Chapter 200/The Ghost Named ’Anne’

Chapter 200: 200/The Ghost Named ’Anne’

Chapter 200

Stephanie’s point of view

I swallowed the rest of my words in bitter frustration, remaining completely silent as he took a calm sip of his coffee. Turning on my heel with suppressed anger, I marched sharply toward my own office. I wanted to start sketching immediately to ease the overwhelming burden on my shoulders, but my plan naturally evaporated the moment the employees began to arrive and the endless daily workflow kicked in.

I spent the following hours in a non-stop living hell. Between managing the details of the new exclusive collection, selecting fabrics, matching the appropriate colors, and setting the precise measurements for each piece, I was also dragged into lengthy meetings with the staff to brainstorm new design concepts. All of this was topped by serving the insufferable Vincent, who didn’t stop calling me in for every minor detail.

At one point he wanted another cup of coffee; at another, he carelessly dropped his pen on the floor and shot me a look commanding me to pick it up; later, he had me call his private dentist to book an appointment, and then send an important email... all while his secretary sat comfortably behind her desk with a cold face, carelessly scrolling through her phone because I was essentially performing her entire job for her.

Finally, the grueling working hours came to an end. As usual, I found myself responsible for driving him back to his estate in my car after an exhausting day. I felt a bone-deep fatigue, and the mere thought that I had to sketch ten complete fall dress designs to hand in tomorrow made my head feel like it was about to explode from the sheer pressure.

We arrived in front of his estate gates, and I killed the engine with a tired sigh. Vincent shifted in his seat, turning toward me with a cold, harsh expression, stating sharply: "I highly dislike repeating myself to you every single time, Miss Miller."

I understood his glaring hint immediately. Sighting in bitter defeat, I quickly got out of the car, walked over to his side, and opened the door for him. He stepped out, his absolute elegance untouched by the long day. He looked at me with a dominant posture, gesturing toward the entrance of the mansion: "Come inside with me."

I desperately wanted to protest, opening my mouth to tell him that I was exhausted and needed to go home to start sketching, but his stern expression silenced me. I followed him inside with weak, defeated steps.

We had barely taken a few steps through the spacious foyer into the living room when we found his mother sitting elegantly on the velvet sofa. Sitting right next to her was a blonde girl, excessively and glamorously dressed... and she was not just any ordinary girl to me.

I froze solid in my tracks, my pupils dilating automatically as dark memories of my high school years crashed down on my head like a thunderbolt. It was Claire the exact same girl who had relentlessly bullied me and crushed my pride with her cruelty in the past.

Claire rose from the sofa with exaggerated grace. She stared at me with narrowed eyes that carried a mixture of surprise and blatant mockery, a smug smirk stretching across her bright-red lips as she spoke in an incredibly provoking voice: "Stephanie Miller? Is that actually you?!"

I stood rooted to the spot, a sudden, biting cold sweeping through my veins and freezing the very blood in my body. Her gaze hadn’t changed in the slightest. She wore the exact same condescending sneer in her narrowed blue eyes, the same twisted, mocking smile she had weaponized back in the dark hallways of high school to strip away every ounce of my self-confidence.

Claire had grown up, and she certainly looked more polished in her short velvet dress that hugged her curves, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in meticulously styled, cascading waves. Yet her rotten, venomous core remained entirely untouched.

She stepped off the plush Persian rug, her movements fluid and light as she came to a halt just two paces away from me. Her eyes traveled up and down my frame with blatant insolence taking in my simple hairstyle, lingering on my formal work attire that looked utterly exhausted after a grueling day, and finally dropping to my shoes. Her lips curled into a sneer of disgust, poorly masked behind a facade of fake astonishment.

"Oh my god..." she murmured, letting out a soft, poisonous laugh. "I absolutely never expected to run into you in a place like this, Stephanie. I was honestly hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me, but it looks like the years haven’t been quite as kind to you as you might have hoped."

I clamped my hands tightly behind my back, digging my fingernails into my palms until it hurt, desperately trying to anchor myself against the violent tremors and the agonizing memories that threatened to tear through my hard-won composure. swallowing the lump of humiliation rising in my throat, I forced my face to remain flat and entirely expressionless. I refused to give her the immense satisfaction of seeing me break, even as my heart hammered frantically against my ribs.

Margaret, Vincent’s mother, broke the heavy silence. Her sharp, calculating eyes had been taking in the entire exchange with cold amusement.

Leaning slightly forward on the velvet sofa, her diamond-encrusted fingers lazily caressing the rim of her porcelain teacup, she asked in a cool, measured tone:

"Claire, dear... do you already know Miss Miller?"

For a second, the room seemed to tilt, and the opulent, towering walls of the estate felt like they were closing in on me to choke the air right out of my lungs. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole rather than have to stand there like defenseless prey caught between the claws of my painful past, in the form of Claire, and my bitter present, in the form of the arrogant Vincent and his insufferable family.

Claire slowly tore her eyes away from me, turning to plaster a wide, artificial smile on her face for Margaret. She tilted her head with a sickening, calculated sweetness, her voice dripping like warm honey laced with arsenic.

"Oh, I absolutely do, Aunt Margaret. Who could ever forget Stephanie Miller? Or ’Anne,’ as everyone used to call her back then because of her red hair and completely flat chest. She was practically a ghost in our high school..."

She paused for a beat, her gaze sliding back over me with suffocating insolence, lingering heavily on the curves of my figure. A mocking, razor-sharp smirk pulled at her lips.

"Though I must say, Stephanie... it looks like you’ve had some plastic surgery to finally get yourself some curves."