"Half an hour?" Clarice froze. Wasn't Theodore just at the bar? That trip should take an hour minimum-how could he be back so soon?

She had to get home first. The moment the thought crystallized, panic seized her. She yanked the privacy divider shut in the taxi, her hands moving frantically. The pink wig came off first, then the heavy makeup was scrubbed away with cleansing wipes. She peeled off the sequined top and ripped denim shorts, changing into a plain white T-shirt and soft sweatpants from her bag. The disguise was gone, but the stubborn smell of alcohol still clung to her skin and hair-a dead giveaway.

If Theodore made it back before her and caught a whiff of this, the carefully constructed image of the docile, obedient girl would shatter. And if he saw through the act. would he send her back to the Sullivans like damaged goods? The very reason she had agreed to this marriage-her sister-would be jeopardized. All her sacrifices would be for nothing.

"Driver, step on it. I'll make it worth your while," she urged, thrusting a handful of cash through the opening.

She had to win this race against her husband.

The cab barely stopped at the Grant estate before Clarice flung the door open and sprinted toward the mansion. The fresh clothes and clean face were a start, but the scent of beer was a persistent ghost around her.

Why did he have to come home early? And why, after being at a bar full of available women, did he have to choose tonight to come home to her?

"Mr. Chambers," she asked, bursting through the front door and trying to steady her breath at the sight of the butler. "Is Mr. Grant back yet?"

"Not yet, Madam."

"Oh, thank God." The breath she didn't realize she was holding rushed out. Not waiting for a follow-up question, she flew up the stairs.

A fluffy white Samoyed bounded toward her from the second-floor landing, tail wagging.

"Not now, Snowy, go play." She sidestepped the dog, not breaking her stride.

Snowy let out a series of indignant barks at the rejection but trotted after her into the bedroom regardless.

The clothes came off again, this time tossed heedlessly to the floor. She dove straight into the shower, scrubbing her skin and washing her hair twice with scented shampoo until not a trace of the bar remained. She had to be spotless, smelling pure and fresh, perfectly prepped to play the part of the sweet, waiting wife for Mr. Grant.

----

Theodore had barely stepped off the plane before his friend dragged him to a bar. The moment he entered, however, a woman with garish makeup accosted him, shattering his mood entirely.

He had never liked women with heavy makeup who made advances; he preferred those who were well-spoken, gentle, and obedient.

Clarice, the one the Sullivans had sent over, fit that description perfectly. Though they had clearly switched brides on him-he was originally meant to marry the second daughter, Lydia-he had not sent her back.

"Sir, Madam is waiting for you upstairs," Mr. Chambers said, holding the door open.

Theodore handed him his coat and ascended the stairs. The second-floor hallway was strewn with women's clothing-a shirt, jeans, underwear-trailing from the bedroom door all the way to the staircase. Snowy, being the dramatic dog he was, had even dragged out a pair of her lace panties.

Spotting Theodore, the dog dropped the delicate fabric, offered a tentative bark, and then scurried away under his master's icy glare.

Theodore bent and picked up the panties by the bedroom door. They were lace, unmistakably sensual, shimmering under the warm light.

Inside the room, Clarice was utterly bewildered. She had left her clothes neatly folded on the bed before her shower, but now they were gone. Wrapped only in a towel, she froze as she saw Theodore standing in the doorway, holding her underwear.

That particular set. she had worn it with him in mind.

If some random man held them, it would feel vulgar. But held by a man as strikingly handsome as Theodore? The effect was entirely different. A reckless impulse surged through her-the urge to simply push him onto the bed.

He stepped fully into the room, his gaze taking her in-Clarice, standing there in nothing but a towel, her skin still glistening with moisture. Beads of water traced a path down her collarbone, disappearing into the pristine white fabric wrapped tightly around her.

She stood quietly before him, head slightly bowed, the picture of soft submission.

This was his wife now.

He was originally supposed to marry Lydia, the second daughter. But after sleeping with her, he found out-surprise-the Sullivans had done a bait and switch.

They hadn't even signed the marriage license yet-just threw a quiet dinner at the Grant estate. But he'd already taken her to bed, and in his mind, that sealed the deal.

He was furious at the Sullivans, sure. But not enough to undo what had already been done.

And this woman, whoever she really was, at least she knew how to behave.

That's exactly what he needed in a wife.

"Here."

Theodore handed the panties to Clarice.

Clarice lifted her head and saw his long fingers holding the delicate lace.

She lowered her gaze and quietly took the garment from his hand, careful not to meet his eyes. She was still mortified about flirting with him back at the bar.

