Chapter 9 Party Pooper

The resounding slap across the woman’s cheek echoed in the room before her raised palm could reach Tiffany. The woman, Lucia, was dumbfounded. Having grown up in one of those old money families, no one had ever dared lay a hand on her since she was a kid. Tiffany was the first. “You hit me!” Lucia screeched, holding a finger right up in Tiffany’s face. “So?” Tiffany took a tissue from a nearby table and wiped her hand with it, then tossed it into the trash after crumpling it up, as if disgusted by having touched Lucia. It pissed the woman off, who stomped right over and raised her hand to slap Tiffany again. This time, Tiffany met her gaze, a cold sneer tugging at her lips. “A high-class whore like you can even kill a man and not suffer the consequences simply because of how much men pay you. But right now, you’re about to hit Mortimer Campbell’s lawfully wedded wife, the future matriarch of the Campbell family. If your hand lands, you will definitely upset the entire family. Tell me, do you have what it takes to start this war?” Lucia froze, her raised hand freezing in place. The surrounding guests became silent, now regarding Tiffany with a new sense of curiosity. Lounging in his seat, Mortimer’s gaze adopted a similar light. Lucia awkwardly withdrew her hand and muttered, “I’m not scared of you… I just don’t want to spoil everyone’s mood.” To which Tiffany scoffed. If this woman knew when to stop, Tiffany wouldn’t humiliate her further. Plus, she did not want to risk ticking Mortimer off. With a demure nod of her head to the guests, she said, “I’ll take my leave, gentlemen. Enjoy yourselves.” After she left for her room, the guests snuck looks at Mortimer, expecting him to be red with anger. Shockingly, the man merely sipped his glass of wine as if nothing had happened. The guests looked at one other incredulously—after the scene Tiffany caused, why wasn’t he getting mad at her? Where was the bad temper their host was famous for? Though they didn’t ask this out loud, not wanting to risk being in Mortimer’s bad graces. As the guests racked their brains trying to figure him out, Lucia went to sit down beside him, whining, “Fuck, that bitch hit me in front of everyone!” She tugged at Mortimer’s sleeve flightily. “She’s trouble, mark my words. You need to do something about her.” “Are you telling me how to do things now?” Mortimer glanced at her, his lips upturned, though there was nothing but ice in his gaze. It made Lucia shiver. This was dangerous territory. She quickly changed the topic, “Of course not. I just… care about you is all. Why don’t we have some fun now, hm? Didn’t we say we were gonna party tonight?” Lucia then signaled for the band to continue before filling Mortimer’s glass with more wine. Just then, Monroe came over and whispered to his ear, “Master Mortimer, the madam’s father passed away a few days ago. Based on how she was dressed, she was attending his funeral today.” Mortimer grunted and then took another sip of wine, but it had become bland and dull, just like his dissipating mood. He stood up. “I’m leaving. Enjoy the party.” Lucia fixed her stare at Mortimer’s retreating back, chest full of pent-up anger. But what could she do? She furiously chugged down the rest of the wine. Meanwhile, some of the guests were gossiping among themselves. “Do we… continue? Mortimer’s gone and Lucia doesn’t seem to be in the mood anymore.” “Of course we do, look at all this good wine! It’d be a waste to not finish it. Lucia, well… She got what was coming to her.” “Yeah. Shitty dream she had, becoming Mortimer’s wife. Good thing that Tiffany girl showed her her place.” Tiffany knew she had become the focus of everyone’s attention after today, but she could care less. She had been keeping her emotions at bay for days since her father’s passing. Tonight’s outburst with Lucia was just what she needed. She sobbed in her room, venting the pain and frustration she had in her heart until she fell asleep. Her eyes resembled a lemur the next day. It took a lot of foundation and blush to hide the puffiness before she went downstairs for breakfast. Mortimer glanced at her from the opposite end of the table. “10 million dollars.” “What did you say?” “The party last night cost me 10 million dollars.” “What does that have to do with me?” “You spoiled it. Don’t you think you should make up for it?” Tiffany was annoyed. What kind of rubbish logic was this? If she had that much money in the first place, she would never have had to marry this asshole. Her upset coupled with the lack of rest brought forth a wave of unease from her stomach, making her hands tremble in place. Mortimer noticed this. “I’ll let you off this time, but if this ever happens again…” He did not need to continue to give effect to his threat. But strangely enough, Tiffany still felt some relief in her stomach after his “pardon”. Her appetite was still non-existent, however. Monroe plated some grilled chicken before her, and suddenly, nausea crashed through her gut like a tidal wave. She began to dry heave, pushing aside her table manners. Mortimer gave her a disgusted look before dropping his cutlery and leaving the table. “Are you alright, Madam? Is the food not to your liking?” Monroe asked, worried. Tiffany shook her head. “No, no. I just haven’t been able to stomach meat this past week,” she blurted. “I’ll have the kitchen prepare something else for you this instant!” Tiffany nodded as the butler left the room, anxiety prickling in her stomach. How long did she have left before Mortimer found out about her pregnancy?