C4 Shattered illusion's

The morning sunlight, often a welcome visitor, now felt like an unwelcome spotlight on Sahara's face. It cast harsh shadows under her eyes, mirroring the dark hollows that had settled there since her father's departure from their lives.

She sat by the window, the vibrant world outside a muted watercolor painting compared to the storm raging within. Monique, her mother, sat opposite, flipping through the worn pages of their family album. Each photo captured laughter, sun-kissed skin, and carefree smiles - a stark contrast to the present.

Louise, the eternal optimist, bustled in, her smile a beacon in their gloom. "Come on, moppets," she chirped, her voice tinged with forced cheer. "This day won't save itself. How about we paint it with some amusement park magic? My treat!"

Monique hesitated, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a photo where Sahara, a giggling toddler, clutched a cotton candy cloud in her sticky hands.

The park, once a playground of laughter and screams, now loomed like a haunted house of memories. But looking at Sahara, a statue sculpted from despair, Monique knew they couldn't stay trapped in this silent mausoleum of their loss.

Louise's smile faltered at the lingering silence. She glanced at Sahara, whose gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, and then back at Monique. "Please, just for an hour, okay?" she implored.

Monique's eyes flickered to Sahara, then back to Louise. A flicker of hope, fragile as a butterfly wing, fluttered in her chest.

"Okay," she said, the single word a dam breaking, releasing a torrent of pent-up emotions.

"Yeah?" Louise yelped, unable to contain her joy at her little success.

"We need a bit of sunshine, don't we?"

"Wonderful!"

Sahara, finally roused from her reverie, turned. Her eyes, filled with a raw longing, met Monique's. "Can we ask Daddy to join us?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

Monique's heart sank. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that Clinton wouldn't come. But seeing the yearning in Sahara's eyes, the hope that clung to her like a ragged cloak, she couldn't bear to say no.

"Of course, honey," she replied, her voice thick with unshed tears.

So, they drove to Clinton's office, a building that had become a symbol of everything broken in their family. The lobby was a cacophony of activity, buzzing with the energy of ambition and deadlines.

Monique and Sahara, dressed in their casual weekend clothes, felt like intruders in this world of tailored suits and polished smiles.

The air was thick with the cloying scent of lilies and the forced joviality of a celebration not for them. From the moment they entered, a suffocating silence descended, broken only by the clatter of hurried footsteps and the nervous whispers that followed their every move.

Monique, her chin held high, pretended not to notice the pitying glances and the barely veiled scorn. But beneath the facade, a storm raged. Shame, anger, and a primal need to protect Sahara warred within her. Her daughter, oblivious to the animosity swirling around them, hummed a soft tune, a beacon of innocence in the viper's nest.

Reaching the reception desk, Monique smiled politely at the young woman, her practiced grace a stark contrast to the turmoil within. "We'd like to see Mr. Beaumont," she said, her voice steadier than her heart.

The receptionist, a fresh-faced graduate with wide, nervous eyes, stammered, "Mr. Beaumont is currently unavailable, Mrs. Beaumont. He's... in a meeting."

Monique knew it was a lie if the garish display of the white and blue balloons twisted into an arch around a colossal LED frame was anything to go by.

The larger than life LED frame played a reel of Clinton and Lydia, their faces aglow with a love Monique had thought hers, their arms cradling a newborn swaddled in the promise of a future she was no part of.

Beneath it, a golden plaque glinted: "Celebrating the future of Beaumont Enterprises."

''Congratulations Mr. Clinton and Mrs. Lydia," another gilded inscription screamed, each word a shard of glass in Monique's heart.

Gifts piled beneath, a testament to their happiness, a monument to her loss.

Shame coiled in her gut.

The sting of betrayal, a wound still raw from the news, ripped through Monique.

But then, anger. Hot and raw, it chased the shame away, replacing it with a steely resolve. She wouldn't be the grieving widow at her own funeral. Not here, not now.

A wave of nausea washed over her.

The air, thick with the perfume of lilies and the suffocating weight of their gazes, threatened to suffocate her. She felt Sahara's grip tighten on her hand, a silent question in her eyes.

"It's okay, sweetie," Monique whispered, forcing a smile. "We'll wait for your father."

Monique turned towards the receptionist and said, "We'll wait for him to be done with the meeting."

"Ok," whispered the nervous receptionist in response.

As Monique made her way through the lobby, the whispers of the onlookers became audible. Pity, criticism, and mockery filled the air.

