SHATTERED ALLERGIES

Giselle’s POV

I could still feel the sting of the shattered glass in my hand and the cold, hard marble against my skin when, through the chaotic din of whispered insults and desperate sobs, I saw him—the man who had become the axis of my torment. Amid the fractured laughter, murmurs, and bitter declarations, Patrick suddenly appeared. His expression, at first unreadable, shifted instantly as he took in the scene before him. Becky, eyes glistening with tears, her face contorted in anguish as she wept quietly in a corner of the lavish hall, and me, sprawled on the floor with my injured hand clutched against my chest.

Patrick’s concern was immediate, his steps urgent as he rushed to Becky’s side. He knelt, enveloping her in a protective embrace and murmuring, “Are you alright?” His tone was frantic with worry as he cradled her gently, his eyes never once lingering on my broken form on the floor. For a fleeting, agonizing moment, I thought I saw a shadow of regret cross his features—but that too was quickly swallowed by the turbulence of the moment.

After a long heartbeat, he finally tore his gaze away from Becky and fixed it on me. His eyes, once warm with affection, now bore the hardness of finality. “Giselle,” he commanded, his voice low and cutting, “apologize to Becky. Now.”

Every word was a blow. I scrambled to rise, pain radiating through my battered hand and shattered pride. I could hardly summon the strength to meet his eyes, and when I did, the sorrow and anger that welled up inside me could no longer be contained.

“No,” I spat, voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore, Patrick. Not after you’ve cheated on me, not after you got her pregnant.” My words trembled in the charged air, laden with the weight of all the betrayals and false promises. “I’m done. We’re getting a divorce. I don’t want to see this family ever again.”

For an eternity, silence reigned between us before Patrick stepped forward. With an anger that matched my own, he grasped my hand roughly, his grip tight enough to leave its mark. “Where will you go?” he demanded, his tone a mixture of disbelief and challenge.

I pulled away, struggling to free myself from his grasp. “It’s none of your business,” I retorted, every syllable echoing with the finality of a door slammed shut on a past I could no longer endure.

His eyes flashed dangerously as he sneered, “Fine, go ahead. But everything you got from the Hilton family—everything—is yours to leave behind. And that includes what you’re wearing right now.”

I froze. His words, cold and calculated, sent a shiver down my spine. Slowly, I lifted my gaze to examine the clothes draped over my trembling form. My eyes fell on the sweater—a piece of clothing that, in happier times, had symbolized comfort and a shared dream. “This sweater?” I murmured incredulously, my voice rising as I reached for it. “You bought it for me when you were broke, Patrick. You saved up for a whole month just to get it.

My fingers trembled as I began to pull it off and throw it at him, as if each movement was a rebellion against every memory and every betrayal. But I wasn’t finished. With deliberate, measured defiance, I reached for the delicate earrings that had once been my pride—an engagement gift meant to signify a promise of forever. I yanked them from my ears and hurled them in Patrick’s direction. “These earrings?” I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. “An engagement gift, a promise that was nothing but a lie.”

Without pausing to breathe, I then unfastened my shoes—shoes that, in a final symbolic gesture, had come to represent the very foundation of our bond. I kicked them away toward him. “These shoes,” I spat bitterly, “symbolize our everlasting bond—one that you shattered the moment you betrayed me. Are you happy now?”

In the charged stillness that followed the cascade of insults and the symbolic shedding of our shared past, I barely had time to catch my breath. The room spun in a maelstrom of whispered judgment and scornful stares. I had thrown away my memories—my sweater, my earrings, my shoes—each piece a token of what we once were, now discarded like trash. I staggered, pain and fury mingling in my veins, as I tried to regain control of my battered composure.

Then, in the very moment my defiance reached its zenith, I heard the soft, calculated steps of Becky moving closer to Patrick. With an air of affected sympathy that didn’t quite mask her smirk, she leaned in toward him, her tone deceptively gentle.

“You have been very nice to Giselle—way too nice,” she purred, her hand resting lightly on Patrick’s shoulder. Her voice dripped with condescension as she offered him a sideways glance, her eyes glittering with a mix of amusement and something more unsettling.

Patrick’s expression contorted into a sneer as he shot back without missing a beat, his tone dismissive. “It’s trash—nothing valuable.”

A ripple of laughter stirred in the tense air, and for an instant, I felt the sting of every word as if it were a lash across my already bleeding soul. Becky’s laughter was low and mocking, her eyes never leaving his face as if daring me to challenge the verdict that had been passed on our shattered union.

Becky’s hand tightened on Patrick’s shoulder as she stepped even closer to him, her voice rising in a tone that bordered on triumphant. “Well, Giselle,” she drawled, her words designed to puncture the last remnants of my pride, “it looks like Patrick is done with you. So why are you still holding onto that diamond ring?”