The company successfully made its initial public offering—going public and selling its shares to the public for the first time on the stock exchange. At the celebration party, I couldn’t resist sharing a second big announcement. "I’m getting married!"

The entire room erupted in applause, but my two childhood friends were left in stunned silence. They finally pried themselves away from the beautiful women around them and rushed over, demanding answers.

"Married? Who on earth would marry someone as tough as you?" One of them blurted out.

"Imogen, are you serious? Or have you just had too much to drink?"

"Every time you get tipsy, you say the craziest things! Last time, you even insisted you’d marry both of us!"

Laughter spread through the room. I just smiled, took out my phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker.

A voice crackled through, "Miss Jones, the wedding with Mr. Brown is all ready. Where are you?"

I tossed my wine glass and the microphone into my friends’ stunned hands. "The wedding will start soon!"

Weston was the first to snap out of it, smashing his glass to the floor. "Imogen, what kind of joke is this?"

I quickly stepped back to avoid the glass shards scattered across the floor. Weston, who once seemed concerned about even the slightest bump, now didn’t seem to care at all.

I ignored him and turned to the employees with an apologetic smile. “Everyone, enjoy yourselves! I’ve got a wedding to attend, so I won’t be staying! When I’m back from my honeymoon, I’ll bring wedding sweets and treat everyone to a grand meal!”

The laughter softened, and a few started to exchange puzzled looks. “Miss Jones, didn’t you always say you’d only marry Mr. Miller or Mr. Davis? How could you possibly—”

I smirked, casting a sidelong glance at Weston and Vincent, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Really? Am I the one chasing them down for marriage, or are they just assuming I should?”

Before I could say more, my phone buzzed again—the makeup artist, calling to remind me I had to get ready. With a last glance at the employees, I started to leave. But the tension in my tone clearly struck a nerve with my two so-called suitors, and just as I turned, Vincent grabbed my arm.

With a dark look, he muttered angrily, “Imogen, you’re really going all out to play your games at this celebration banquet!”

Weston chuckled, his signature charming smile intact, though his eyes held a flash of irritation. “For a second there, I almost believed it. You made me jealous. But really—who else but us would even consider marrying a headstrong woman like you?”

“If you want to share a toast with us, just say so,” one of them said with a sly grin. “With our friendship, I won’t refuse to cooperate with you. Don’t you think?”

They both offered me a glass of champagne. Seeing that I didn’t take it, they exchanged frantic glances, silently begging for my compliance, hoping I would play along and save face.

But I had no interest in entertaining their games. With a simple swipe, I brushed the glasses aside and moved to leave.

The two of them froze, their arms holding the glasses suspended in mid-air, their smiles faltering as they struggled to maintain their composure.

Nancy, the first to stir up trouble and push for the wedding toast, stepped forward, her wine glass swirling with practiced elegance. “Miss Jones, today is a day to celebrate our company’s listing. You can’t be the one to ruin the fun!”

The other women quickly gathered around, nodding in agreement, as if it would be unforgivable for me not to drink. It felt like an unspoken pressure to comply.

The same women who once fawned over us with gratitude were now acting as if they held the upper hand, empowered by the attention of Weston and the others. They were practically daring me to refuse.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It turned out I had been helping a group of ungrateful people all along.

I pushed Nancy aside, not using much force, but she stumbled and fell back. In a panic, she grabbed my arm, pulling me toward her as she tumbled.

I lost my balance and collided with her, and as I turned, I saw the towering champagne tower behind her start to wobble. Realizing it was about to crash, I struggled desperately to free myself from her grip.

But Nancy held on tightly, her voice frantic. “Miss Jones, I was wrong, let go… Help!”

The panic in her eyes mirrored the same madness I’d once admired in her—the same intensity when she used my money to study and escaped from the mountains. Back then, I respected her drive and determination. But now, it was clear that her first step out of that life was to drag me down with her.

As I glanced at the broken glass scattered across the floor, I thought to myself that at least if I fell, she would serve as a cushion.

At that moment, she was yanked aside by Weston and Vincent, and I crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.

Weston looked at the mess on the ground with disdain, his brows furrowed so deeply it seemed like they could crush a mosquito.

"Imogen, how did you end up like this? It’s absolutely revolting!" he spat, before turning to Nancy with a sudden shift in tone, full of concern. He spoke carefully, almost gently, "Nancy, are you hurt anywhere?"

Weston and Vincent immediately began inspecting Nancy from head to toe, as though she were some rare treasure. They found that her calves and feet had been scratched by glass shards, leaving behind two bloody marks. The moment they saw the injury, their concern seemed to escalate.

"Why are you just standing there? Go to the hotel, get a first-aid kit, and treat the wound!" Weston snapped.

"Imogen, you've really done a great job ruining the celebration banquet," Vincent muttered under his breath as he waved to the waiter, but then pointed at me, adding, "Clean up this mess, quickly."

The implication was clear. I was the mess that ruined the entire event.

