Bride Behind the Mask novel Chapter 508

Chapter 508 

Marguerite snapped back to reality, confusion laced her voice. “What?” 

“About Hackett,” Frederick across from her said, his eyes piercing as if they could unveil the deepest secrets of the soul. He had an unnerving talent for voicing things in a direct manner. 

He always seemed to know what she was thinking, had done so in the past and was doing it now. Marguerite had grown used to 

Thus, she didn’t bother to hide her feelings. 

A trace of melancholy thickened on her face as she nodded, spilling her truth. “Deep down, I guess I always hoped I was a Fitzgerald. At least that way, I’d have family that cared, that worried about me. Zoe and Ablett never treated me like one of their own. And since grandma passed away, I’ve been all alone in this world.” 

Suddenly, Frederick felt a pang in his chest. Was it because he thought of Laverne? Or had he begun to feel a twinge of compassion for Marguerite? 

It seemed even he couldn’t pinpoint the reason. 

Marguerite turned her gaze to meet his deep-set eyes and asked, “But I am genuinely curious. Why did you stand up for me downstairs? Why argue on my behalf?” 

Why indeed? 

Even Frederick couldn’t come up with a suitable reason at first. 

After a long pause, he found an answer that could convince both Marguerite and himself. “Laverne was kind to me. Even if I despised you, I owed it to her to do something.” 

Marguerite blinked in confusion, her eyes clouded with questions as she faced him. “What do you mean by that? Laverne was kind to you?” 

She had no knowledge of any goodwill between her grandmother and Frederick. 

Could it be that her grandmother had known Frederick long before? 

Frederick did not answer immediately. He leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, a strange flicker in his eyes as he continued to gaze at Marguerite. 

“Eighteen years ago, I was exiled to the countryside with my mother. When we were at our lowest, a little girl gave us a loaf of bread, and her grandmother, a bowl of warm soup.” 

Marguerite’s mind seized. 

Amidst the fog of her childhood memories, a similar scene surfaced. Except, she was not the beggar; she was the benefactor. 

She couldn’t remember how old she was when it happened. All she remembered was a snowy evening, a mother and son close to collapsing in the snow outside their old house, starving and cold. 

She had rushed to get a bowl of broth from her grandmother, and she had given away their only loaf of bread for the night.