### Chapter 3: A Punch on the Cotton Phoebe had anticipated that her words might cut deep, a well-aimed arrow aimed to sting. Yet, Violet merely graced her with a serene smile and replied politely, "Thanks for asking, we are all doing well." It felt to Phoebe as if her fist had struck nothing but soft cotton, devoid of the satisfaction she craved. Undeterred, she sharpened her tone. "Look at you, going from a rich girl to a homeless bumpkin in the blink of an eye. Sporting thrift shop attire while muddling through ordinary work—who would believe you’re ‘doing well’?" Her sarcasm dripped from her lips like bitter honey, though jealousy flickered brightly in her eyes. There was a radiant light about Violet—one Phoebe could hardly comprehend. Despite the absence of makeup, Violet’s complexion glowed, youthful and vibrant as if time itself had skipped over her. It was a beauty that money could not buy, one that rendered Phoebe’s efforts to glamour herself pale in comparison. Violet’s silence spoke volumes, and for Phoebe, it curdled the air between them. “What’s so amusing?” she snapped, irritation etching her features. "Nothing at all. But since you’re so graciously concerned for me, perhaps you should head back and sketch some designs." The words twisted like thorns as Violet turned the knife, striking at Phoebe’s exposed wound from her time abroad. “You!” Phoebe fisted her hands, a blaze of fury rushing through her veins, yet before she could retort, a sweet, innocent voice broke through the tension. “Mommy! Mommy!” From the far end of the corridor, two cherubic children came bounding toward Violet, their laughter ringing like music to her ears. With an effortless grace, Violet’s expression softened as she turned her focus to them. “Darling, what is it?” she asked, bending slightly to catch her daughter, Arya, who leaped into her arms. “Godmother is looking for you!” Arya chirped, her tiny voice filled with delight. “Alright then, let's find her together.” Violet smoothed down Arya's hair and then, with each child clasping one hand, she moved away from Phoebe, a picture of familial bliss. Phoebe turned to watch, bewilderment etched on her face as the realization dawned on her like a cold wave—Violet had children? After all these years? Just then, Violet’s son, Calvin, looked back at Phoebe with wide, innocent eyes. The connection was instantaneous, a jolt of recognition. Those eyes—dark and piercing—echoed the very gaze of Stanley Murphy. Panic seized Phoebe’s heart in that electrifying moment. Could Stanley be the father of those children? The thought was like a bolt of lightning, striking her squarely in the chest. If it were true, then everything she had savored over the past five years would crumble to dust, turned to ashes by the unwelcome reality. A sense of vulnerability washed over her, an invisible threat weaving through the hall like a snake in the grass. There was no escaping it; Phoebe needed answers. “Violet, wait!” she called out instinctively, clutching her handbag tightly. But her path was abruptly blocked by her assistant. “Phoebe, are you alright?” her assistant asked, concern knitting their brow upon seeing Phoebe's suddenly pale complexion. “I’m fine,” Phoebe replied, her voice frigid and clipped. She wouldn’t show weakness, not now. The assistant, sensing the tension but unwilling to pry, suggested softly, “Phoebe, we have a dinner tonight. If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be late.” A heavy sigh escaped Phoebe’s lips as the realization hit her; navigating the hour-long drive from Siko District to the city was not a challenge she relished at the moment. “When did it become your job to dictate my schedule?” she retorted, exasperation lacing her words. “Phoebe, Mr. Murphy will be there too,” her assistant interjected, their voice steady. Silenced by that name, Phoebe felt her resolve shake. Her carefully curated façade, one she had cultivated with such diligence over the years, threatened to shatter under the weight of this unexpected encounter. With a furious thrum of determination, she cast a final glance at Violet and the children, a storm of conflicting emotions roiling within her. Reluctantly, she turned away, summoning her composure as she followed her assistant down the corridor. The evening held uncertainties, and she couldn’t let them get the best of her—not yet.