Chapter 6
Mansion Scandal! Mrs. Stuart's Secret Rendezvous with First Love
Has the CEO's Devotion Run Dry? Former Flame Returns—First Love Still the Heart's True Desire?
The tabloids featured several strategically angled paparazzi shots: Lucius grabbing her wrist, another showing him presenting a diamond ring—one she had designed—in a coffee shop.
Her head was slightly bowed while Lucius looked earnest. The media had transformed it into a heart-wrenching scene of star-crossed lovers.
"Look what you've done!" Clara sat on the sofa, her well-maintained face contorted with rage. "Do you see what they're saying out there? The Jennings family reputation is in tatters because of you!"
Dressed in an expensive Chanel suit with immaculately manicured nails, she pointed accusingly at Beatrice, her fingertips trembling slightly.
Beatrice lifted her gaze from the tablet, regarding Clara calmly—no excuses, no panic. This composure only infuriated Clara more.
"What kind of attitude is this? Cat got your tongue?" Clara stood up, her chest heaving dramatically. "Listen to me. You will call Lucius now—immediately—and tell him to stop harassing you!"
She stepped closer, her voice rising. "Tell him to keep his vengeful thoughts away from our Jennings family! We can't withstand the revenge of someone like him!"
Beatrice's lips curved into a slight, cold smile. Lucius was worth a fortune now. If he truly wanted revenge, the Jennings family wouldn't stand a chance. No wonder they were so terrified by his appearance.
"After you call him, block every contact method. Cut him off completely!" Clara spoke faster. "Then crawl back to the Stuart Villa and apologize to Frederick—get on your knees if you have to!"
She gestured wildly. "Tell him you were confused, that you were tricked into meeting that nobody!"
"Nobody?" Beatrice softly repeated, as if savoring the absurdity. "He's hardly that anymore."
"I don't care what social circle claims him as their new elite—is he more powerful than Frederick?"
Clara remembered what the Jennings family had done to Lucius and felt a wave of dread. Hearing Beatrice defend him only ignited her anger further.
"Beatrice, don't forget your place! You are Frederick's wife!" Her voice turned accusatory. "If your womb had been more cooperative and you'd given the Stuart family a child by now, would a former boyfriend be able to cause such chaos?"
As she spoke, she gestured to a nearby servant. The servant approached carrying a black ceramic bowl. A strong, peculiar medicinal smell instantly filled the air—bitter and acrid with an earthy undertone.
The liquid inside was pitch-black and thick as tar, looking like it had been brewing for days.
Clara took the bowl, ignoring the foul odor, and thrust it at Beatrice with a twisted expression of forced concern.
"This is a special remedy I got from a trusted source. It's guaranteed to work. Drink it, and you'll get pregnant quickly. A woman's position is only secure once she has a child."
Beatrice stared at the concoction, her stomach churning. She remembered her childhood when Clara would personally make soup for her.
Back then, Clara had just become pregnant and hadn't yet given birth to Beatrice's brother. She believed adopting Beatrice had brought her the luck to conceive, so she still had some genuine affection for her adopted daughter.
She would smile and say, "Drink up, Bea. It'll help you grow." But after her brother Nathan Jennings was born, that warmth had vanished completely.
She became like fine china displayed in a cabinet—only for show or trade. Now, even this dubious brew had such a transparent purpose.
Not for her health, but to make her "bear fruit" and yield more benefits for the Jennings family.
"I won't drink it," Beatrice refused.
"You dare!" Clara's patience snapped. She stepped forward and gripped Beatrice's jaw, trying to force the bowl to her lips. "You'll drink it whether you want to or not!"
Her grip tightened painfully. "Who do you think you are? You're nothing but a servant raised by the Jennings family. Now we're telling you to please your master, and you're being picky?"
The cold rim of the bowl touched her lips, and the rancid smell assaulted her senses. Beatrice jerked her head away. The liquid splashed out, spattering dark stains across Clara's expensive skirt.
Clara shrieked and released her grip as if burned. Looking at the spots on her dress, her face turned ashen. "You... you ungrateful wretch! How dare you!"
She raised her hand, ready to deliver a slap. Beatrice didn't flinch. She just stared coldly, her eyes revealing not fear but a desolate wasteland.
The slap never landed. Clara's hand froze midair. Looking at Beatrice's face—so much more beautiful than her own—and those emotionless eyes, her rage transformed into deeper anxiety and panic.
What good would hitting her do? There were more important matters at stake. Clara lowered her hand and stepped back, collapsing onto the sofa. She seemed drained of all energy, her voice now trembling with a pleading tone.
"Bea, please, I'm begging you. You can't be this selfish." She adopted a tearful expression, appealing to emotion. "Do you have any idea how important that East City property is to our family?"
Her voice cracked with desperation. "That real estate project is your father's life's work, and your brother's future livelihood! All the paperwork is stalled—we're just waiting for Frederick's approval!"
Beatrice listened silently, her heart turning to ice. So this was the true purpose behind today's drama. Family reputation, her own name—all just smokescreens.
What they truly feared was that the scandal would anger Frederick and jeopardize the Jennings family's business interests.
"With this news circulating, you know Frederick's character. How could he possibly help us now?" Clara's tears flowed freely now. "Do you want to see your father's life's work destroyed? Do you want your brother homeless in the future?"
She grew increasingly emotional. "We raised you all these years, gave you the best of everything, made you into someone extraordinary. We're not asking you to bring glory to our ancestors—just to help your family when it matters most!"
She crawled off the sofa and grabbed Beatrice's hands, squeezing as if she might crush the bones.
"If you won't call Lucius, at least call Frederick. Ask him to teach Lucius a lesson!" Her eyes gleamed with desperate hope. "Then mention the East City project—ask him to pull some strings. If you don't give him a son, how will he know you're valuable to him?"
Valuable. The word echoed in Beatrice's mind. Since being brought into this family at eight years old, everything about her seemed measurable by "value."
Becoming philanthropist Brian's daughter to earn the Jennings family goodwill—that was her value. Growing up to secure a prestigious marriage that brought the family connections and resources—that was her value.
Now, needing to prove her functionality like a commodity to her benefactor, to secure more after-sales service for her birth family—that remained her value.
She looked down at Clara's hand gripping hers, with its enormous diamond ring gleaming coldly in the light.
"Mom," Beatrice finally spoke, her voice eerily calm, "what exactly am I to you?"
Clara was momentarily stunned by the question, then impatiently waved it away. "Is this the time for such talk? Make the call! Now!"
Beatrice gently, finger by finger, pried Clara's hand off her own. "Fine," she said, watching Clara's bewildered expression, and suddenly smiled. "I'll go prove I'm 'valuable' right now."