The wedding of the Sterling heir was a spectacle of extravagance, crowned by a bridal gown of unprecedented cost.

Rumor had it the gown was encrusted with thousands of diamonds and pearls, a staggering fortune in itself. Isabelle had always dreamed of wearing that dress, of showing it off to the entire world.

The Hayes family lacked the Sterlings' status, but to save face, Genevieve and Arthur had nearly bankrupted themselves with half a billion on the wedding. They had dreamed of marrying their daughter off in a grand ceremony that would be the envy of the city. Instead, all that splendor had been handed directly to Rosalie.

To see that gown draped over Rosalie's shoulders, and to know their money—the one that had nearly ruined them—was now in her hands, was enough to make the three of them livid.

Rosalie, on the other hand, had to suppress a laugh several times. She only just managed to keep a straight face with the stone-cold Damian sitting right beside her.

This man was dangerous. She had to be careful. And as for how their marriage was registered in the first place... she needed to look into that.

A horde of reporters had gathered outside the Hayes residence. To avoid a media frenzy over the last-minute bride swap, Damian ditched the wedding cars, opting for a private helicopter to fly them out instead.

As the helicopter carrying Rosalie and Damian lifted off from the Hayes property, Isabelle burst into bitter tears. "Mom, is my dream of becoming the richest man's wife really over?"

"No, it's not."

A malicious glint entered Genevieve's eyes. "Do you really think Damian will keep a hideous creature who was forced on him? She might not even live through the wedding night."

Isabelle's expression brightened. "Mom, you mean he'll arrange an accident?"

Genevieve smiled. "Once Rosalie is dead, Damian will come back for you. Just maintain your reputation as Bridgeford's top socialite, and the title of the richest man's wife will be yours eventually."

If Genevieve and Isabelle could imagine Damian making himself a widower overnight, so could Rosalie.

Although she had never met Damian before, his reputation alone was enough to inspire fear. He was said to be utterly ruthless. They called him "The Reaper of Bridgeford," a man so terrifying that anyone who crossed him ended up either dead or wishing they were. She had no intention of truly provoking him.

Throughout the ceremony, she remained quiet and obedient. Once inside the bridal suite, she sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, saying nothing.

Damian shrugged off his black suit jacket and settled onto the sofa across from her, his eyes fixed on Rosalie. His gaze was piercing, as if he could see right through her, sweeping over every inch of her with an unnerving intensity.

During the day, with her messy hair and tattooed face, she had been hideous enough to make one look away. But now, dressed in the magnificent gown, her face and hair shielded by a delicate veil, her posture elegant and her bare arms glowing in the soft light—she was breathtaking.

The story went that at five years old, she had been so wild she'd set a fire that burned their mansion to the ground, killing her own mother and disfiguring her face in the process. Everyone saw her as a cursed child.

It was also said that she was the clumsy oaf who knew nothing of the world. But looking at her now, he didn't believe a word of it. The girl had bright, intelligent eyes, and he suspected she was hiding a great deal of cunning beneath that innocent facade.

When Isabelle had tried to grab her earlier, she had moved behind him in an instant. A normal person wouldn't have noticed, but he had seen the unusual lightness in her steps—the kind of agility that only came from serious training.

But none of that was his primary concern. What mattered was how their names had ended up on a marriage certificate together.

Who had the power to arrange a wife for him without his knowledge? And to what end? And was Rosalie truly as ignorant about it as she seemed?

"You were quite talkative earlier today. Why so quiet now?"

His voice sliced through the silence of the room, and a chill traced its way down Rosalie's spine.

"I... I know I'm not in your league, Damian. I feel... completely unworthy."

She was on Sterling territory now. She would be obedient when she had to be and flattering when necessary. It was the only way to stay out of trouble.

"Ha." Damian let out a soft, contemptuous laugh.

He found her more like a lying schemer. She hadn't seemed the least bit unworthy when she'd called him "darling" in front of Isabelle. He would see how long she could keep up this act.

Rosalie knew he didn't believe her; she hadn't expected him to. She just had to avoid giving him any reason to punish her.

She was still weighing her options when he suddenly rose from the sofa. His long legs closed the distance between them in seconds.

Before she could process what was happening, he bent down and swept her into his arms.

The abrupt movement sent her heart hammering against her ribs. "Damian, what are you doing?"

He looked down at her, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Tell me, Rosalie... what do newlyweds do on their wedding night?"

The world spun, and a moment later, she was pinned beneath him.

The soft mattress bounced with the impact as his masculine scent flooded her senses. Rosalie froze, completely stunned. How could Damian even consider making love with her when she was still wearing that ugly makeup?