Rising to the top with my three hybrid mates Chapter 4: I am the villain in my story

Eleanors POV

Dickson’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd, sharp with condescension. "You still haven’t answered my question, Eleanor. What are you really doing here?"

Mira bristled beside , her grip tightening on my arm. "She’s a Vexxon employee, sa as you. She has every right—"

"I know Eleanor never attends these events," Dickson interrupted, his gaze locked onto with that familiar, infuriating smirk. "She’s only here because she wants to cause trouble. To get my attention." He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "It won’t work."

His eyes raked over my silver hair, the way it cascaded freely down my back—no longer hidden, no longer dyed to his preference. "And this?" He gestured dismissively. "Is just enough proof. You know I don’t like you hair. It’s pathetic."

My nails dug into my palms, but I kept my voice steady. "I ca for the event, Dickson. That’s all."

Priscilla—my sister—let out a soft, theatrical sigh. "It’s been so long, Eleanor. We haven’t heard from you. We has been deeply worried, after you cut ties with us. Why did you abandon the family?" Her voice was syrup-sweet, the sa tone she’d used our entire lives to paint herself as the victim.

Says the person that made everyone see as the bad person.

I cut ties with the family? She ans her family, not mine.

Priscilla had spent my childhood stealing everything I loved—toys, clothes, opportunities—always excused by our parents and others because of her "condition."

Dickson shook his head, his voice dripping with false pity. "I don’t understand how you two share the sa blood. Priscilla is soft. Honest. Compromising." He emphasized the word. "She has compassion for even venom-spitting people like you."

My hands trembled at my sides as I stared at them.

"Two whole years," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "We were together for two years plus, Dickson. Were you... were you with her this whole ti?"

"Eleanor, please. Stop trying to co between us. Everyone knows those three years, you were just... disturbing Dickson’s peace." She tilted her head, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "He only endured your harassnt out of pity."

Pity?

The word carved into like a blade.

Dickson nodded, his expression solemn. "Priscilla endured so much, watching you cling to like so desperate—"

"Endured?" Mira cut in, her voice sharp with fury. "Are you serious right now?"

But Dickson ignored her, his gaze locked onto mine. "I couldn’t let Priscilla suffer anymore. I had to make it clear to you, we were never together, Eleanor. Not really."

The murmurs around us grew louder.

"Is she really interested in her sisters fiancé?"

"Yeah, she has no sha, no sha at all..."

Mira stepped forward."You’re a liar, Dickson.

You were in an actual relationship with Eleanor."

Dickson smirked. "Where is the proof?"

My stomach dropped.

Proof.

There was none. No pictures—because he’d insisted on keeping our relationship "private." No gifts—because he’d claid material things were "superficial."

I had nothing.

My vision blurred, tears threatening to spill over. No. Not here. Not in front of them.

Priscilla reached out, her fingers brushing my arm in a mockery of comfort. "It’s okay, Eleanor. I forgive you."

Her voice dripped with false concern as she added, "Mom and Dad miss you so much, you know. Even though you couldn’t be bothered to visit them all these years."

I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead. I can’t stand to look at their faces again.

Dickson’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "Why are you ignoring her, Eleanor? After everything she’s done for you?"

"That’s enough. Leave her alone." Mira warned.

Then, on cue, Priscilla clutched her chest with dramatic flair. "I... I don’t feel so well," she gasped, leaning heavily into Dickson.

Dickson imdiately wrapped his arms around her. "See what you’ve done?" he spat at , his voice trembling with outrage. "This is why I could never love soone like you. Priscilla only wanted to reunite you with the family that you anandoned , and you’re just sitting there like a heartless—"

Heartless.

The word echoed in my skull. After everything —after three years of loving soone the way I thought I should, dimming my light, giving until I had nothing left— I was heartless?

Hot tears burned behind my eyes, threatening to spill over. No.

I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. I wouldn’t cry in front of them—not Dickson, not Priscilla, not the crowd of strangers who had already decided I was the villain in this story.

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse ," I muttered, my voice barely steady.

Dickson scoffed. "Yeah, go hide yourself. The last thing Priscilla needs is to see your drama, making her condition worse."

The words were a slap, but I didn’t flinch. I turned away, my silver-white hair a curtain between and their pitying stares.

The crowd parted as I walked, their whispers following like ghosts:

"Did you see how she looked at them?"

"So bitter..."

"That man is right..."

Breathe. Just breathe.

But my vision blurred anyway, tears turning the glittering hall into a sar of light. I needed to find the restroom.

Then I ran.

Not the graceful, composed exit of soone who still had dignity left to salvage—no, this was pure flight, my heels clicking too loudly against the ground as I turned corners blindly, not caring where I ended up. Anywhere was better than there. Better than his voice slicing through like I was nothing.

Tired.

The word pounded in ti with my pulse. I was so tired—of shrinking myself to fit into spaces that never wanted , of swallowing every hurt because speaking up felt like too much trouble, of loving people who only knew how to take.

A part of wanted to scream. To turn back and finally, finally let loose every word I’d bitten back for years.

But the ache in my chest was familiar, poisonous—Don’t. You’ll only make it worse. Just endure. Just survive.

Maybe I wasn’t ant to be better. Maybe giving up was the only way this ended.

Then—

A scent.

Sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around like a spell. Not just one, but three distinct fragrances weaving together.

I slowed, wiping at my tear-streaked face as I followed it down the hallway without thinking.

As the noise of the gala fading behind , the scent grew stronger, pulling forward until—

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

And there they were.

Three n.

Three pairs of eyes locking onto with the weight of a storm.