Marry My Rival's Uncle for Revenge

She is a Baxter?

Christine's POV

The ballroom falls silent after my father’s words. His voice carries across the marble hall, resonant and commanding, impossible to ignore.

“Everybody, I want you to meet my daughter, Dr. Christine Waltz. After her divorce, she will be known again as Dr. Christine Baxter.” My father says.

The shock ripples like a tidal wave. I see it immediately in their faces—eyebrows arching, lips parting, glasses of champagne lowering mid-air. The polite smiles freeze. Conversations falter. The whispering begins. I stand there, golden gown shimmering under the chandeliers, and for a moment, the silence feels suffocating. My pulse drums against my ears. All my life, I have known this community thrives on prestige, connections, and power. To them, identity is everything. Tonight, my true identity has shifted their entire narrative.

“She’s Baxter’s daughter?” A woman murmurs, her jewelled hand covering her mouth.

“That means Mike has been parading around like he’s above her …” Another adds.

“…. when she’s the heir to West View’s legacy?” Their voices overlap, hushed but not hushed enough. I catch fragments everywhere. It is a storm of disbelief, envy, and thinly veiled fear. I look straight ahead, refusing to shrink. If I let them see weakness now, they will feed on it. Jonathan stands a little to my right, tall and steady, his sharp gaze sweeping the crowd. My father’s presence beside me radiates power, his arm around my shoulders firm, protective, grounding me when I feel the weight of all their eyes. Mike’s face is a portrait of confusion. His mouth opens, then closes, like he cannot find words. He stares at me as if he has never truly seen me before. His hand tightens around Emma’s, but even she shifts uncomfortably at his side. Her smug confidence melts, replaced by unease.

“Y…your daughter? This is some kind of …of mistake. Christine? She’s … she’s just …” Mike stammers, his voice finally breaking the silence.

“Just what?” My father interrupts smoothly, his voice cold steel.

I glance at Mike, savouring the shock on his face. Once, I would have trembled under his tone, the mockery of his friends, the judgment of his family. Not anymore. Tonight, the truth has changed the board.

“I had no idea. “Christine never … never mentioned …” Maureen says suddenly, her voice high and strained. She is clutching her pearls as though the revelation physically struck her.

“Because it was not relevant, I built my career without leaning on my father’s name. I wanted to stand on my own, not on inherited power. But do not mistake my silence for weakness. I am Dr. Baxter’s daughter, yes, but I am also Dr. Christine Waltz, soon to reclaim my name as Dr. Baxter, and I will not allow any of you to destroy that,” I cut in sharply. My voice rings clear, surprising even me with its steadiness. The whispers grow louder, a buzzing hive of gossip, shock, and speculation. I can hear my ex-husband’s friends muttering, their tone shifting from laughter to nervous calculation. Mike stiffens, his face draining of colour. He looks around, perhaps realising that the room he once believed was his audience is no longer laughing with him. They are watching him struggle. They are reconsidering their alliances.

“Christine, why didn’t you tell anyone? Were you afraid no one would believe you could make it without your father’s help?” Mike says again, forcing out a laugh that sounds hollow. I step forward, meeting his eyes. The lights catch on the slit of my gown, the shimmer of gold as I move, but I feel no vanity, only a blaze of purpose.

“I didn’t tell anyone because it wasn’t necessary. Unlike you, Mike, I don’t need validation from a surname. I don’t need to marry into status or grovel at the feet of the powerful. I worked for my place here,” I say. The crowd murmurs louder, excitement building like waves cresting. Emma pulls at Mike’s sleeve.

“Stop,” she hisses under her breath, but in the silence of the room, even that carries. Her face is pale, her bravado from earlier gone. Jonathan finally speaks, his tone cutting across the noise.

“Enough of this spectacle. Tonight, is about charity,” Jonathan says. His voice carries authority, but I notice the way the women in the room glance at him, then at me, whispering about our proximity, about rumours they will undoubtedly spin by tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Let them talk. Maureen is still trying to recover.

“Christine, if you are Dr. Baxter’s daughter, then… then why did you treat my son so badly, why did you marry him at all?” Maureen says. My breath catches, and I force myself not to flinch. They do not deserve the truth of my private regrets. Still, the question cuts deep. I straighten.

“Because once, I believed in him. I believed in his potential, in his promises. But love without respect is nothing. And he showed me exactly how little he respected me,” I say.

“She’s stronger than I thought,” I hear someone whisper.

“Baxter’s daughter, and she endured that? Incredible,” Another adds.

Mike’s jaw tightens. His pride is crumbling, the mask slipping. He mutters something under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear, but I catch it: “You’ll regret this.”

“No, Mike. You will, I lift my chin higher.

The orchestra begins to play again, hesitant at first, then stronger, as though the musicians want to sweep the tension away with melody. Waiters continue to glide between guests with trays of champagne, though now, the drinks remain mostly untouched. The real intoxication tonight is the revelation of who I am—and who I will become.

“You handled that beautifully, Christine. I’m proud of you,” My father leans close, his whisper just for me. The words wrap around me like armour. For years, I had been shrinking in the shadows of ridicule, betrayal, and self-doubt. Tonight, for the first time, I feel the light shift. People begin to approach cautiously. Colleagues, acquaintances, even rivals. They extend their hands, offer stiff congratulations, and make attempts at polite conversation, their eyes darting between me and my father. Every handshake is an acknowledgement: the balance of power has changed. Mike and his family stand apart, their circle shrinking. Emma clutches her glass too tightly, her knuckles white. Maureen whispers furiously in her husband’s ear, though I can see by his expression that even he is shaken. Their certainty is gone. Their arrogance falters.

Jonathan moves closer, his presence protective though he says nothing. I catch his eye briefly, and there is something there, something steady, unspoken, that makes me breathe easier. The night stretches on, but the tone has shifted permanently. The announcement has not even been made yet. They wanted to see me as the discarded wife, the desperate woman clinging to relevance. Instead, they see me as what I truly am: a Baxter, a doctor, a woman who refuses to bow. As I stand beneath the glittering chandeliers, surrounded by their whispers, I realise something else. This is only the beginning of my new life. A life without Mike and his family. A new life without humiliation. A life of freedom!