Kicked To The Curb

Lady Beatrice's words hit the room like a bombshell, sending shockwaves through the crowd. The silence that followed stretched for a few seconds before the entire ballroom erupted once more, questions flying faster than the flashing cameras. The reporters surged forward, bombarding Lady Beatrice with questions.

I watched in disbelief, trying to understand why she'd taken my side. The Ashford family, just as shocked, turned their glares towards her, but Lady Beatrice didn't flinch. She didn't look at them, or me, as the cameras focused on her. She kept her eyes forward, speaking firmly into the storm of reporters.

It was only when she glanced at me, for the briefest second, that I realized—this was her way of helping. I caught her look and managed a small, grateful smile. She didn't smile back, just turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the chaos behind her.

But that moment of relief didn't last long.

"Freya!" Alexander's furious voice cut through the noise, and I flinched, instinctively searching for an exit. My heart pounded as I glanced around. His steps were coming closer, each one echoing the rage in his voice. I needed to get out.

I spotted the door and made a break for it, pushing through the crowd of people. But the moment I stepped outside, I was greeted by another swarm—paparazzi and reporters. Flashing cameras, microphones shoved in my face, questions flying from every direction.

"Freya! Freya, over here!"

"Is it true you've been married to Alexander for three years?"

"Why was the marriage kept a secret?"

"Did you force Lady Beatrice to lie?"

"Is it true that you stole the title of Mrs. Ashford from your stepsisters?"

"Do you have anything to say regarding your stepsisters' affair with your husband?"

The barrage of voices overwhelmed me. My chest tightened, and I couldn't breathe. Everywhere I turned, there were more reporters, more questions, more flashing lights. I felt like I was suffocating, trapped in a crowd that wouldn't let me go. My hands shook as I tried to push past them, desperate to escape.

Just when I thought I had no choice but to respond to their questions, a strong hand gripped my arm, pulling me out of the crowd. My head snapped up, startled, and I saw a tall, muscular man guiding me away. I didn't recognize him, but I was too overwhelmed to care. He led me through the maze of reporters with ease, shielding me from the cameras until we reached a black car parked at the edge of the lot.

I was about to ask who he was when the car window rolled down, revealing Sylus sitting inside.

"Mr. Thorn." Relief flooded through me at the sight of his familiar face.

"Get in," Sylus said, his voice calm but firm.

Without hesitation, I climbed into the car, my heart still racing. The man who'd helped me shut the door behind me before walking off, and I turned to Sylus, grateful. He didn't say much, simply explained that the man was security from the gala, someone he'd instructed to help me get away from the crowd of reporters.

But honestly, I wasn't paying much attention. My mind was spinning with everything that had just happened. My stepsisters' affair with Alexander, Lady Beatrice's revelation, the divorce, Alexander's anger—it was all too much. I barely registered the quiet of the car as Sylus drove, his presence a silent comfort in the whirlwind of my thoughts.

We drove in silence for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, until we finally reached my house.

As Sylus pulled up in front of the house, I turned to him, my voice soft, "Thank you for everything tonight, Mr. Thorn."

I moved to open the door when Sylus called out to me. I turned to face him.

He looked at me, his gaze steady, and said, "Ms. Sinclair, get some rest, and don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

I nodded, appreciating his offer but too exhausted to respond.

I stepped out of the car and watched as he drove off, disappearing into the night. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I turned back toward the house, already dreading going in.

I barely made it two steps through the front door when a hand came out of nowhere, slapping me hard across the face. The force of it knocked me off balance, and I stumbled, clutching my cheek in shock.

"You ungrateful wench!" My stepmother's voice shrieked at me, filled with venom.

I looked up, my vision blurry, and saw her standing over me, her face twisted in fury. My stepsisters sat on the couch, both of them crying, their faces red and puffy, while my father sat in his usual chair, staring at me with a look of disgust.

"How could you?" my stepmother screeched, her eyes wild. "You've ruined us! Everything! We should have left you to rot with that whore mother of yours!"

Her words cut deep, but before I could respond, Anastasia, one of my stepsisters, jumped to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at me. "You couldn't stand that Alexander was with us! You've always been jealous! He loves us, not you!"

Isabella, the other, joined in, her voice shaking with anger. "That's why he never showed you off! Because you're worthless! You're nothing but a disgrace!"

I stood there, taking it all in, my heart hurting as I listened to their words.

My father rose from his chair, his voice cold and authoritative. "You'll go back to the Ashfords tomorrow and apologize. You'll tell the press that everything was a lie, that you threatened Lady Beatrice. Do you understand me, Freya?"

Their voices overlapped, each one demanding, accusing, hurling insults at me. And something inside me snapped.

A bitter, miserable laugh escaped my throat, and they all paused, startled by the sound. I straightened, my eyes dark and filled with tears as I recounted the years of suffering I'd faced at their hands. "You've never once considered me family. I've been here since I was an 8-year-old child, and not once did you consider me human. You only paid the slightest bit of attention to me when Alexander came into the picture. Even then, you couldn't let me have him. My own husband, and the whores you call daughters slept with him."

Their faces twisted in anger, but I didn't stop. "You used me every single day, mocked me, bullied me, beat me. I was nothing but a tool for you to climb the social ladder. You saw an opportunity and you took it. And you," I spat, turning to my father, "you never paid me attention. You watched as they did what they did, and you did nothing. Sometimes you even laughed. I was nothing to you. Not once did you show me the love a child deserves. Your own flesh and blood. I hate you, and I hope you all rot in the darkest reaches of hell."

Silence fell over the room as I finished, my voice shaking with the weight of everything I'd held in for so long. "I'm done with all of you. I won't apologize, and I won't lie for you. I refuse."

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, my father's hand came down on me, harder this time. I tasted blood as my head whipped to the side.

"That's right, hit me. That's all you can do anyway. Hit me again!"

My stepsisters screamed, lunging at me with fury in their eyes. They scratched at my face, tore at my clothes, their nails digging into my skin. I tried to protect myself as best I could, but they were relentless, their anger blinding them.

And then my stepmother's voice cut through the chaos. "Get out. Get out of this house right now, and never come back!" She grabbed my things, throwing them into the street, piece by piece, her voice shaking with hatred. "You're not welcome here anymore!"

"With pleasure!" I stood up, spitting out the blood in my mouth.