If it weren't for one of the male subordinates pulling me up, I would've been left face-first in the glass shards. My palms were cut and covered in the sharp pieces, since I had hastily tried to push myself up off the floor. The pain was unbearable, and tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to control them.

One of the female subordinates tried to help me, but Vincent stopped her, coldly saying, "She’s just playing the victim. Why waste your time on her?"

Despite the harshness of his words, the female subordinate couldn’t stand by. Ignoring the murderous looks of both Vincent and Weston, she continued to help me.

Weston sneered, "Can’t you see she’s faking it, trying to get sympathy because she’s embarrassed? If you don’t have enough common sense to recognize that, maybe you shouldn’t be working here. I’ll have finance and HR sort out your salary and fire you on the spot."

As soon as he said it, he actually made the call to finance and HR, demanding that they fire the employee right there. I couldn’t believe Weston would treat long-time employees so carelessly. My instinct was to stop him.

"Weston, you can’t fire her as long as I’m here!" I shouted, desperate to make him stop.

Without hesitation, Weston kicked me.

The room tensed instantly, and several people urged Weston to let it go for the sake of company harmony.

I stared at him in disappointment, but he didn’t seem to care at all, and merely turned his attention back to Nancy, trying to console her.

Vincent, seeming to feel a bit of responsibility, bent down to help me up. But as soon as he touched me, the pain in my hand became too much, and I couldn’t help but scream, "Don’t move me!"

Everyone thought I was upset about the kick, and they quickly began advising me to calm down and not escalate things with Weston and the others.

What they didn't understand was that I couldn’t move because my palms were embedded with broken glass, and the wine had seeped into the open wounds. Every movement sent a searing jolt of pain through my body. But I didn’t have the time to explain, because Nancy—unscathed—was already crying, playing the victim.

"Miss Jones, what did I do wrong to make you do this to me?" she sobbed. "I just wanted to celebrate the company going public and was so happy for you and Mr. Miller. That's why I suggested we share a drink together..."

"Even if you're angry with me, you shouldn't take it out on Mr. Miller and the others."

Her ability to shift blame was flawless, as always. She had perfected the art of playing the victim. No wonder she was Weston and Vincent’s favorite. Her shamelessness was a mirror image of theirs.

And just like that, she managed to turn the tables. The employees, now swayed by her tears and words, started to side with her. "Miss Jones, today’s a big day, don’t make a scene," one of them said. "Nancy is young and playful, she didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be upset with her."

As I stood there, I could see the triumphant glint in Nancy’s eyes, the subtle mockery behind her words. To the others, it was clear: I was the one being petty. I was the one who had overreacted and hurt not just her, but myself in the process.

To them, it looked like I was simply jealous of Weston and the others.

Vincent, seeing that I wasn’t playing along, shoved me away with such force that I nearly cried out in agony. My body tensed in pain, and I almost lost my breath.

I couldn’t muster a single word in response, and the silence only seemed to deepen the contempt in the eyes of the employees. They couldn’t openly say much to my face, but it was obvious from their gazes that I had already lost their favor.

Finally, unable to tolerate it any longer, Weston spoke up.

"It's just a joke. How can you, a CEO, not take a joke?" Weston sneered, his words dripping with mockery.

Vincent, humiliated by the turn of events, was furious. "Imogen, can you stop being so disgusting? You wanted to drink with us but couldn’t even say it! First, you tease us with a fake marriage, then push Nancy to the brink, and now you’re throwing her under the bus!"

"If Weston and I hadn't acted quickly, you might have lost your life!" he added, his voice grew colder.

"I really didn't expect you to be so jealous and so vicious!"

They couldn’t see the blood soaking my hands, and all they cared about was saving their own faces and punishing Nancy.

Thankfully, someone had called an ambulance. As I gritted my teeth against the searing pain, I managed to say, with a bitter edge, "Sorry, I didn't know you were all so committed to drinking from the start. Don’t make a scene."

The two employees who had been fawning over Nancy sneered at me, "Okay, it’s come to this, stop pretending!"

The noise attracted the hotel manager, Mr. Green, who rushed in with the first aid kit. Seeing me sitting on the floor, he immediately crouched down to help treat my wounds, working quickly to stem the bleeding.

Weston, glaring at him, snatched the kit away and turned his attention to Nancy, disinfecting the scratches on her legs and feet.

Mr. Green looked back and forth between my bloodied hands and Nancy’s injuries, his frown deepening. "Mr. Miller, Mr. Davis, the priority is to stop Miss Jones's bleeding. Look at her hands, she's badly hurt."

It wasn’t until that moment that the two of them seemed to notice the extent of my injuries. They opened their mouths as if to say something, but all they could manage was a cold, "You deserve it."

I didn’t have the energy to waste on their spiteful words. I simply stood up, ignoring the pain, and made my way toward the ambulance. The trail of blood behind me stretched like the petals of a blooming Lycoris radiata.

The paramedics quickly took over, using tweezers to pull the glass shards from my palms and working swiftly to stop the bleeding.