Roman and Julienne's heart desire
Chapter 42: Words can’t explain how much i ...hate her

Chapter 42: Words can’t explain how much i ...hate her

Whispers buzzed through the ballroom like angry bees, thick with gossip and barely veiled amusement.

"Did you see her face?" one woman murmured behind her sequined clutch, eyes gleaming. "Like a tomato about to explode."

A man chuckled beside her. "I almost feel bad. But then again... she’s been walking around like she already owned the family name."

"Oh, she had it coming," another voice added. "Always so high and mighty. Did you see how she treated the staff earlier? Like peasants."

"She thought landing Roman meant she’d arrived," someone else scoffed. "Turns out, she never even had a ticket."

Groups had formed in quiet corners, some sipping wine with wide eyes, others pretending to be discreet while clearly savoring the chaos.

Even those who didn’t particularly like Roman now had something to admire — the man had style. Ice cold, unapologetic style.

A pair of older ladies, seasoned veterans of society’s brutal social circles, exchanged knowing glances.

"Well," said one, adjusting her diamond bracelet, "that’s one for the books. I haven’t seen a mic drop like that since ’98 when Grace left her fiancé at the altar for his brother."

The other laughed, her pearls trembling with delight. "At least Grace didn’t have to face an audience this large."

In the middle of it all, Miranda stood like a shattered statue, barely hearing the words around her but feeling every eye on her.

Her cheeks burned, her hands shook, and her once-pristine makeup now cracked beneath the weight of humiliation.

Her father muttered furiously under his breath, grabbing his phone.

"I’ll have that boy’s head," he hissed. "No one embarrasses my daughter like this."

But even he knew — Roman wasn’t the kind of man you threatened. Not without consequences.

Meanwhile, by the refreshments table, a group of younger guests scrolled through their phones.

"Someone already uploaded a video," a girl giggled, showing the screen. "Look! The moment he says, ’I will pass.’"

"Damn," her friend breathed, watching. "He didn’t even blink."

"The way he dropped the mic like a king," another boy laughed, mimicking the gesture. "Savage!"

A server passed by and snorted softly under his breath.

"Honestly? We were all rooting for someone to shut her up one day. Guess today’s the day."

Lisa sat quietly near the back now, still dazed, but with Azazel standing protectively beside her, she regained some composure.

She noticed the room — divided. Half shocked, half entertained.

And somewhere among them, Emma — smiling like she’d just watched her favorite movie.

And in a far corner, a man in a tailored charcoal suit sipped his drink, his eyes unreadable.

He hadn’t laughed, hadn’t spoken. But the curl of his lips said it all.

Miranda had aimed for royalty.

And walked straight into a revolution.

***** _{\n(o)v.e\l.com}

BACK TO PRESENT.

"Hmm," a soft sob echoed through the quiet room, breaking the silence like a glass shattering in the dark.

Miranda clutched her hands tightly against her chest, her knuckles white from the force.

The memory of that day came flooding back with brutal clarity. Her breathing hitched as she closed her eyes, trying to push it away — but it clung to her like a shadow.

Tears slipped down her cheeks in steady, silent trails, the kind that carried pain too deep for words.

Even now, months later, people still whispered. They laughed behind her back. Some didn’t even bother hiding it.

To many in the city, she had become nothing more than a tragic joke — the girl who got humiliated, the girl who lost everything.

The thought alone made her chest tighten until it felt hard to breathe. It made the tears fall faster.

She had stopped going to school. She couldn’t bear the looks, the stares, the pity... or worse, the smug satisfaction on the faces of those who thrived on her downfall.

Now, she stayed at home, locked away from a world that had turned its back on her, wrapped in silence and sorrow.

But today, something shifted.

"You made me cry..." she whispered, her voice cracking, not from weakness, but from something darker, something stronger.

"...and I will make you cry too, Mr. Thompson."

"Just wait till the time comes,"

She opened her eyes slowly. The softness in them was gone.

In its place was a glint, sharp, cold, and deadly. It was the look of someone who had been broken and decided to rebuild herself with fire and vengeance.

The kind of look that warned of a storm coming, one that wouldn’t pass quietly.

