Chapter 2

The crowd erupted into laughter. Reporters snapped photos in rapid succession—capturing my bewildered expression and Brock's possessive stance as he shielded Lola like a jealous husband defending his wife. I could already picture tomorrow's headlines. "Mr. Lincolne and Ms. Jenkins are clearly soulmates. That woman is disgusting—after everything Mr. Lincolne said, she still clings on like a desperate leech. How humiliating." "Supposedly a wealthy heiress from the Dawson family, yet she acts like she's never seen a man before. Chasing after someone else's fiancé like a cheap homewrecker." Humiliated by the jeers and stares, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my invitation, ready to explain myself. In the next instant, the card was snatched from my hand, and a sharp slap cracked across my face. "Clara, who told you to buy your way in here just to embarrass yourself? Get out. Now." It was my brother, Ethan Dawson. His hatred for me burned in his eyes. When I didn't move fast enough, he raised his hand to strike again, but I dodged. "Hold her down," he snarled at the bodyguards behind him. I tried to run, but Ethan had brought too many men. Within seconds, I was yanked to the floor, forced into a humiliating kneel. "Ethan, stop! I came here for something important," I pleaded, clutching the strap of my off-the-shoulder dress as it slipped sideways, barely covering me. Slap! The other side of my face stung instantly, swelling just like the first. Ethan gripped my jaw, satisfied with his handiwork. "I know you too well," he sneered. "What 'important thing' could you possibly have? Clara, I've told you a hundred times—love isn't something you can force. Just because you got rejected doesn't mean you get to take it out on Lola." "This is what happens when you refuse to listen. Take her away." He waved dismissively, not even bothering to hear me out. That was my brother—convinced of my guilt before I'd spoken a word. "You have no right to do this!" I shouted as the guards dragged me backward. My dress tore from the friction, dirt smearing the delicate fabric. I thrashed like a trapped animal, my movements clumsy and desperate. Brock finally stepped forward after watching silently for too long. He looked down at me with mock pity. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he drawled. "The great Clara—reduced to writhing on the floor like a maggot, all for a man's attention. You're an embarrassment to every decent man alive." He gestured for the guards to release me. I stood, trembling, swallowing the storm of rage and shame in my chest, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left. "Just go," he said coldly. "Walk out on your own. Consider it the last shred of respect I'm giving you." Ethan glanced toward the backstage entrance, where Lola was about to appear. He couldn't risk upsetting her. He grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the exit. My neckline slipped further, the thin fabric dragging down to my shoulders, exposing too much skin. "Get off me!" I shoved him hard, my voice ringing through the hall. "I was invited here as a presenter by the organizers. You don't get to decide whether I stay or go!" A stunned silence fell—then broke into a fresh wave of murmurs. A presenter? That role was reserved for internationally recognized researchers—people whose credentials surpassed even Lola's celebrated reputation. "No way," someone whispered. "Even if she were married to a real scientist, she wouldn't qualify. Look at her—how could someone like that ever land a decent partner?"