Apparently, Theodore didn't remember. In fact, he couldn't even recall what his young wife looked like.

He turned away, just as Clarice spoke softly.

"Thank you... Theo."

She wanted to tell him she had already drawn a bath for him.

Theodore glanced back and saw her standing there with her head bowed, looking shy.

Shy? Not really. That was just an act-one Clarice wore well. For now, silence and obedience were her best strategy.

Theodore stared at her-fresh from the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water trickling down her bare shoulders, carrying with them a faint scent of roses.

Heat surged through his body.

"Come here," he said in a low voice, locking eyes with her.

Clarice gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward obediently. She barely took a step when Theodore pulled her straight into his arms. The scent of tobacco and whiskey enveloped her instantly.

What was he doing? Did he seriously want her... now?

Clarice couldn't help but wonder where all those rumors about him being impotent had come from. They'd only just reunited, and Theodore already looked like he was ready to devour her.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to kiss her.

The kiss was hot and hungry, burning away every coherent thought in Clarice's head.

In bed, Theodore was surprisingly gentle-attentive, even. He cared about her pleasure, made sure she felt good. Physically, they were perfectly in sync.

But Clarice knew that wasn't enough. No matter how satisfying the sex, deep down, she longed for something more-something whole, something real.

When she agreed to marry Theodore in place of Lydia, she had known exactly what role she needed to play.

Whatever he was like, whatever he wanted-she would yield, gracefully and sweetly, until the day he grew tired of her.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his tongue trailing across her lips, claiming her in a way words never could.

Clarice melted into him, her fingers curling inside his shirt. The way she touched him only made him burn hotter. His gaze darkened with desire.

Without warning, he lifted her into his arms and carried her straight to the bed.

"Looks like there's no need to put those panties back on," he said with a teasing smirk.

He loosened her towel slowly, then dipped his head down-deep-and began to kiss her, lower and lower, until he reached that secret place.

Clarice knew what was coming next-a long, breathless night of unrestrained, intoxicating pleasure.

-----

By the time the sun came up, Theodore was already gone.

What woke her wasn't the light-it was a call from her father, Charles Sullivan.

The Sullivan family had a decent name in Velmont. Charles and Clarice's mother had built the Sullivan Group from the ground up. It had taken them decades to earn their status.

But truth be told, compared to families like the Grants, the Sullivans didn't really count.

In Velmont, if Theodore so much as twitched a finger, the entire city would feel it. So when he showed up with a marriage proposal, Charles didn't even hesitate-he handed his daughter over without a second thought.

The funny thing was, Clarice wasn't the original choice.

That was Lydia-two years older, the daughter of Charles's affair. He and Margaret Sullivan spoiled her to the bone. But when Lydia refused to marry into the Grant family, they immediately turned to the daughter Charles never cared for-the one left behind after her mother died: Clarice.

"Clarice!"

The moment she stepped through the front door of the Sullivan estate, Lydia's furious voice rang out.

Before Clarice could react, Lydia had already raised her hand to slap her. But Clarice saw it coming and dodged with ease.

"Did you just dodge me?!" Lydia shrieked, livid.

What, was she supposed to just stand there and get slapped?

Clarice stared at her blankly, raised an eyebrow-like she was watching a bad comedy.

She gave Lydia a cold glance and turned to go inside, but Lydia suddenly grabbed her arm.

"This is all your fault! You ruined my dress-with paint!"

Last night, Lydia had shown up to a party in a brand-new white dress, expecting to turn heads. Instead, she got laughed at.

Right above her hip was a streak of red paint. Not big-but impossible to miss.

"Yeah," Clarice said calmly, not even bothering to deny it.

But was it really her fault? Lydia loved buying white dresses and pretending to be innocent and pure.

Her calm admission nearly made Lydia explode.

She raised her hand again-but then caught a glimpse of something beneath Clarice's collar.

Red marks. From her neck down to her chest. Obvious. Unmistakable.

Theodore's handiwork.

"Clarice, you're just like your precious sister Sophia. Deep down, you're nothing but a filthy whore."

The words had barely left Lydia's mouth when Clarice's hand struck her across the face-hard.

Fast and sharp. Lydia never saw it coming.

She'd been pampered her whole life by Charles and Margaret. Being slapped-especially by Clarice-was unthinkable. Her pride snapped.

"You bitch! How dare you hit me?!"

She lunged at Clarice, swinging blindly. Clarice sidestepped and walked straight into the living room.

"Dad! Clarice hit me!" Lydia wailed, storming in with tears and a bright red handprint on her cheek.

