Chapter 4
"Matching outfits isn't the real problem—it's only embarrassing if you're the ugly one," Rachel said with a playful grin. "Didn't you hear Charles? You're the ugly one, so obviously you have to change."
Claire felt a wave of anger bubbling up inside her chest.
She pressed her lips together, her mouth forming a tight, straight line.
But just as she was about to fire back, Charles put a hand on her shoulder and spoke in that cool, detached way of his, "Go upstairs and change."
Claire froze. "Charles, every dress I own is white. You know that, don't you?"
"Then don't wear a dress," Charles said coldly. "You can just go upstairs and change. Rachel would have to go out of her way."
Charles acted like it was no big deal, clearly not interested in hearing another word from Claire.
She knew there was no point in arguing.
She just hurried upstairs and threw on some pants.
By the time Claire came downstairs, the stretch Lincoln parked at the door had already disappeared.
She blinked in confusion, catching the butler's pitying look.
"Mrs. Fulton, Ms. Moore was worried about being late, so Mr. Fulton told her to go ahead," the butler explained gently.
"He said you should grab a cab."
Claire stopped in her tracks, disbelief coloring her voice. "A cab?"
A wave of absurdity washed over Claire, and she stood there, her thin figure nearly blown over by the evening breeze, feeling like she could topple at any second.
This was a luxury villa district—no one ever took cabs here, and good luck even finding one if you tried.
To actually reach a spot where she could hail a cab, she'd have to trek nearly three miles.
Charles was making her walk all the way herself.
After a brief pause, Claire headed upstairs and swapped her shoes for a pair of sneakers.
But even with sneakers on, by the time she finally made it to where she could catch a cab, her heels were rubbed raw, with two massive blisters.
By the time she got to the banquet, she was already an hour late.
She was a total wreck, and the waiter stopped her right at the door.
"Sorry, ma'am, you'll need to show your invitation," the waiter said, barely hiding his contempt.
He looked at her like she was trash, even pinching his nose as if she reeked.
Claire fidgeted, feeling awkward. "I'm Charles Fulton's wife."
The waiter just laughed. "Come on, Mr. Fulton and Mrs. Fulton are already inside.
"If you're gonna make up stories, at least try to make them believable. As if Mr. Fulton would ever be caught dead with someone like you."
Someone like her? What does that even mean? Claire felt her heart sink.
Claire stared at her own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window.
She was wearing a baggy white T-shirt and jeans, and because her heels were rubbed raw from blisters, she'd crushed down the backs of her sneakers just to keep walking.
The blisters had burst, staining her white sneakers with bright red blood.
Meanwhile, inside, the banquet was a riot of dazzling lights, flowing champagne, and shimmering jewels—everyone dressed to impress.
She didn't belong here. Not at all.
Maybe she'd been out of place from the very start.
She never should've let herself believe she could ever fit in with the elite crowd, or step into Charles's world.
"Mrs. Fulton."
The waiter's words snapped Claire back to reality.
She looked up and locked eyes with Rachel.
Rachel lifted her chin, eyes dripping with contempt, and cracked a joke in French to her clique, "Ever since Charles and I broke up, his standards have really hit rock bottom.
"He just takes in any stray off the street these days.
"If he doesn't mind the garbage, I sure can't stand the smell."
The others snickered, "Trash belongs in the dumpster."
"Seriously, this woman has no shame. If it weren't for the baby, she'd never have made it through the door of the Fulton Estate."
"You guys haven't heard? Word is, the baby she's carrying isn't even Charles's!"
They figured she was clueless, didn't understand a thing.
So they went all out, trash-talking her like she wasn't even there.
But Claire had already taught herself French, German, Italian, and a bunch more—just so she could go toe-to-toe with Charles, be his right hand, not just some pretty face.
She caught every single insult they threw her way.
Claire lowered her gaze, trying to slip past them and head inside.
But just then, Charles appeared out of nowhere.
Seeing Claire looking like a total mess, Charles instinctively frowned. "Why did you show up like this?"