LGHTNOVELBOOK Chapter 92: Hatred
Celia Everwyn did not storm out of Vermillion Private School.
She did not run.
She did not cry.
She walked.
Her every step was controlled, measured, precise. Her sapphire-blue hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves, her emerald-green eyes were cold, distant, unreadable.
She heard the whispers.
Felt the glances.
Knew that everyone was watching her, dissecting every detail of what had just happened. Some were sympathetic, others amused. Some pitied her, others envied her. And then there were those like Iris—those who relished in it.
Celia ignored them all.
She moved through the grand entrance, descended the academy's pristine marble steps, and stepped into the waiting black car without a word. The driver, sensing the weight in the air, said nothing.
The moment the door shut, the silence inside the car was deafening.
The drive back to the Everwyn estate passed in a blur. Celia's mind replayed every second of the confrontation, every whispered remark, every sharp gaze that had landed on her like a knife pressing against her skin.
It wasn't just humiliation.
It was insult.
Her name. Her reputation. Her very place in this world—mocked, dragged through the dirt by a man who had once worshipped the ground she walked on.
Her fingers curled into fists against her lap, her nails biting into her skin, but she barely felt the pain.
Then—
The car pulled up to the grand Everwyn estate.
The gates opened.
The moment she stepped inside, the servants bowed. "Welcome home, Lady Celia."
She ignored them.
She walked past the lavishly decorated halls, past the towering bookshelves of her father's study, past the delicate floral arrangements her mother had placed in every corner of the estate.
Her heels clicked against the polished floors as she ascended the grand staircase.
And then—
She reached her room.
The second the door shut behind her—
Everything exploded.
CRASH!
The glass perfume bottles on her vanity shattered as her hand swiped them off the polished surface. The scent of crushed roses and lavender filled the air, thick, cloying, suffocating.
SLAM!
The ornate mirror cracked beneath the impact of the jewelry box she hurled at it. Shards of glass splintered across the floor, reflecting fragments of her furious expression back at her.
SMASH!
The decorative vase—a delicate heirloom passed down through generations—shattered against the wall, its porcelain pieces scattering like dust.
Her breath came out ragged, uneven, burning in her throat.
And then—
She screamed.
"DAMIEEEN!"
Her voice ripped through the air, raw, filled with fury, hatred, disbelief.
She grabbed the nearest object—a crystal paperweight—and threw it, hard, watching as it splintered against the far wall.
"DAMIEENNN!"
Again.
And again.
Each time, with more force.
With more venom.
With more desperation.
The image of him—smirking, mocking her, spitting at her feet—it burned in her mind like a brand against her skin.
The whispers. The laughter. The looks of pity.
The way he had walked away.
The way he had announced it before she could.
The way he had humiliated her.
Her body trembled with rage.
She couldn't stand it.
...
Just like that she stood in the wreckage of her own making, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. The scent of crushed perfume clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the dust of shattered glass and porcelain. Her emerald-green eyes burned—not with tears, but with something deeper. Something raw.
She could still hear them.
Iris.
"Tell me, are you still engaged, or did Damien Elford finally grow a spine and throw you away like yesterday's trash?"
Celia's nails curled against the silk sheets of her ruined bed, her fingers tightening so hard that they ached. That bitch. That smug, insufferable bitch. She had been waiting for this, hadn't she? She had known exactly what to say, exactly where to twist the knife.
But the worst part?
She hadn't been wrong.
Not entirely.
Damien had walked away from her. He had publicly discarded her before she could do the same to him. In front of everyone. And now, no matter how much she tried to spin the story, they would always remember it as his decision.
Her grip tightened until her knuckles turned white.
And him—
That disgusting, worthless, pathetic bastard—
"Your beggar family is always looking for more money to suck dry."
Celia's breath hitched, her vision going red with fury.
That wasn't supposed to be how this went. He wasn't supposed to be the one to humiliate her. She had tolerated him. She had allowed him to exist in her world. He should have been grateful, should have stayed in his place—yet he had the audacity to speak like that? To spit at her feet?
To call her a whore?
Something inside her snapped.
With a scream, she grabbed the heavy bedpost and slammed it down—again, and again, and again, until the wooden frame cracked under her rage.
It wasn't enough.
She kicked over the remaining nightstand, sending another ornate lamp crashing to the ground. Her bookshelves—lined with leather-bound editions of classical literature, untouched except for decoration—were next. She swiped an entire row off the shelves, watching as they hit the floor with dull, unsatisfying thuds.