Charles and Margaret's expressions turned sour the moment they saw her face.

Charles had always favored Lydia. In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated to slap Clarice right back. But now... he held back.

"Clarice, just apologize and let's be done with this," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Clarice, if you're upset, take it out on me. There's no need to lash out at your sister," Margaret said sweetly, as if Clarice had hit Lydia just to spite her.

And sure, Clarice hated Margaret. Honestly, hate might be putting it lightly.

Who could love the woman who stole your father and drove your mother to her grave?

"Margaret, she tried to hit me first," Clarice replied calmly.

"Dad, I was just messing with her, and she hit me-hard. Look at my face!" Lydia cried.

Her cheek was visibly red. Clarice didn't flinch. Why should she? Lydia had crossed a line-talking about Sophia like that.

"Clarice, hitting someone is wrong. Apologize," Charles snapped, starting to lose patience.

Clarice gave a faint smile. Of course. Just like always. No one cared about the truth. She was always the one who had to apologize. Always the one who had to take the fall.

Not this time.

"Dad," she said, brushing her hair back to reveal the faint kiss marks on her neck, "Lydia insulted me-said disgusting things. That's why I slapped her."

Charles caught sight of the marks, and realization flickered in his eyes. Had Theodore accepted Clarice after all?

"Technically, Theodore and I haven't even registered the marriage yet," Clarice added lightly.

"It already takes everything I've got just to keep him in check. So don't push me. If this whole fragile engagement blows up, Lydia's the one who'll have to step in-whether she likes it or not?"

The room went dead silent. Nobody cared about apologies anymore.

Sure, the Grant family was one of the most powerful in the country. But Lydia had never wanted this marriage-not just because of the rumors, but because Theodore was ten years older.

And more importantly, she had someone else in her heart: Jordan Moore, heir to the Moore family.

The Moores weren't as powerful as the Grants, but Jordan was handsome, gentle-her perfect prince. And Lydia? She played the part of the pretty little princess.

The irony? Jordan was already engaged-to Clarice. A match arranged by their families when they were kids.

"I'm not marrying him! Theodore's terrifying-and way older than me! I'm not doing it!"

True-he was ten years older than Lydia. Twelve years older than Clarice.

"You won't have to, sweetheart," Margaret said, patting Lydia's hand and exchanging a glance with Charles.

"Clarice, what nonsense are you talking about?" Charles snapped.

"You're already with Mr. Grant. You can't pretend nothing happened."

Then his tone softened.

"Maybe Lydia went too far, and yes, you hit her-but let's just drop this, alright?"

Clarice glanced at Lydia and let out a reluctant "Mm."

Charles motioned for her to sit.

"Clarice, I asked you to come back because we need to talk."

Clarice took her seat across from him, pulled out her phone, and casually texted Chloe:

Street race tonight. Don't be late.

I'll be there. On time.

By the time she looked up, Charles had already finished whatever he was saying-not that she'd heard a word of it.

"Clarice!"

He frowned at her blank expression.

"Sorry, Dad? What was that?"

He looked annoyed, but since he needed her help, he repeated himself.

"We're hosting a banquet in a few days. You need to bring Mr. Grant with you."

Bring Theodore home? Yeah, right. Dream on.

Lydia let out a cold laugh.

"Dad, do you really think she can pull that off? She's just Theodore's little toy."

"That's right, Dad. I'm just his plaything," Clarice said calmly, locking eyes with Lydia.

Lydia hadn't expected her to own it. The bluntness threw her off.

"Watch your mouth, Lydia," Charles snapped, then turned to Clarice. "Clarice, I believe in you."

The Sullivans were working on a major project-but funding was tight. If the Grant family got involved, it wouldn't just succeed-it would attract further investors and triple the company's market value. But without their backing. the Sullivans could face a hostile takeover, or lose nearly half their assets.

But Clarice had been living at the Grant estate for a while now, and Theodore hadn't shown his face once. Charles hadn't even had the chance to bring up the deal.

"Dad, that's asking too much," Clarice said.

And it was. Up to this point, the only things she'd ever said to Theodore were lines like:

"Oh my God."

"Faster. please."

"Right there. yes, yes!"

"I'm coming."

"Clarice! You have to bring Mr. Grant home!" Charles snapped, his voice cold and full of threat.

"Think about Sophia."

Sophia-her only real family. Her condition was fragile. She had no one else to rely on.

Clarice swallowed her emotions and gave a reluctant nod.

"I'll do it."

"I'm going to check on Sophia," she said quietly, rising to her feet and heading upstairs.