Revenge Of The Jilted Bride

Jilted Bride 59

Chapter 59

"Elia," Eric said gently, "your shoulders aren't that broad. Don't try to carry the weight of the world. There are too many people in the slums for you to help everyone."

Ophelia could help one or two people find jobs, but not all of them. Her mind raced through the grim scenarios she'd

witnessed sick people withering away because they couldn't afford medical care, newborns succumbing to the bitter cold, and angry young men whose only problem-solving tool was their fists.

The slums were home to hundreds. It was impossible for her to take care of everyone. She wasn't a savior. She couldn't help them all.

Felix fell silent for a moment, unable to meet Ophelia's gaze. He could only ask his lackeys to go door-to-door, returning the

money.

Ophelia left what cash she had with the old woman and the girl. As she left the slums, she had already pushed Harry's words to the back of her mind.

Anyway, Ophelia had no intention of letting the Hastings family off in this life.

Meanwhile, at the top floor of Hastings Group, Harry had just walked in with his secretary and appraiser when he saw Owen beaming at them.

Owen strode forward, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Well done, Harry. You've done an excellent job this time."

The auction had barely ended when Owen received numerous congratulatory calls about securing the West End Soccer Field property. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. His eldest son had stepped up to the plate and hit a home run on his first solo project. It seemed he could entrust the company to Harry in the future.

However, noticing Harry's uneasy expression, Owen glanced at the secretary and appraiser. All three wore grim faces.

His hand slipped from Harry's shoulder as a sense of foreboding crept in. "What was the final bid?" Owen asked, the earlier celebratory phone calls now taking on a sinister tone. Something had clearly gone wrong.

Gone was the doting father. "Speak," Owen demanded, his voice sharp as steel.

Harry swallowed hard. "80 million dollars..."

his ears.

to Owen's head, his vision swimming as he struggled to stay upright. Seeing this, Harry

growled, "How the hell did you let this happen?" His fury was aimed squarely at

words. It was not like they had forced Harry to keep raising the bid. They'd had enough of Hastings Group's constant bullying, and now they were being blamed for this mess, too.

with resentment. "Mr. Owen, it was your son who got into a bidding war. He kept raising the bid

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unspoken message was clear. Harry had acted on impulse, so they couldn't be blamed. If they had protested too loudly, everyone around them would have found

clutched his chest, glaring

into the auction someho kept outbidding me. That's

more than to slap him right then and there, but he had to maintain some semblance of respect in front of his subordinates. If they'd been at home, he would have smacked him without hesitation. "Hold up," Owen said, his brow furrowing. "Who did you say was

"O-Ophelia," Harry mumbled.

frown deepened. Without the reminder, he'd almost forgotten he had such a daughter. "Gosh, Harry. When did you become as brainless as your brother? Huh? You should have just let

stripped of any remaining dignity. He didn't dare open his mouth. He just

the asking price, neither of them tried to stop me." Harry tried to shift the blame, and his usually composed

to fall into Harry's hands

secretary spoke up. "Mr. Harry, are you forgetting something? You said, and I quote, 'I'm the manager, so you

Mr. Owen, but I can no longer fulfill my role as an

receiving my resignation letter as well," the secretary added

slightly and left the office, not even giving Owen a chance to ask

know they messed up. Too ashamed to

his desk kept buzzing, no doubt a flood of sarcastic well-wishers. For

piece of land in the

which company she was representing. We're willing to offer them 77 million

want me to beg her?" Harry

his tone a mix of accusation and bargaining, "You choose - a seven-million-dollar loss or a 27-million-dollar loss. I'm not even asking you