were their men truly so weak that the sight of me rattled them? Or was I simply irresistible?
A wicked thought blossomed. My lips curved into a slow smirk as I tilted my head, bit my finger playfully, and winked. A seductive invitation.
"Hazel!!" Lena's shrill voice tore through the air, ringing with warning.
I cast her a lazy glance. Then my eyes slid back to the four men—yet instead of the reaction I had hoped for, I was met with bewilderment, shock, disbelief.
My heart sank with irritation. So this was wasted? My first attempt at wielding this body's allure squandered on confusion instead of hunger?
I sulked inwardly but refused to let it show.
Instead, I turned away, letting my voice cut the room once more.
"When I am not welcome in this family, why invite me? Do you like the chaos I bring? Fine. Then don't complain. I am an alpha, scheming, untamed, uncultured. I have businesses to handle—real things to do. Clubs to attend. Parties to grace. Forget this ex-daughter of yours and play house with your docile ones. I'm not interested in whatever pathetic scheme you're planning."
Gasps rose again, but I ignored them. My eyes landed on the birthday girl. She was trembling, clinging tightly to her partner's hand.
I stepped forward, smirking. "Happy birthday. Thank you for enduring my little ruckus. Thank you for the drink. I apologize, though—I came without gifts."
Relief flickered across her face.
Then I pressed something into her palm. Her eyes dropped.
A pack of condoms.
The blood drained from her cheeks as she recoiled, staring at the object as though I had placed poison in her hands. Her eyes widened, trembling in faux innocence.
I turned to her partner, who glared at me with veins popping across his forehead.
"She might not know how to use it," I murmured with a smirk, "but a professional like you surely does. Or… are you?"
His face darkened. Rage boiled.
Why do men always look the same when they're enraged? Veins popping on the forehead as though they'll burst.
With a shrug, I turned on my heel and left the chaos behind. The banquet hall descended into murmurs, whispers, and rising gossips as I strode away.
In the hotel bathroom, I stripped away the banquet's mask and changed into something sharper, freer. My reflection smirked back at me.
"Now," I whispered, adjusting my hair, "time to experience the night party."