Marry My Rival's Uncle for Revenge

They are angry.

Claire's POV

I stand near the polished marble pillars, glass of champagne in my hand, when I notice movement from the corner of my eye. Of course. Mike and Leona are striding toward me. Their faces are tight, brittle smiles plastered on for appearances, but their eyes tell the truth: fury, humiliation, disbelief.

A hush spreads around us as though the ballroom itself has decided to listen in. Doctors, nurses, benefactors—everyone angles closer without moving too obviously, eager to watch the fallout. My spine straightens instinctively. If they want a spectacle, I will give them one. But it will not be the kind they expect.

“Christine! Still, enjoying your little charade, I see.” Mike sneers, my name sounds like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.

“Charade? I don’t recall pretending to be anything I’m not. Can you say the same, Mike?” My voice is calm, measured. I tilt my head. A ripple moves through the crowd. Mike stiffens, but Leona slides in smoothly, her hand clutching his arm like she owns him.

“You think this stunt will last? You think sitting in that chair makes you worthy of it? Everyone knows you begged your father for the job. Without his name, you’re nothing,” Leana says. I let the words hang. Silence sharpens them, forces them back on her like knives she meant for me. Finally, I smile slowly and deliberately.

“It’s interesting, Leona. You speak of worth, but here you are clinging to someone else’s achievements. First Mike, now whoever else you can manipulate with your sweet little lies. Tell me, what exactly is your contribution to medicine, other than being an accessory at gala dinners?” I ask. The air vibrates with stifled gasps and a muffled laugh from somewhere behind me. Leona’s face flushes scarlet. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Mike steps forward, desperate to recover the ground she’s lost.

“This position, this department, was meant for me. Everyone knows it. Emma assured me ...” He cuts himself off too late, realising his slip. His face hardens, but I see the panic flicker in his eyes. I take a single step closer, lowering my voice just enough that everyone must strain to hear.

“Yes, Mike. Emma assured you. Yet here you stand, empty-handed. Doesn’t that tell you something?” I ask. The whisper of my words spreads like fire through dry grass. I can feel the shift in the room, their weight turning against him. Mike bristles, his jaw clenched, but I don’t give him space to reply.

“You had your chance, Mike. Many chances. What you didn’t realise is that positions like this aren’t given. They’re earned, and when the time came, you weren’t even in the running,” I say.

“You think this makes you powerful? You think humiliating us in public makes you better?” Leona hisses. I turn to her fully, holding her gaze until she falters.

“No, Leona. What makes me better is that I don’t need to humiliate you. You’ve managed that all on your own,” I say. The murmur from the crowd sharpens, like the room itself has exhaled. Leona’s hand tightens on Mike’s arm, dragging him back, but he resists, his pride unwilling to let go. He leans in, his voice a harsh whisper meant only for me, but I know everyone nearby will catch it.

“You’ll regret this, Christine. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t seen the end of me,” Mike says. I lift my chin.

“You’re right, Mike. I haven’t seen the end of you. But I’ve seen enough,” I say, my voice steady, and with that, I turn my back on him. On both of them. The crowd shifts, some dispersing, others lingering, their eyes following me with a new kind of respect. The sting of humiliation belongs to Mike and Leona now, not me. But my chest is tight, my heart racing. The victory is sharp, yes, but Jonathan’s words echo again: ‘Don’t carry too much hate.’ I know I should listen to him. However, this little victory made me feel better not only about myself, but also about my future. I am sure I will survive. Mike and Leona do not upset me anymore.

I try to push them aside, but they cling like burrs. My father beams from across the hall, clearly pleased with how I handled myself. Others nod subtly in my direction, approval in their eyes. Outwardly, I am composed. Inwardly, I am still burning. I retreat to the edge of the ballroom, setting my untouched champagne on a passing tray. I want air. I want space. But instead, I find Jonathan. He stands just beyond the cluster of guests, half in shadow, watching me. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes pin me in place. Dark, unreadable, intense. I cannot tell if he is judging me, admiring me, or warning me. Perhaps all three. The weight of his gaze is heavier than the stares of everyone else combined. It unsettles me more than Mike’s threats ever could.

For a heartbeat, the room seems to fade away. It is just him and me, his silence louder than any applause, sharper than any rebuke. I want to look away, but I can’t. My breath catches, traitorous, betraying the storm I’m trying so hard to control. He does not move toward me. He does not speak. He simply watches, unreadable, and it is enough to unravel the careful armour I’ve wrapped around myself tonight. Then, just as suddenly, someone passes between us, breaking the connection. When I look again, he is still there, still watching, but the moment has shifted. My composure returns, but my pulse does not slow. I turn back toward the crowd, my head held high, but inside I know the truth: Mike and Leona no longer have the power to shake me. Jonathan does. I don’t know if that terrifies me or thrills me.