Unbeknownst to Monique, as she tried to maintain a façade of strength for her daughter and herself while waiting for the elevator, someone in the lobby had discreetly snapped a picture of her.

The photo quickly circulated in WhatsApp groups, igniting a wildfire of comments. Texts overlapped, each more scornful than the last.

But as the minutes stretched into an eternity, the silence in the lobby morphed into a cacophony of whispers and muffled snickers.

A sigh of relief escaped Monique as the elevator finally arrived.

"Let's go," she said to her daughter, who was equally eager.

"Mm-hmm."

Monique smiled down at the girl, gently ruffling her hair. Just as she was about to breathe another sigh of relief, thinking they had left the mocking gazes behind, three women in the company employee uniform joined them.

The three women, their faces twisted in a cocktail of schadenfreude and disdain, entered the elevator. Their eyes, like venomous spiders, scoured Monique's face, finding every crack in her armor.

The elevator ascent felt like an eternity. Each floor seemed to add another layer of humiliation, another wave of whispers and scornful glances.

One of them, a woman with sharp eyes and a sneer that could curdle milk, pulled out her phone, a weapon poised to strike. Monique felt the click of the camera, the cold, predatory gaze as if she were an exhibit in a zoo.

Monique ignored the click, the flash. Her gaze met the woman's, a silent challenge.

The woman, fueled by the shield of anonymity, responded with a gloating smirk. She had just posted the captured picture to the purchasing department's WhatsApp group.

The contagion of mockery spread to her companions, their faces contorting into masks of cruel amusement.

The phone pinged, a cruel symphony of notifications. Monique knew. The WhatsApp group, a viper pit where her life was dissected, her pain turned into entertainment. The texts that followed were venomous barbs:

'Is that who I think it is?'

'The ex-wife, looking like she's seen better days.'

'What's she even doing here? Flaunting her misery?'

Each word a blow, each emoji a mocking laugh. Monique felt her face burn, the tears threatening to spill. But she held on, for Sahara, whose innocent hand clutched hers, unaware of the vipers dancing on her mother's broken heart.

The three ladies in the elevator fueled the fire, snapping pictures, live streaming, and engaging in a relentless stream of judgment.

Mocking emojis and memes flooded the virtual space, comparing Monique unfavorably to Lydia.

The commentary painted her as an abandoned woman, undeserving of pity or consideration. The elevator's atmosphere resonated with giggles and disdain as the trio openly ridiculed her.

'Oh my god, what happened to her? She looks terrible. She used to be so elegant and poised.'

'The better question is, what is she doing here? Hasn't she been slapped in the face enough? How can she even have the guts to show up? Is she seeking humiliation? Lydia is far much better than her.'

The texts overlapped; hardly had one finished, before three others popped up. The three ladies' phones pinged insistently, followed by giggles and scornful looks towards Monique. Their fingers flew across the screen; they couldn't type fast enough. One even took a video and live-streamed it in the WhatsApp group, fueling the discussions.

'Well, to be fair, Mrs. Monique is quite stunning; however, she pales in terms of bringing out her feminine virtues...'

'If I were Mr. Clinton, I would choose Mrs. Lydia as well. She's so virtuous and gentle. Not to mention, those two are a pair made in heaven; they are in sync when it comes to business.'

'What do you think Mr. Clinton and his ex-wife talked about? Probably her boring and daily mundane life. She must be as interesting as my mug cup...

'Hey. Is that not an insult to the mug cup?" This was followed by mocking emojis.

Someone created a collage of the two rivals, causing another uproar.

'Come on, that's like comparing the sun to a star. Look at the ex-wife; she looks like a weathered hag, while Mrs. Lydia looks like an angel.'

'What is she so proud of? After all, she's just an abandoned woman. I can't believe she still thinks she's all that.'

'To be a second-hand woman...sigh...I feel bad for her though...'

'Once the other woman gives birth to a son, those who only birth useless girls are out of the league.'

'Yeah, Alex will be the only heir to Beaumont Inc. After all, girls can only be good for strengthening the family ties through marriage....'

'Maybe if the daughter has better luck than her mother, she can marry into a wealthy family and be treated well.'

"Look at her with her pride; no wonder Mr. Clinton left her. Well, if she's sensible and behaves herself, maybe once in a blue moon, he might give her pity sex...'

'Well that is if, Mrs. Lydia consents...'

'Come on, people, she's still our boss's wife, how about showing a little respect?'

'Respect? Like she deserves it. She has been kicked out and will be homeless. As it stands, she's beneath us now.'