Shame My Sister, Face My Wrath

My eyes stung with unshed tears. I scanned the crowd, my gaze moving from one face to another.

"I'm Gladys, CEO of Prescott Group! If anything happens to my sister today, every last one of you will pay for it with your lives! Now move! Save her!"

Almost immediately, a collective gasp rippled through the room.

I rarely appeared in public, so they didn't recognize me. Still, my presence left them shaken.

In the next instant, Susan ground her heel into my fingers and spat, "You're Gladys? Dream on! Why would she ever show up at my niece's party? Even if she were back, she'd be at her mother's grave first. I've had people keep watch the entire time."

Pain shot through me, and cold sweat broke out all over my body.

I stared Susan down, my gaze fixed on her smug face. I had asked the Simmons brothers to put this celebration together for Harper. How had it suddenly become Agnes' party?

Moreover, I'd chosen this villa for a reason. It was the home where Harper and I had grown up.

After our parents died, we moved out to protect everything they left behind. This place meant more to us than our own lives.

And yet, the Simmons brothers had let their mother take over this house. She was even wearing my mother's stuff like it was her own.

The three of them had really outdone themselves.

When I didn't respond, Susan took it as proof she had exposed my lie.

"If you really were Gladys, would your sister be reduced to begging for food?" she mocked. "All it takes is one glance to see what people like you are. You can wear all the designer clothes you want, but you still look cheap."

Then, she glared at the event coordinator, who had rushed over. Her voice was sharp as she spat, "And you! My son pays you, but this is how you do your job? How dare you let trash like this walk in? Trust me—one phone call, and I'll have every last one of you replaced!"

"We're very sorry, Mrs. Simmons. It's our mistake. We'll kick them out immediately. Mr. Simmons gave strict instructions to make sure Ms. Prescott enjoys herself," the event coordinator said, all but bending over backward to appease Susan.

Without missing a beat, Susan slapped him hard. "Prescott? What are you talking about? My niece's last name is Turner! Get it wrong again, and you're out!"

Clutching his cheek, the coordinator hurried to correct himself, his tone turning ingratiating. "Yes, of course. We'll make sure Ms. Turner has a good time."

Susan basked in his fawning attention.

A beat later, the event coordinator shot Harper and me a look of pure disgust. "Lock them in the storage room. Find out who let them in before throwing them out."

Just like that, the staff dragged the unconscious Harper by her legs, her body scraping across the floor like discarded trash.

Even at that point, the crowd shrank back from my pleas as if I were something contagious. No one stepped forward to help.

To them, our lives meant nothing. We were certainly not important enough for them to risk offending Susan.

Rage surged through me, and I shouted, "Let go of me! I can prove I'm Gladys Prescott!"

"Spare me your tricks! I'll call my son right now and expose you for the fraud that you are!"

With a look of disdain, Susan dialed a number.

Before long, Jerome Simmons' voice came through the line.

Susan deliberately put the call on speaker, but before she could say a word, I cut in, "Jerome Simmons! Get over here right now if you don't want to die!"