Revenge Of The Jilted Bride (Ophelia) novel Chapter 57

Chapter 57 

Harry’s fists clenched in anger, mirroring Nathan’s trademark scowl. The family resemblance was undeniable. 

Seizing the moment when no one else was around, Harry leaned in, his voice dripping with venom. “Mom was right about you. You’re nothing but a curse. Grandma died the day you were born. Dumping you was the smart move.” 

This was the first time Ophelia had heard these words in either of her lives. The smile faded from her face, replaced by a glacial stare. Her suspicions were true. She wasn’t switched at birth – she was an abandoned baby, discarded by the Hastings. 

Even when they’d reclaimed her years later, it was just to use her as a pawn in a marriage of convenience. Their eyes didn’t lie. The contempt and disgust they felt for her was as real as it gets. 

Ophelia didn’t believe she deserved to be thrown away or left to die. She quickly regained her composure, her smile never faltering. 

“You’d better keep your distance from now on,” she said sweetly, or you might find yourself in deep trouble. Oh, and congratulations! Dropping over 70 million dollars on a piece of land – that’s certainly Hastings Group style. And here I thought you could only afford a measly two million dollars.” 

“You…” Harry glared at her, his face turning red with anger. 

Ophelia’s smile grew even brighter as she watched Harry’s frustration. She turned and walked away with effortless grace. 

Christopher, following close behind, couldn’t resist twisting the knife. “Congratulations, Mr. Hastings.” The seemingly polite phrase stung Harry’s ears like an insult. 

Now Christopher finally understood why Ophelia held such deep animosity towards the Hastings family. It was hard to believe that someone could willingly abandon their own flesh and blood. No doubt, Hastings Group’s business practices were equally ruthless and devoid of humanity. Christopher felt grateful that he had met Ophelia. Otherwise, he might have, ended up working for the Hastings family. 

Ophelia slipped into the car, her face still a mask of indifference. But her tightly clenched fists betrayed her true emotions. She couldn’t help but scoff at how foolish she was in her previous life. She had actually believed she was switched at birth. 

“Miss Spencer, where would you like to go? I can drive you,” Christopher asked. 

“No need. Just drop me off at the next intersection,” Ophelia replied with a shake of her head. She wanted to walk alone for a while. 

Christopher furrowed his brow, concern evident in his voice. “It’s not easy to get a cab around here. If you want to check out the area, I’d be happy to show you around. Then I could drop you off wherever you need to go next.” 

Ophelia shot Christopher a sidelong glance. “Have you finished all your work? Or perhaps you’ve already taken care of your sick mother? You seem to have a lot of free time on your hands.” 

Christopher’s words caught in his throat. He wisely chose to stay quiet. Despite her youthful appearance, there was something about Ophelia that exuded an intangible pressure. 

“Pull over,” Ophelia commanded. 

Without hesitation, Christopher pulled over, and Ophelia got out of the car. 

Christopher opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, not wanting to risk another verbal lashing. Glancing around, he noticed a few taxis passing by and decided against saying anything more, so he simply drove away. 

Fall had arrived, and a cool breeze blew in from the sea. Ophelia walked slowly along the shore, heading towards the slums. As she passed a beachfront café, an abrupt commotion erupted from beneath the sun umbrellas. 

Chapter 57 

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“I’m sorry! It was an accident…” A janitor in her forties kept bowing her head in apology. 

A lavishly dressed woman, still unsatisfied, grabbed the janitor and insisted she polish her shoes. 

The janitor wiped the shoes, enduring disapproving looks from onlookers. 

“You low–class scum from the slums should stay in your filthy gutters where you belong. How dare you show your face out here?” the woman sneered. 

The moment the word “slums” was uttered, the surrounding patrons‘ gazes turned discriminatory. The prejudice in the air was palpable, more blatant than any racial bias. 

“I heard those people carry all sorts of nasty bugs,” a man at a nearby table muttered, loud enough for others to hear. 

“Yeah, those lowlifes should be locked up there. Keep them out of the city center,” another added. 

The chatter continued, growing more venomous with each passing moment. 

The tables nearest to the janitor quickly called for their checks, eager to leave. Even the waiter approached with a look of disgust, covering his nose and mouth as if the janitor were a pile of garbage. 

Head bowed, the janitor silently continued cleaning the woman’s shoes, seemingly accustomed to such treatment. Only after offering a series of groveling apologies did she dare to leave. 

Ophelia watched this scene unfold, a knot forming in her stomach. She couldn’t help but wonder when “slum” and “lowlife” became synonymous. 

On one side of the West End coast stood luxurious beachfront villas and towering skyscrapers. Yet just beyond the small hill lay a slum cobbled together from shipping containers and tattered cloth. 

They were living in the same city, but those in the slums were considered inferior. However, prejudice ran deep, an immovable force that seemed to resist all efforts at change. 

Ophelia knew that even if she stepped in to help now, it would only be a mere band–aid on a gaping wound. The root of the problem lay deep, 

She continued her stroll along the shoreline, watching as the crisp ocean breeze gave way to a pungent odor. The glittering towers receded behind her. 

Beyond a crumbling wall, the sea stretched out, its waves carrying a mosaic of plastic waste to the shore. A child in tattered clothes trailed behind an elderly person, both picking up discarded bottles. 

This area was home to many who couldn’t work – the elderly, the weak, the sick, and the disabled. They survived by scavenging trash. 

Some young, able–bodied residents found work outside the slums, but only in the lowest–paying jobs. They earned half of what others made, barely scraping by, all because they lived in the slums. 

The words “West End Slums” on their ID cards might as well have been a scarlet letter, marking them as second–class citizens. 

Suddenly, two young men snatched a bag of plastic bottles from an old lady who had just collected them. 

A shirtless youth, his skin leathered by the sun and his hair a thatch of sun–bleached straw, swaggered over. “Hand it over,” he growled. “Did you pay your dues this month?”