Chapter 2
Jude was working late tonight, leaving me alone in our sprawling home. I wandered into Azalea's room, which remained untouched since she left us. I rarely ventured in, hesitant to disturb anything and risk moving her things.
For the first time, I opened her bookshelf and noticed a safe underneath. I tried using the birthdays of our family as the combination, but the lock wouldn't budge. On a whim, I tried another date—and the lock clicked open. Letters and photographs spilled out in a cascade.
As I examined the contents, my blood turned cold. Each letter and photo detailed the life Jude shared with Dorothy and their daughter, Florence, who was three years older than Azalea. Jude lavished Florence with whatever she wanted, anxious to keep her happy. Luxury cars and grand homes were just the beginning—his attention and time were ever-present.
In this context, Azalea's and my lives seemed like cruel jokes. I took pictures of the evidence to document his betrayal and remembered my daughter’s last words.
“Mum, I’ve kept Dad’s secret in the closet like he asked. He promised we’d go on a trip if I protected this secret…”
Azalea guarded his secret, hoping fruitlessly for happiness that never came. I clutched the photos as tears streamed down, a tidal wave of anger rising within me.
Jude, how dare you exploit Azalea, using her love to hide your betrayal! I won’t let you escape consequences. What Azalea suffered, you’ll experience tenfold!
The next morning, I awoke to noise. Our usually quiet living room was filled with lively chatter and laughter—a girl's bright voice echoing through the door. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was Azalea. But the small porcelain angel on the bedside table reminded me that she was gone, her spirit shattered by her own father.
Containing my fury, I stepped into the living room, eyes widening at the chaos. Scraps of fabric littered the floor—Azalea's elegant gown had been cut and transformed into a short, tight dress worn by a young girl who admired herself in the mirror, clearly thrilled.
“Mum, can we wear this out this afternoon?” she chirped.
The kitchen door swung open, revealing a gentle-faced woman with Jude trailing behind. My focus was intently on them. Dorothy and her daughter Florence. I'd recognized them from the photos discovered in Azalea's room and had hired a private investigator to uncover their story.
Dorothy, who had married a wealthy foreigner for money after college, had returned to Jude when her husband went bankrupt. Her aura of helplessness easily won Jude's sympathy. During my first year married to Jude, she gave birth to their daughter. With such a complicated story, it was difficult to discern who was the outsider in this tangled affair.
Jude finally noticed me, looking uneasy.
“Evangeline, it’s the finals tomorrow, and it's easier for Florence to stay here. I took it upon myself to bring them over. I hope you don’t mind.”