The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 721

Chapter 721 Illusion Shattered 
Sadness rose slowly, thick as molasses, refusing to take a name. It seeped into fingers and knees, making his own body feel borrowed. 
For years he had painted the reunion in his mind–sunlit garden, strong arms, the sudden certainty of belonging. The thought had lulled him to sleep on nights the whispers grew sharp. 
Yet standing here, the only question that surfaced was small and cruel; why did truth hurt more than the lie ever had? 
Fragments replayed, jagged and loud. They spoke of Dawn as if she were a pawn to be removed from the board. Mother’s voice, soft yet eager, agreed. Betrayal curled like smoke in his throat. 
Memory shoved forward–Dawn skipping across the courtyard, her braid swinging, her palm stretching toward his. “Let’s be friends,” she had said, and the warmth of her fingers soaked straight into his wintered skin. 
No hand before that had simply held. The shock of kindness had almost tricked him into laughing aloud. 
The word he heard most was “illegitimate.” Adults hissed it, children echoed it, every syllable tipped with contempt. Each repetition hammered the label deeper into his name. 
At the Whitethorn residence the stares changed flavor but not purpose; they weighed how many uses he might yet provide. 
Whispers said his blood, perhaps his marrow, could cajole Master Whitethorn’s sickness to retreat. A living remedy disguised in formal clothes. 
More than once he crouched behind silk screens while maids exchanged secrets they thought safe, his name flickering between their teeth. 
“Shameless woman,” they spat, “clinging to Master Whitethorn like ivy.” The insult crawled under Verity’s collar, cold and persistent. 
They laughed harder at the notion of a stand–in laring to steal the rightful place. The accusation stunned him; the thought had never occurred. 
He did not crave her title. He only longed for a corner of the world that would not push him out. 
Still, envy slipped in, quiet as dusk. The unseen daughter possessed everything he borrowed 
-name, affection, tomorrow. 
Dr. Huxley had said Master Whitethorn missed his child so fiercely that he used Verity as a mirror to soothe himself. 
Later, Verity studied his reflection in wash–basin water, tracing features that might match hers–same chin, perhaps, or the tilt of a brow. 
Months passed until a sunroom door opened and the real daughter entered. One glance, and similarity crumbled like brittle sugar. 
She wore Master Whitethorn’s features instead firm nose, measured mouth, an authority carved straight from bone. 
Her eyes, especially, mirrored his, clear and unforgiving as winter light. 
When those eyes belonged to Master Whitethorn, they drilled through Verity, shaking breath and balance alike. 
In Dawn’s face, the same brightness softened. He still forgot how to speak, but the silence felt almost pleasant. 
“Hey, illegitimate girl,” Harvey called across the gilded hall. “Mom says your stint as a stand–in ends tonight. Trash like you shouldn’t be allowed at this banquet.” 
The words rang against crystal and marble, and every child nearby turned, scenting easy spectacle. 
Verity turned. Two paces away Harvey’s grin stretched wide, practiced and poisonous. 
Back home, Harvey hunted him for sport. Asked why, the older boy had sneered, “Because you’re the shame we can’t wash off.” 
Now Harvey pivoted to the circle of children. “Let’s toss the bastard out,” he proposed, voice sugar–sweet over steel. 
A smaller boy shuffled his feet. “But… isn’t she Ms. Bridger’s stand–in?” he whispered, the protest barely fluttering. 
He could hear the whisper before he even stepped through the doorway: Verity’s only the stand–in for Master Whitethorn’s daughter. In these gilded circles everyone already knew- and they never tired of repeating it. 
The children of that same glittering class carried the rumor like a toy to be shown off, gnawing on it whenever he walked by. 
Harvey’s voice cracked over the courtyard, loud enough to sting Verity’s ears. “There’s someone who looks even more like her now–he’s useless! Kick him out and the limited- edition Ultraman gold card is yours!” 
A collective gasp, then half a dozen eyes gleamed as if the card were already glittering between their fingers, and the scramble toward Verity began. 
He planted his feet, pulse roaring, refusing to move. 
If they dragged him outside, Mother would come and never find him–she always said the mansion was a maze. 
Harvey shrilled again, voice thin but certain. “Get out! You don’t belong here!” 
Voices overlapped, each echo sharper than the last: “Yeah, leave! Hurry up!” 
A palm slammed between his shoulders; the floor jumped; before the sting settled, a shoe drove into his ribs. 
Instinct swept in–arms over skull, spine curling tight, breath cinched small. 
The thuds multiplied, a brutal, uneven rhythm pounding through his curled frame. 
He sealed his eyes shut and swallowed the groan clawing up his throat. 
It felt horribly familiar–the same dull ache that used to follow Mother’s swinging belt. 
If he could just lie still, it would stop. 
Just hold on. 
Through the lattice of his arms he caught Harvey’s sneakers and the satisfied angle of Harvey’s grin. 
Harvey had always hated that the grown–ups fussed over Verity, the fake heir who wore another child’s shadow. 
Most times, the moment Harvey pinched or tripped him, an adult’s voice would slice in and drag Harvey away. 
Still, every whisper reminded Verity he was only the Lu family’s bastard kept in the wings. The shinier their praise became, the darker Harvey’s stare grew. 
Today that stare burned with two years of stored resentment, and no servant hovered to quench it. 
Harvey must have known their parents were busy elsewhere; his kicks carried that bold certainty. 
Verity clamped his jaw around his lower lip, tasting iron as he shielded his skull. 
The blows kept raining, each one stacking onto the last until pain blurred into one endless wave. 
A wild thought surfaced–could they beat him to death right here? 
Everything hurt, every breath, every heartbeat. 
Would Mother cry if he never opened his eyes again? 
And her- 
Dawn’s laughing face flickered behind his eyelids, bright enough to eclipse the courtyard’s sun. 
Would she…? 
Verity huddled on the cold tile, arms wrapped around her knees, when a sharp, ringing voice sliced through the corridor. The sound yanked her upright before she could think, every muscle locked in startled attention. 
That was Dawn’s voice. Recognition flooded Verity so fast it made her dizzy. 
The kicks, shoves, and laughter around her halted at once, as though someone had slammed an iron bar across the hallway. 
A boy shouted, “We’re throwing her out! She’s an illegitimate brat who doesn’t belong here!” The word hit harder than any boot, even after all the times she had heard it before. 
Dawn’s delicate brows drew tight. “Even if she is illegitimate, what right do you have to drive her.