The Genius Bride's Secret Contract Marriage

Clara has been drugged.

The family who has raised her for twenty years is now, for the sake of family interests, about to hand her over to a greasy old man at this hotel party tonight.

"Clara, stop hiding in the corner. You're embarrassing us."

Her adoptive mother，Helen Foster's voice was a sharp whisper, cutting through the dull roar of the party at the St. Regis. Clara's fingers tightened on the thin strap of the borrowed purse. The dress, a hand-me-down from her stepsister, felt two sizes too small, its cheap satin clinging uncomfortably to her skin under the heat of the crystal chandeliers. The light refracted through a thousand tiny prisms, making her head spin.

Jessica, her stepsister, glided over, a vision in a new Vera Wang gown that probably cost more than Clara's entire college tuition. She looped her arm through Clara's, her smile as bright and fake as the cubic zirconia on her ears.

"Clara, don't be so tense," Jessica cooed, her nails digging slightly into Clara's arm. "Just relax. It's a party."

Her adoptive mother, Helen, pressed a champagne flute into her other hand. The glass was cold, but her eyes were colder. "Smile. You look like you're at a funeral."

Then her adoptive father, Richard Foster, caught her eye from across the room. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards a portly, middle-aged man with a sweaty upper lip and a gold watch that glinted obscenely. "Go say hello to Mr. Vance," Richard mouthed, his expression leaving no room for argument.

A wave of nausea washed over Clara. She had seen Leo Vance watching her all night, his gaze thick and greasy, like he was mentally undressing her and finding the experience satisfactory. It made her stomach clench.

She took a half-step forward, compelled by twenty years of obedience, but Jessica stopped her. "Not with that," she said, plucking the champagne from Clara's hand. She flagged down a passing waiter and took a different flute from his tray. This one was filled with a pink, bubbly liquid.

"Here, drink this instead. It's sweeter. You'll like it." Jessica's smile was relentless.

"I don't really want-"

"Just drink it, Clara," Helen snapped, her patience gone.

The pressure from both sides was a physical force, boxing her in. Clara's breath hitched. To avoid a scene, to make it stop, she brought the glass to her lips and drank. The liquid was cloyingly sweet, masking the taste of alcohol and something else, something vaguely chemical.

She finished the glass, and they finally let her go. But a few minutes later, as she stood near a towering floral arrangement, a strange, creeping heat started low in her belly. It spread through her veins like a fever. The music of the string quartet began to sound distant and distorted, the edges of her vision blurring.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her brain. She'd been drugged.

She looked back at her family.

Since she was young, they’ve been very cold toward her. She didn’t understand why at the time.

Later on, they brought a girl back from outside. Helen lied to her, saying that Richard was on a business trip when she gave birth. Helen fainted after the birth. The nanny was careless and lost the newborn Jessica. Fearing responsibility, the nanny bought a child of a similar age from human traffickers—that was her.

Even after the truth came out, that family continued to treat her as their daughter. Jessica called her “sister” constantly, and it seemed like they truly regarded her as part of their family.

But she knew that wasn’t her home.

Now that her biological daughter has returned, she can no longer keep that position for herself. So she rarely goes home.

Tonight, her adoptive parents invited her out for dinner, saying it was a family gathering. But in reality, the whole thing was just an attempt to get her into a man’s bed.

Jessica was now standing with Helen, her sweet smile gone, replaced by a look of cold, hard calculation. She caught Clara's eye and her lips formed the words, "Mr. Vance's company can save us. This is an honor for you.You took my place for eighteen years, and now you’re given away to Leo Vance so easily… You’re really lucky."

Helen added her own silent, cruel postscript, her gaze like ice. "Don’t blame us for being heartless. Back then, we brought you back from the orphanage because we believed your horoscope was favorable—that you could protect Jessica from misfortune and bring her twenty years of happiness. You should be grateful to us."

Richard stared at her coldly. “We’ve raised you for twenty years. Now it’s time for you to repay the Gu family.”

It turns out everything was a scam. She’s lived a lie for the past twenty years.

The full weight of their betrayal slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. Leo Vance was walking towards her, his own smile triumphant, his oily hand outstretched.

"There you are, little thing."

Adrenaline surged through her, a primal scream for survival. Using every ounce of strength she had left, Clara shoved him. He stumbled back, surprised, his drink sloshing onto the pristine white carpet. She didn't wait to see more. She turned and ran.

Behind her, she heard Vance's curse and Jessica's indignant shriek, but she didn't stop. She stumbled out of the ballroom and into the plush, carpeted hallway. It felt like a maze, the soft flooring swallowing the sound of her frantic footsteps and draining her remaining energy.

The heat inside her was becoming unbearable, a fire consuming her from the inside out. Her consciousness was fraying, darkness licking at the edges of her vision. Her body felt heavy, her limbs uncoordinated. She had to get away. She had to hide.

Her hand fumbled for a door handle, her fingers clumsy and weak. She twisted. It was unlocked.

She practically fell into the room, the door swinging shut behind her as the sound of Vance's approaching footsteps echoed in the hall. The suite was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city skyline through a massive window.

A tall, broad figure in the center of the room turned sharply at her sudden intrusion. Before she could stop herself, she crashed directly into his chest. The impact was like hitting a wall of solid muscle. The air was filled with a clean, masculine scent-expensive cologne and crisp cotton-that was a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the party.

Her head swam. She looked up, trying to focus, and met a pair of eyes, gray and sharp as a hawk's, even in the dim light.

Then the world went black.

Damian Blackwood frowned down at the woman who had collapsed in his arms. She was burning up, her skin feverish to the touch, and the cheap, floral perfume she wore was mixed with the sour scent of alcohol. She was muttering something, her hands weakly clawing at the fabric of his suit jacket.

From the hallway, he heard a man's vulgar shout. "Little bitch, where did you run off to?"

A flicker of disgust crossed Damian's face, followed by a chilling coldness. He could call security, have them both thrown out. It would be the simplest, cleanest solution.

But as he looked down at the unconscious woman's face, he saw the faint, silvery tracks of tears on her cheeks. There was a desperation in the lines of her mouth, a vulnerability that stirred something deep within him-a flicker of a memory, a rainy night years ago, a different girl with the same look of hopeless defiance.

He made a decision.

With a grunt of effort, he scooped her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected. He carried her towards the bedroom, his back foot kicking the suite door shut. The lock clicked into place, a solid, definitive sound that cut off the filth from the hallway.

He laid her gently on the king-sized bed. She immediately began to whimper, her hands tearing at the collar of her cheap dress. He recognized the signs instantly. She'd been given a high dose of a date-rape drug.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his head of security. "Ethan," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "There's trash in the hallway outside my suite. Get rid of it. And I want a full background check on the hosts of tonight's event, the Foster family. Everything you can find. Especially on their adopted daughter."

He hung up and looked back at the woman on the bed. She had curled into a tight ball, her nails scratching red lines onto her own arms in a desperate attempt to claw away the fire under her skin.

He walked to the bedside, his shadow falling over her. He reached out, his cool fingers brushing against her scorching forehead.

"Who are you?" he murmured into the silent, cavernous room.