Chapter 3

The hallway fell dead silent as everyone stared at the velvet box in Isadora's hand.

Macy had barely begun to savor her smug triumph when Isadora turned toward the large, ornate brass trash can resting beside the heavy front doors.

With an effortless flick of her slender wrist, Isadora tossed the entire box inside.

Clang!

The sharp, hollow clatter of metal and stone rang through the silence like a gunshot.

Brenda’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Macy’s victorious smile froze, shattering completely.

"You... you threw it away?!" Brenda screeched, her voice cracking with pure outrage. "Isadora, have you completely lost your mind?! That was your sister’s most treasured gift, offered out of the sheer goodness of her heart, and you threw it in the trash like common garbage?!"

Isadora slowly turned to face them, her gaze cool, aloof, and devoid of the slightest tremor.

"She said she gave it to me," Isadora said languidly. "If it's mine, I have every right to dispose of it as I see fit."

She swept an unimpressed glance toward the trash can. "Besides, clouded clarity, a clumsy cut, and cheap brass prongs—I’m genuinely curious what third-rate back-alley workshop was hired to produce such shoddy junk. A hundred thousand dollars? In my eyes, it isn't worth a single dime."

Macy's face turned crimson, mortified that her supposedly "exclusive designer" piece had been dissected so ruthlessly in front of the entire household.

"For the record," Isadora continued, adjusting the strap of her backpack, "every single item you people ever bought for me remains upstairs in that bedroom untouched. The clothes on my back and the items in this bag were paid for with my own money."

From the back of the hallway, a senior maid sneered loudly, eager to curry favor with Brenda: "Your own money? Miss Isadora, every cent you ever spent came straight from the Master's accounts!"

Isadora’s eyes narrowed into twin daggers of ice, pinning the woman to the wall with an aura so suffocating the maid shrank back.

"Where my money comes from is none of your concern," Isadora murmured, her voice smooth yet razor-sharp. "You are paid to clean the floors and keep your mouth shut. Stick to doing your job."

The maid’s face drained of color as she clamped her lips together in humiliation.

"That's enough—"

A solemn voice broke through the tension. Warren Shaw stepped forward, letting out a heavy, weary sigh as if playing the martyr. Straightening his suit, he put on a practiced show of patriarchal magnanimity: "Isadora, the car should be here by now. Come, let me walk you out to the gate one last time."

"There's no need," Isadora cut in, her voice flat and formal. "Mr. Shaw, please remain where you are."

Mr. Shaw.

The cold, distant address hit Warren like a physical slap to the face. His cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment before the watching servants. The eighteen-year familial bond had been severed with two icy syllables, completely shutting down his attempt to look gracious.

"Sir, shouldn't we search her bag?" the scolded maid whispered vindictively to Warren, unwilling to let it go. "It looks packed full—"

"Quiet!" Warren snapped, mortified. As a prominent tycoon, the last thing he wanted was the indignity of having his staff rifle through a teenage girl's bag on the doorstep.

Without another word, Isadora pushed through the heavy double doors and stepped out into the crisp evening air, leaving the stifling Shaw mansion behind forever.

She walked down the long, manicured private driveway. At the wrought-iron front gates, a black sedan was idling by the curb.

Yet the vehicle was in a shocking state. The front bumper was crumpled, one side bore severe scrapes and dents, and the windshield had spiderweb cracks running across one corner.

A middle-aged man in a dark chauffeur's uniform hurried out from the driver's side. His glasses were crooked and a smudge of oil stained his lapel, yet the moment his eyes landed on Isadora, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The young woman before him had brows delicate as a painting and clear, enchanting eyes that carried an effortless, breathtaking elegance. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to his Madam in her younger years—yet this girl radiated an innate, regal authority far more commanding and dangerous than anything he had ever seen.

Snapping out of his daze, the driver bowed deeply, his voice full of genuine deference and urgent remorse.

"I am terribly sorry, Sixth Young Miss!" he stammered, bowing low. "A heavy truck rear-ended us just two blocks away and we clipped a guardrail. I was so afraid of delaying your precious time that I didn't return home to swap vehicles... But I've inspected it thoroughly; the engine is completely intact, only the cosmetic exterior is damaged—"

Isadora's lips curved into a faint, intrigued smirk.

"Sixth Young Miss?" she murmured.

"Yes, Miss! You are the sixth child in the family, with five older brothers above you!" the driver added hurriedly. "Forgive my lack of manners—I am the family's head chauffeur. You may call me Uncle Lewis."

Five older brothers? A dedicated chauffeur?

Isadora's gaze swept over the mangled vehicle. The badge on the hood might be scratched, but beneath the battered paint, she recognized the hand-finished curves of a bespoke custom Rolls-Royce Phantom—a one-of-a-kind bulletproof model worth well over a hundred million dollars.

It seemed her biological parents weren't quite the destitute paupers the Shaws had made them out to be.

"Sixth Miss, where is your luggage?" Uncle Lewis asked, looking at her lone backpack with concern. "Is it inside? I'll go in and carry it for you."

"No need. Everything I own is right here," Isadora replied with lazy calm.

"Understood," Uncle Lewis nodded respectfully. "Then please, wait inside the car for a moment. I must bring the greeting gifts prepared by the Master and Madam inside to express their gratitude to your foster parents, and then we will depart immediately."

Uncle Lewis reached out and pulled the handle to open the rear passenger door for her.

Clang!

With a jarring metallic shudder, the door hinges snapped loose, and the entire door crashed flat onto the asphalt!

Uncle Lewis froze in horror, his face draining of blood.

And right at that exact second, the heavy front doors of the Shaw villa swung wide as Warren, Brenda, and Macy strutted out into the courtyard, ready to witness her humiliation.