Meanwhile, Hazel struggled to push herself off the floor, her head throbbing with pain. A warm trickle slid down her face, and when she wiped it with a tissue, the smear of crimson on her fingers left her momentarily stunned. She couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood.
But no one noticed. Their attention remained fixed on Scarlett as if she were the only one who mattered. Their laughter and soft reassurances filled the room, drowning out the silent cry of Hazel’s pain.
It wasn’t until the bleeding on Hazel’s forehead had stopped that Ambrose finally approached her, the camera dangling loosely in his hands.
“The photo didn’t catch your face clearly, and Scarlett’s pose could’ve been better,” he said casually. Then, as if noticing her for the first time, his brows furrowed. “Wait… Hazel, what happened to your face?”
Her chest tightened at his words. Her face had been bleeding, yet their sole concern had been Scarlett’s pose in the photo. The realization struck her like a sharp blade, carving out the faint hope she’d held onto.
Hazel waved off the concern with a faint smile. “It’s nothing. Don’t bother retaking it. It’s late; I’ll head back now.”