Chapter 100: Why is Hannah sending you pictures?
Hannah glanced toward the commotion.
A well-dressed woman stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, brushing frantically at the orange juice that had splashed across the front of her designer gown. She looked as though someone had thrown acid instead of fruit juice on her.
"Are you blind?" the woman shrieked, glaring at the waitress before her. "Where exactly were you looking while walking? Do you have any idea how expensive this dress is? Who’s going to pay for it?"
The surrounding guests slowed their steps, eager to witness the unfolding drama.
Not far away, Helena and Maria also turned to look.
"Why is she bowing her head like that?" Helena frowned, unable to get a clear look at the waitress’s face.
Maria barely spared the scene another glance.
"It’s irrelevant, Aunty," she said dismissively. "Let’s not waste our time on insignificant people."
Helena nodded.
Before leaving, she shot Hannah one final warning look and walked off alongside Maria.
Hannah, however, paid them no attention.
Her gaze lingered on the poor waitress who remained bent over, apologizing again and again while enduring the woman’s relentless scolding.
"Poor girl..." Hannah murmured under her breath.
With a faint sigh, she turned and headed inside the venue.
***
Meanwhile, the unfortunate waitress—none other than Clara in disguise—kept her head lowered.
"I’m so sorry, Madam," she apologized sincerely. "I really didn’t see you."
Inside, however, she was having a completely different conversation.
What did this woman have for breakfast? A loudspeaker? She’s been yelling for five straight minutes!
She almost wanted to applaud the woman’s lung capacity.
Taking a cautious breath, Clara finally lifted her head.
"I’m truly—"
The woman’s voice abruptly died in her throat.
Her eyes widened as she stared blankly at Clara’s face.
For several long seconds, she simply blinked.
Then...
"What on earth is this?" she exclaimed in horror. "Who hired a witch as a waitress?"
She pointed accusingly at Clara’s heavily made-up face.
"Did you put on an entire makeup store? And that giant mole..." She visibly shuddered. "Good heavens! It’s absolutely horrifying!"
Clara’s lips twitched.
She had expected people to judge her disguise, but hearing someone call her a witch to her face still stung a little.
Hey... I spent almost an hour making this masterpiece, she complained inwardly. At least insult it with some creativity.
Just then, something struck her. Her eyes instinctively searched the crowd in the direction where she had last seen Hannah.
Thank goodness... she’s gone.
She quietly let out a breath of relief.
If Hannah had seen me dressed like this, I’d never hear the end of it.
Looking back, she found the woman still staring at her as though she had crawled out of a haunted house.
Seeing no sign that the lecture would end anytime soon, an idea suddenly crossed Clara’s mind.
She put on her most professional smile.
"Madam," she said sweetly, "why don’t you let me clean your dress for you?"
She had barely reached out when the woman recoiled dramatically, taking two exaggerated steps backward.
"No!" she cried. "Don’t touch me! Who knows what kind of contagious disease your hands are carrying?"
Clara blinked and slowly looked down at her own hands. They looked perfectly normal to her.
Contagious disease? Lady... it’s orange juice, not radioactive waste.
She pursed her lips, too speechless to argue.
The woman gave one final disgusted sniff before lifting her chin proudly and storming away, leaving Clara standing there with the tray in her hands.
"...Well," Clara muttered to herself, watching the woman’s retreating figure, "at least she forgot about the dress."
Clara couldn’t help grinning to herself.
Well... that went better than expected.
Unfortunately, she had completely forgotten one tiny detail.
She was still standing in the middle of a crowded hall.
The guests stared at her as though she’d lost her mind.
"...Is she okay?" one man whispered.
"I don’t think she’s in her right mind," another guest replied, subtly taking a step back.
A woman shook her head.
"Why is she smiling to herself like that? That’s... unsettling."
Just then, a little girl hiding behind her mother’s leg peeked at Clara’s disguised face.
"Mommy..." she whimpered, tugging on her mother’s dress. "That lady is scary."
The mother immediately scooped her daughter into her arms.
"Don’t stare, sweetheart."
Clara’s smile instantly froze.
Seriously?
I spent an hour creating this disguise, and now I’ve traumatized a child.
She resisted the urge to sigh.
Mission accomplished... I guess.
Pretending she hadn’t heard a single comment, Clara straightened her back and briskly walked toward the kitchen, silently praying no one else decided to analyze her face.
The moment she stepped inside, the noise of the banquet hall faded behind her.
Waiting near the preparation counter was Lily, who looked both anxious and impatient.
The second she spotted Clara, she hurried over.
"Madam!" Lily exclaimed in a hushed voice. "What took you so long?"
She glanced nervously toward the kitchen entrance before lowering her voice even further.
"Do you have any idea how terrifying the head chef is?"
Clara blinked.
"That bad?"
Lily looked genuinely offended by the question.
"’That bad?’ Madam, he’s been pacing around the kitchen like a tiger waiting for someone to become dinner."
Clara raised an eyebrow.
"So... he’s hungry?"
Lily nearly choked.
"No! He’s angry!"
"Oh."
Clara nodded thoughtfully.
"I guess those two aren’t that different."
Lily covered her face with both hands.
"Madam, this is not the time for jokes."
Clara flashed an innocent smile.
"I know."
A brief pause followed before she added with complete seriousness,
"...But if I don’t joke, I’ll start crying."
Lily stared at her for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.
"You know what? Somehow, I believe you."
Lily had no idea why Clara had to go this extent to get into the banquet when all she could do was to walk like a queen. But now that they’re here, Lily might as well trust her madam and play along.
***
Meanwhile, at the office, Mark stood patiently beside Dominic’s desk, waiting for him to review a file and sign the final page.
Just then, his phone buzzed.
As Dominic’s assistant, Mark was used to checking every notification immediately. Emails, work messages, client updates—his phone practically dictated his life. Assuming it was another work-related text, he unlocked the screen without a second thought.
The next second, his eyes nearly popped out.
"Holy shit!" he blurted, loud enough for the entire office floor to hear. "What’s Madam doing in this picture?"
Dominic’s pen froze halfway through his signature.
His sharp gaze slowly lifted to Mark, his expression darkening.
"What did you just say about my wife?"
Mark’s blood instantly turned cold.
"N-No, sir... I didn’t mean—"
Before he could finish, Dominic had already walked around the desk and snatched a look at Mark’s phone.
His brows knitted together.
"Why," Dominic asked in a dangerously calm voice, "is Hannah sending you pictures?"
Mark swallowed so hard it was almost audible.
Congratulations, Mark, he thought miserably. You’ve survived impossible deadlines, angry clients, and Mr. Sterling’s legendary temper... only to die because your boss thinks you’re secretly exchanging photos with his sister.