Still not enough.
Her nails bit into the fabric of her ruined bedspread, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.
It wasn't enough.
She wanted to break something more.
A movement caught her eye.
A flicker of hesitation.
Her head snapped toward the doorway.
The maids.
They had gathered just outside, peering in with wide, fearful eyes, their hands clasped tightly together, uncertain whether they should interfere or flee.
Celia's gaze darkened.
"What are you looking at?"
One of the younger maids flinched. "M-My Lady, we—"
"I SAID, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"
Celia's voice cracked through the air like a whip, her fury lashing out at the nearest target. She took a step forward, the sharp click of her heels echoing through the shattered silence.
The maids scrambled back, their eyes wide with terror.
But Celia wasn't done.
She pointed sharply at the destruction around her. "Clean it," she hissed, her tone venomous. "Clean all of it. And make sure—" her breath was still ragged, her hands still shaking, "—that not a single trace of this filth remains."
The maids hesitated only for a second before rushing into the room, moving quickly, their hands trembling as they began picking up shards of glass and porcelain.
Celia stood in the middle of it all, her chest still rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths.
Damien had done this.
Damien had taken everything she built—her image, her reputation, her control—and defiled it with a single smirk.
She pressed her nails into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her.
He thinks he's won.
Her lips parted, just slightly, exhaling a slow, seething breath.
"Just wait, Damien," she murmured, so low that only she could hear it.
Her emerald-green eyes burned.
"You will regret this."
After that she stormed down the grand halls of the Everwyn estate, her heels clicking against the marble floors in sharp, unrelenting rhythm.
Her fury had not subsided.
Not even as the maids scrambled to erase the evidence of her outburst. Not even as the scent of shattered perfume began to fade, or as the broken glass was carefully swept away.
It wasn't enough.
The rage still burned in her chest, hot and suffocating. It clawed at her, demanding an outlet, demanding destruction.
And so—she went to the one place where she could let it out.
The training facility.
She pushed through the heavy steel doors, the air inside cool and charged with the faint hum of mana. The room was vast, lined with reinforced walls, built to withstand high-level training. Rows of dummies stood at attention, enchanted for durability, waiting to be struck down.
Celia wasted no time.
She stepped forward, her breath slow and controlled, and raised her hand.
Crackle.
Mana surged through her veins, gathering at her fingertips. A brilliant glow of blue energy danced around her palm, a storm barely contained.
And then—
BOOM!
A surge of raw mana exploded from her palm, slamming into the closest training dummy. The impact sent a powerful shockwave rippling through the room, the dummy shattering into pieces under the force.
Still—not enough.
Another attack.
And another.
Each time, the energy crackled brighter, wilder, her control slipping as her rage poured into every strike.
'Damien Elford.'
She gritted her teeth, her emerald-green eyes narrowing as she unleashed another blast, her mana burning through the reinforced target with ease.
'That disgusting pig. That maggot. That—'
BOOM!
The walls trembled from the force of her magic, but Celia barely noticed.
She was consumed—by the memory of his smirk, by the mockery in his voice, by the way he had spat at her feet like she was nothing.
Him.
The one who had always been beneath her.
The one who had dared—dared—to look at her as if she was worthless.
The mana flared violently around her hands, flickering wildly with her emotions.
"Enough."
A deep, measured voice cut through the crackling energy.
Celia froze.
Slowly, she turned—her breath still sharp, her body still thrumming with residual fury.
Her father stood at the entrance.
Victor Everwyn.
His posture was composed, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp, calculating eyes locked onto her with quiet intensity. He wasn't a physically imposing man—unlike the combat-trained nobles of high society, Victor Everwyn was a researcher first, a strategist.
But Celia still felt the weight of his presence.
His gaze drifted over the obliterated training dummies, the faint hum of unstable mana still lingering in the air.
"Hmm." His voice was thoughtful, calm. "A bit excessive, don't you think?"
Celia inhaled sharply, gritted her teeth.
She didn't want to talk.
Didn't want to deal with this right now.
But she couldn't ignore him.
Her father stepped forward, watching her carefully. "Has something changed?"
Celia clenched her fists.
And then—snapped.
"Damien Elford."
Victor raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Celia's voice was sharp, trembling with barely restrained fury. "He sullied our name."
There was a beat of silence.