Chapter508
As Oliver approached, Marjorie revealed the now partially dried but completely destroyed divorce papers, feigning innocence as she explained, "My grip on the water glass weakened, and I accidentally wet your documents."
Oliver looked at her skeptically.
"Hey, you can't blame me for this! An elderly lady in her eighties is bound to be a bit shaky. Why didn't you keep the agreement safe?" Marjorie hastily tried to distance herself from the blame, pointing an accusing finger at her grandson.
Oliver simply stared at Marjorie, too weary to figure out whether Marjorie's actions were intentional or not. Taking the divorce agreement from Marjorie, he said calmly, "I'll be down shortly for the meal."
"Hey! That divorce paper is no good anymore! What are you doing with it? It's not legally binding!" Marjorie shouted at her grandson's retreating figure.
Oliver was speechless.
Natalie's name and the ink on the agreement were blurred.
Oliver dried it as best as he could and tucked it into his collection of documents. He thought he must be out of his mind, keeping such a useless thing.
…
In the deep silence of the night, Oliver lay in the master bedroom's king-size bed, feeling an emptiness that seemed to swallow the vast space around him.
Without the daily hustle, he feared even the faintest trace of Natalie's presence would vanish completely from the room.
She had lived there for a year, and her departure was in the blink of an eye, leaving behind scant evidence of her existence as if all they had shared was a daydream.
…
A week later.
Emily brought Natalie an invitation, saying, "There's a charity dinner the day after tomorrow. I think it'll be worth attending."
The glamor of the dinner hinged upon its sponsor and organizer: a renowned fashion designer and a prestigious fashion magazine.
In other words, besides the high society, the event would be buzzing with the fashion world's elite.
"Great," Natalie said, recognizing the perfect opportunity to network.
"Are you sure you are up for it?" Emily Reed asked, concerned.
"Yes, but I’ll need you to help me with a dress, something that covers my calves."
"Got it."
If she could cover her calves and walk a little slower, she should be just fine.
…
On the day of the charity gala, Emily arrived at noon with a gown and a makeup artist. She had selected a wine-red dress for Natalie—elegant and stunning, complete with sophisticated makeup and hairstyle that commanded attention.
Natalie, as always, seemed to transform any spot she stood into a runway.
"Walk a little for me; let me see," Emily instructed.
Considering Natalie's injury, Emily had only prepared three-inch heels for her—not typical for a model who would usually not be seen in anything less than four inches.
Natalie took a shallow breath and stepped forward slowly, her grace and poise perfect enough to fool anyone into believing she was of high-born aristocracy.
But Emily had watched Natalie's rise firsthand. She knew Natalie's usual style—bold and commanding, not this reserved pace.
"Natalie..." Emily began, perhaps to suggest she take it easy.
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