The Heiress and the Jackal

Today was the day of my engagement banquet with Cyrus Lambert. The banquet hall was filled to capacity; wine glasses clinked, and every face bore a smile of blessing.
I was holding a glass of champagne, about to greet Cyrus’s business partner, when suddenly the projection screen in the center of the banquet hall lit up.
There were no warm group photos, no romantic confessions—only four glaring red words: Mistress Stealing the Show.
Immediately after, my name was bolded and enlarged, followed by three deeply insulting words: the filthy mistress.
The entire hall fell silent in an instant, all eyes fixed on me.
I looked toward the person controlling the screen; Cyrus’s eight-year-old son, Colin Lambert, stood there clutching the remote, his face bearing a malice far beyond his years.
“Colin Lambert!” I forced down my anger, trembling as I called his name.
He hid behind Cyrus, timidly saying, “Dad, she is a mistress, the homewrecker who stole my mother’s place.”
Whispers swelled all around, their murmurs crashing over me like a tide, nearly drowning me.
I looked toward Cyrus, hoping he would defend me with a single word.
But he merely tousled Colin’s hair and gave the guests a casual smile: “Sorry for the disturbance, kids will be kids — just a childish prank.”
A prank?
My heart suddenly sank, and my fingertips went cold.
For six years, I have poured my heart out to Colin, treating him like my own son—only to be met with such a so-called “prank”?
“Cyrus, this is no prank.” My voice tightened. “You owe me an apology from him.”
Cyrus frowned, his tone sharp with impatience: “Quinn, don’t make such a fuss. Colin is still just a child.”
His defense felt like a blade, piercing through my last shred of hope.
At that moment, Colin suddenly rushed over, holding a small decorative pair of scissors in his hand, though I didn’t know when he had taken them.
“I will not apologize to you! You bi*ch! I will kill you!”
Before I could dodge, a sharp pain shot through my wrist.
Blood immediately seeped out, staining the pristine sleeve of my gown red.
Screams rose in waves, and amid the chaos, a figure both familiar and strange stepped inside.
The woman wore an elegant long dress, her makeup impeccable; it was Brianna Ellis, Colin’s biological mother and Cyrus’s former lover.
Cyrus’s face darkened as he saw her: “Brianna? When have you returned?”
Brianna ignored him, her eyes fixed on my bleeding wrist, a mocking smile curling at the corner of her lips: “Miss Deross, it seems my son Colin doesn’t like you.”
I clasped my bleeding wrist, my gaze moving from Cyrus’s panicked face to Brianna and Colin’s triumphant smirks.
A cold shiver spread from the depths of my heart, engulfing my whole body.
I drew a deep breath, wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, and said to Cyrus, clearly and deliberately: “Cyrus, I’m giving you seven days.”
“Either you make Brianna leave forever, properly discipline your son Colin, and apologize to me publicly.”
“Or we end the engagement right now and go our separate ways — for good.”