8

8
Arlene
I woke up to the pungent aroma of freshly baked bread. The smell lingered in the air, teasing my senses.
I opened my eyes gently, turning toward the scent. Beside my bed sat a tray with a basket of warm bread and a small dish of butter. Yet, no matter how inviting the breakfast was, it did little to ease the heaviness in my chest.
Last night was the first time I slept alone without Cole’s large body beside me. Despite everything - his coldness and indifference - Cole had always come home. He always shared the bed, his presence as constant as the moon in the sky.
I always had his warm arms wrapped around me while he pushed his hard rod inside my wet opening. No matter how sleepy I was, my pussy throbbed at just a touch from his finger.
I tried to push the thought away. He never asked nor forced himself on me, but he was always gentle, making me believe sometimes that I might actually mean something to him.
Meanwhile, I fooled myself into believing it meant something, that it was proof of some hidden affection buried deep in his heart. But during the day, he was a stranger—always distant, always preoccupied with matters that didn’t include me. He was always that husband who looted his wife of so much.
I sighed, my hand instinctively drifting to my stomach. I couldn’t afford to think of Cole Martinez anymore. To the world, that name meant nothing to me. I was Arlene Gomez now, the unmarried daughter of Eric Gomez.
“Good morning, Miss Gomez.” Matilda’s cheerful voice broke through my thoughts.
I turned to see her standing by the doorway, her ever-loyal smile in place. I knew she was loyal, and I was lucky to have her beside me, but I hadn’t realized she remained faithful even when they all believed I was dead. Her eyes were alight with a mix of joy and disbelief, and I could almost hear her thoughts: She’s alive.
“Good morning, Matilda. How long have you been standing there?” I replied, forcing a smile.
“You barely slept,” she said, walking into my room. “I don’t know if you still fancy eating freshly baked bread in the morning. I made the cook bring them here just in case.”
I raised my eyes at her, my forced smile spreading into a genuine one. For the past five years, when I couldn’t recognize who I was, no one made me bread or treated me to breakfast.
“The sweet smell woke me up,” I said, sitting up. “You have no idea how much I’m starving.”
Matilda smiled, taking her tablet out of her bag.
Yeah. Typical workaholic Tilda. She had been running my company in my absence, keeping everything intact, even as my father grappled with the uncertainty of my supposed death. Despite the years, she ensured every penny remained untouched, every asset secured. If loyalty had a face, it would be hers.
I stretched and climbed out of bed. Matilda busied herself, talking about the reports she had prepared. As I nibbled on the bread, she sat beside me, reading off the details of my assets.
“The board pressured your father to distribute your wealth, but he refused,” she said, her voice steady. “For some reason, he believed you were alive, even when everyone else gave up hope. Your father has been unwavering, Miss Gomez.”
Her words pierced through my icy resolve. My father’s belief in me, his refusal to let go, stirred something in my chest. He had lost my mother when I was born, and losing me must have felt like a cruel twist of fate. How much grief had he endured while I was gone?
Matilda’s voice brought me back. “Your stepmother, however, hasn’t been idle. She’s been frequenting the company and was on the verge of changing its name.”
“I expected nothing less,” I said coldly, setting my coffee cup down. “Let her think she won. She had five years of unchecked control. That ends now.”
Matilda’s eyes gleamed with approval, but she said nothing. She knew better than to question my motives. I wasn’t the same woman who had left five years ago. I wasn’t the sweet girl who sought approval or avoided confrontation. That Arlene was gone.
Before Matilda could continue, the door burst open, and Olivia waltzed in with her usual exuberance. She was followed by two women pushing a cart overflowing with luxurious clothing. Olivia’s face lit up when she saw me, her smile as wide as the Nevada desert.
“Darling, you look like death warmed over,” she teased, plopping onto the couch. “We need to fix that immediately.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Olivia’s energy was infectious, and I’d missed her terribly. “You’re attending a wedding of lies; you need to look like you own the world.”
“So that’s why you brought the entire closet the boutique had?” I asked, eyeing the cart.
“Obviously. You can’t show up looking like you just rose from the dead. We have an image to maintain,” she said, pulling out a sequined gown. “Try this one first.”
For the next hour, Olivia paraded outfit after outfit in front of me, insisting I try each one. I eventually settled on a sleek, emerald-green gown with a plunging neckline and an open back. It hugged my figure perfectly, the fabric shimmering under the light. Olivia beamed as she added the finishing touches of a diamond choker and matching earrings.
“You look like the heiress we all know,” she declared.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Gone was the fragile woman who had clung to the edges of her old life. In her place stood someone fierce, unyielding, and ready to reclaim everything she had lost.
Technically, I hadn’t lost anything. Matilda, Dad, and Olivia saw to that.
A few hours later, we arrived at the private island where the wedding was taking place. The venue was breathtaking, with white canopies swaying in the breeze and crystal chandeliers hanging from the trees. The guest list was as extravagant as the décor, filled with America’s elite.
The wedding was elite. It was everything I had imagined it to be. My eyes wandered around the guests and landed on the groom. A little gasp escaped my lips. “Lucas?”
“I was wondering when you’d notice,” Olivia replied beside me, her gaze on the people seated across the venue.
The officiant cleared his throat. “Before the vows, Eric Gomez, the billionaire father of the bride, has an announcement to make.”
My eyes watered as I noticed the sad smile tugging at his lips. I missed him so much. If Matilda hadn’t held me back, I would have run into his arms.
My father stepped forward, holding a document in his hand. He cleared his throat and looked through the crowd as if expecting someone. I knew he wished for a miracle. And by heavens, I was glad I had been spared—not for anyone, but for my father.
“As tradition dictates, the Gomez fortune must be passed to the heiress before her marriage. I don’t want to make today a sad day, but then…” He paused, looking through the crowd again. Olivia was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t ruin my makeup. I needed to look savage enough to wreck that witch standing beside him, dabbing her fake tears with a face towel. The twitch in her lips was unmistakable.
Dad continued, “Today, my second daughter, Daisy, is getting married, and it is custom to name her the heiress before she takes over. It took forever to make this pronouncement, but I need to do it because I know this is what her sister would want.”
“It’s time,” Olivia said impatiently.
“Wait,” I replied, my voice firm.
“I’ll let her mother pronounce her the new heiress of the Gomez fortune,” he said, handing the mic to Mirela, who took it rather happily.
She had a displeased look at my father’s hesitation, but I knew her too well to think she would back down.
“Ehm... sorry about that.” She smiled. “He can be very emotional, as am I,” she said. “But this is a happy day. Today, my husband and I declare Daisy Gomez, the only daughter of Eric and Mirela Gomez, the new heiress of—”
“Why would you make such a declaration without consulting your first daughter?” I called out, stepping into the congregation fully.
The crowd fell into stunned silence. All eyes turned to me as I walked down the aisle, flanked by Olivia and Matilda. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the congregation. Some clutched their pearls; others whispered my name in disbelief.
I made my way to the altar, my gaze fixed on my stepmother. Mirela’s face drained of color, her hand clutching the podium for support. She looked as though she had seen a ghost - a fitting reaction, considering she had nearly made me one.
I stopped in front of her, leaning in close enough to see the panic in her eyes.
“Hello, Mother,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Missed me?”