NOVPUB
Chapter 78 - 78- birthday
March 25th marked the 50th birthday of William S Lancaster.
As is customary with the Lancaster family's extravagant ways, and considering their immense influence in the city, this birthday celebration was inevitably going to be another grand affair, full of showiness and self-promotion.
Sure enough, a week before the birthday celebration, Cynthia received a call from Grace Lancaster, insisting that she attend in "grand attire." Cynthia knew exactly what Grace meant by "grand attire."
In the past, Cynthia rarely attended such events in the Lancaster family. When she did, it was always in casual dress, with no one paying her much attention. She would simply make a brief appearance and then quickly slip away. As a result, very few people actually knew who Miss Cynthia Lancaster was.
This time, however, Grace Lancaster was inviting her with a different intent—likely out of consideration for that one person, the man who was known as her husband, Albert Wilson.
After Grace Lancaster's miscarriage, her condition had been extremely poor—both physically and mentally. It wasn't until after the New Year that she returned and officially took over the Lancaster Empire from Albert Wilson.
As for Albert Wilson, he truly lived up to his reputation for being tough and decisive. With ruthless tactics and a fierce demeanor, he single-handedly revived the Lancaster Empire, which had been on the brink of bankruptcy, and with his extraordinary intellect and excellent management skills, he turned the company around in just a few months, making it the stuff of legends in the industry.
Everyone admired William S Lancaster for having such a capable and accomplished son-in-law, and the entire Lancaster family began to view Cynthia in a new light. Even Grace Lancaster, who had always treated her coldly, personally called her to invite her back to attend William S Lancaster's banquet.
Perhaps in their eyes, this once obscure Miss Cynthia Lancaster was finally someone worthy of attention.
After hanging up with Grace Lancaster, a cold smile tugged at the corner of Cynthia's lips. Perhaps the joy they felt now would be their future pain. The sweeter their smiles today, the deeper their suffering would be later.
But, before the masks were torn off, she still had to play her part. Although she knew Grace Lancaster would undoubtedly call him, she still decided to reach out herself.
After all, with such a grand event, the two of them needed to coordinate their outfits to ensure they matched. They hardly ever saw each other these days, and she didn't want them to show up on the birthday and look completely mismatched. She didn't really care, but the question was: could he afford to lose face like that?
And since it was William S Lancaster's birthday, even if it was just for show, her gift as his fourth daughter had to be prepared. She didn't have the money, so she had no choice but to rely on him...
She was lost in thought, not realizing the call had already connected. After a long silence on her end, the voice on the other end finally spoke, coldly asking,
"Is there something you need?"
His voice, calm and emotionless, lacked even a trace of warmth. It felt as if the tender companionship they had shared over those past few days was nothing but a dream. Cynthia's hand, holding the phone, trembled slightly. Her heart may have been cold, but it was not as devoid of emotion as his.
Faced with his indifferent, decisive attitude, she didn't know what to say. The silence on the line seemed to amplify the sound of their heartbeats. After a long pause, his voice came through, distant and detached, as if coming from the farthest reaches of the sky.
"I'll have someone choose the dress for you. The birthday gift has already been prepared."
It was as if he knew everything she had wanted to say. She opened her mouth, but only two words came out.
"Thank you."
As soon as she spoke, the phone line went dead with a sharp click. It was as if saying anything more to her was unnecessary. She shook her head in self-mockery, then gathered herself and headed to the orphanage.
The children there pulled at her, asking why that handsome older brother hadn't come to play with them in such a long time. She had no choice but to brush it off, citing her busy work schedule.
Victoria, noticing her pale face, hurriedly asked, "Cynthia, are you feeling unwell? You don't look so good."
She was startled. Was her mood really that bad, so much so that it was written all over her face? She forced a smile, pretending everything was fine, and said to Victoria, "Oh, it's nothing. I've just been a bit tired lately. I'll be fine after a good sleep."
The day before the birthday, Jim arrived with the "dress" he had sent. When she opened it, the dazzling, iridescent violet nearly made her face turn ashen.
She had once sworn never to wear that color again, never to wear the color that carried all the youthful, tender memories of her first love—the color of the man she had once called her violet prince.
Yet now, he had given her this dress. Her steps faltered, and she collapsed onto the small sofa in the living room, her eyes filling with violet until it made her head throb unbearably.
The memories of those years, of that person, and those events slowly crawled out from the depths of her heart, struggling with each painful inch. She felt as though her heart were being carved out by a sharp knife, each cut leaving a bloody, mangled mess.
In the blink of an eye, she had been married to another man for almost a year, while he had been someone else's husband for nearly three years. So this was life, this was time, this was fate.
She wasn't sure how long it had been until the excruciating pain in her chest began to numb. It was then that she grabbed her phone and dialed the number of the person who had sent her the dress. Once again, there was the suffocating silence. She spoke first to break it.
"Sorry, Mr. Wilson, but could I trouble you to change the color of the dress?"
She didn't even know how she could speak so calmly. Perhaps his indifference had created the atmosphere for her to remain composed. She heard him ask, in his usual detached tone,
"Don't you like this color?"
How could she not like it? It was her favorite color—the mysterious, slightly melancholic shade that was both cold and filled with pride. Yet at this moment, all she could do was bite her lip and answer, reluctantly,
"Yes."
"I think this color suits you well."
After a long pause, he finally gave her that response.
Cold and aloof, independent and proud—wasn't it a perfect match for her?
She stubbornly picked up where he left off, saying,
"Sometimes, what's suitable isn't necessarily what you like, and what you like might not always suit you. As long as it's not this color, I'll accept any other color!"
Even bright, garish red would be fine—anything but this color.
In the bright, bustling tea house, Albert Wilson, whose face was icy with murderous intent, stared at the slender woman sitting opposite him, her eyes red and swollen. Slowly, he spoke,
"There are some people you have to forget, whether you want to or not."
The image of that man, whom she had seen a few times, always dressed in shades of violet at various occasions, flashed through her mind. He looked like an elegant prince. The cold smile on his face only made her heart chill further. So... that was why he disliked the color!
On the other end, she heard him sneer softly.
"So, this dress—whether you want to or not, you'll wear it."
The dangerous tone, the domineering command, the undeniable harshness in his words left no room for refusal.
Cynthia's heart sank, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. But she still made one final attempt to resist.
"This dress doesn't match my hair color."
"Then dye your hair black."
Another sentence with no room for negotiation. After speaking, he hung up the phone.
Alone on the sofa, she curled up with her knees pulled close, holding herself tightly. In that moment, there was no one to comfort her, no one to lean on—only herself.
Not long after he hung up, someone knocked on the door of her small apartment. She recognized the woman at the door—it was the owner of the salon she had visited the last time he forced her to change her hairstyle.
The woman stood in the doorway, smiling warmly at Cynthia.
"Mrs. Wilson, I've been sent by the vice president to do your hair."
Cynthia didn't say a word. She simply turned and allowed her to come in, then numbly sat down on the small sofa, staring vacantly into space. The woman, while setting up her tools, spoke to her reassuringly.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Wilson. The vice president has only instructed me to give you a one-time hair dye. It's just to match your dress."
At her words, Cynthia looked up in disbelief. A faint glimmer of hope appeared in her otherwise empty eyes, as if silently questioning whether what the woman said was true.