In another part of the city, far from the bright lights and polished sidewalks, a dimly lit room reeked of dust, old sweat, and broken dreams.

The ceiling fan creaked with each slow rotation, barely stirring the heavy air.

"You, Rachel... what brings you here today, client?" a raspy male voice echoed from the back of the room, thick with sarcasm and the dull hum of an old ceiling fan.

Rachel turned sharply, her eyes locking onto the man through the smoky haze that choked the air. Her lip curled slightly in distaste.

"Of course I’m here for a job. What else would bring me to this trash pit?" she said coldly, her arms crossing as she glared at him.

The man chuckled lowly, smoke slipping from between his yellowed teeth.

He sat lazily on a tattered couch, his clothes stained and wrinkled, the waistband of his trousers barely hanging on his bony hips.

The room was dimly lit, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead and a half-open window covered in grime.

"My beautiful client," he crooned mockingly, gesturing toward a crooked wooden chair, "have a seat. You’re always welcome in my humble office."

Rachel raised a brow but sat anyway, brushing off invisible dust from the chair before lowering herself carefully.

"So... what’s the job?" the man asked, leaning forward with a glint of amusement in his tired eyes.

"I wouldn’t want to lose a good-paying client like you. You pay well... and your jobs are always so fun."

Rachel didn’t respond immediately. She stared at him, her face unreadable — until her lips parted.

"I want the person to be ruined."

The room went quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan and the crackle of his cigarette.

"Ruined, huh?" he asked, sitting up slightly. "You gotta be more specific, sweetheart. That could mean a lot of things to a man like me."

Rachel leaned forward slowly, her voice laced with venom. "I want her to beg for death. I want her to know I’m untouchable — that no matter what she does, she can’t stop me.

I want her name to be dragged through the mud, her face so disfigured no man will ever look at her the same. I want her to feel it, every waking second, that she messed with the wrong person."

The man raised an eyebrow, letting out a low whistle.

"Someone hit a nerve," he muttered, smirking as he took a long drag. "What’s she done to piss you off this bad?"

Rachel’s eyes flickered with rage. "She humiliated me. Laughed at me like I was nothing. Tried to take what was mine." She slammed her palm lightly against the table.

What a lie Rachel you should stop doing this else you will be ruin, you, yourself.

"Now? I want to make sure she loses everything. Her beauty. Her pride. Her peace of mind."

"This time I need a real picture of her naked not a generated one like before," Rachel said her eyes narrowing imagining what will happen to Julie.

"..."

"Hmm... sounds messy. Dangerous," the man said, his tone teasing. Then he grinned. "Just how I like it."

He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You got a name? A picture?"

Rachel pulled a folded photograph from her bag and slid it across the table.

"This," she said. "Make her disappear, slowly."

The man picked up the photo, studying it through the smoke. A wicked smile spread across his face.

He raised a brow, lifting the photo between two nicotine-stained fingers, examining it under the flickering light.

His eyes lingered on the image before darting back to Rachel.

"You brought me this picture twice now," he said with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Isn’t she your sister?"

Rachel’s jaw tightened, her eyes darkening with something far more sinister than anger.

"She is," she said slowly, her voice like poisoned honey. "But words can’t explain how much I... hate her."

She leaned forward slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the worn table.

"Everyone... everyone looks at her like she’s some angel." Her lips curled into a sneer. "She’s nothing but a parasite in a pretty face."

Her voice had dropped to a whisper now, trembling with barely contained fury.

"I want her beauty destroyed, her confidence shattered. I want her to wake up one day and realize she’s completely alone even if right now.. she is,"

The man’s smirk lingered as he flicked the photo onto the table and leaned back with a low hum.

"Hmm... twisted blood runs deep," he muttered.

Rachel straightened slowly, the chair scraping back with a harsh screech as she stood.

Her expression was cold, her posture like that of a queen passing judgment.

"Family or not... she crossed me. And for that, she will pay."

The man took one last drag of his cigarette, then crushed the end into a stained ashtray overflowing with butts.

"Consider it done, client," he said with a grin that matched the evil glint in her eyes.

Rachel turned without another word, her heels echoing in the narrow hallway as she vanished into the night, leaving behind only the scent of expensive perfume and the promise of destruction.