Chloe sat before the vanity mirror, a doll being painted for auction. The makeup artist worked silently, her brushes whispering against Chloe's skin.

Seraphina entered the bridal suite at The Plaza, her reflection appearing in the mirror behind Chloe's. She held out a glass of water.

Chloe didn't take it.

"Do you think I'm beautiful today?" Chloe's voice was flat, dead. "Like a prized commodity?"

A flicker of pain crossed Seraphina's face. "I'm sorry, Chloe."

Chloe offered a bitter, humorless smile and said nothing more.

A soft knock at the door. The hotel manager entered, bowing slightly.

"Miss Beaumont, a message from the lobby. Mr. Carlisle... Mr. Derek Carlisle... has not yet arrived."

The air in the room froze. The ceremony was set to begin in less than an hour.

Seraphina immediately pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. The call went straight to voicemail.

A tiny, wicked spark of hope ignited in Chloe's chest.

"See?" she whispered to her own reflection. "He doesn't want to marry me either."

The spark was extinguished moments later when Nathaniel's assistant, a severe-looking woman in a gray suit, entered the room.

"Mr. Carlisle sends his regards," she said, her voice as starched as her collar. "He says the wedding will proceed as scheduled. He will handle it."

And he did.

Derek Carlisle appeared at the altar twenty minutes late, his face a thunderous mask. He moved like a puppet, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on some point far beyond Chloe.

The rest of the day was a blur of champagne and fake smiles. At the reception, Chloe drank. She drank until the crystal flutes felt light as air and the ballroom lights blurred into soft, hazy circles.

Across the table, Seraphina matched her glass for glass, her own guilt a bottomless well.

Halfway through the dinner, Chloe mumbled an excuse about the restroom and slipped away.

Seraphina found her moments later, slumped against the wall in a quiet, carpeted hallway.

"Chloe, please," Seraphina slurred, her own steps unsteady. "Let's just... let's go to the room. You need to rest."

She fumbled in her clutch for the keycard to the honeymoon suite. The hotel had provided it earlier. The numbers swam in her vision. Eight-eight-six-nine? Or was it nine-eight? It didn't matter.

She looped an arm around Chloe's waist, half-dragging her down the corridor. The hallways of The Plaza were a maze of identical doors and dim, opulent lighting.

She stopped in front of a grand suite marked 8869. She swiped the keycard. She didn't notice the light flashing red before she pushed against the heavy door.

It swung inward. Unlocked—housekeeping must have forgotten to latch it after turndown service.

She guided Chloe inside and onto the massive bed, pulling off her painful heels.

"Sleep, Chloe," Seraphina whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears as she pulled a duvet over her sister. "It will all be over soon."

She turned and left, her head pounding. She didn't realize her mistake.

The honeymoon suite was 8898.

Room 8869 was the private, long-term residence of Nathaniel Sterling.

As Seraphina stumbled back toward the ballroom, she collided with a hard chest. It was Derek, his tie loosened, his own eyes glazed with alcohol.

He shot her a look of pure contempt, didn't apologize, and stalked off in the opposite direction.

Toward room 8898.

Chloe drifted on a feverish sea. The champagne had been a mistake, but something else was wrong. A strange, coiling heat spread through her limbs, making her skin feel too tight, her mouth dry as dust. One of the cloying guests, trying to curry favor, must have slipped something into her last glass.

The door to the suite clicked open. A tall、 dark silhouette stood framed against the hallway light.

Her drug-addled mind supplied a name: Derek. Her husband. A wave of revulsion, thick, and syrupy, washed over her.

Nathaniel loosened his tie as he stepped into the darkness of his private suite. He preferred it this way, without the jarring intrusion of electric lights. The scent hit him first. A woman's perfume-something floral, and young-mingled with the stale tang of champagne.

His brow furrowed. He thought it was a "gift" from some overzealous business associate. His hand was already reaching for his phone to call security.

Then he moved toward the bed. Moonlight、 filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows、 spilled across the sheets、 illuminating the face of the woman lying there.

His heart stopped.

Chloe Beaumont.

What was she doing here? In his bed?

He saw the unnatural flush on her cheeks, heard the soft, distressed moan that escaped her lips. This wasn't just drunkenness. She was in trouble.

As if in a dream、 she whimpered and tugged at the neckline of her wedding dress、 her movements clumsy. The delicate lace tore slightly, exposing the curve of her collarbone.

Nathaniel's breath caught in his throat. He reached out, his intention clinical-to check her temperature, to assess the situation.

The moment his cool fingertips brushed against her burning skin, she sighed and latched onto his hand, pressing it to her cheek like a drowning woman clinging to a piece of driftwood.

That single, unconscious act of trust, of seeking comfort from him, shattered a decade of iron-willed control.

The desire he had ruthlessly suppressed for months, the raw, possessive need for this specific girl, erupted like a volcano. He knew it was wrong. She was his nephew's wife. She was untouchable.

But his body, his soul, screamed that she was his.

He leaned down, his voice a raw rasp in the darkness. "Do you know who I am?"

Chloe、 lost in a haze of drugs and delusion、 only knew the figure looming over her was the man she was forced to marry. The man she hated.

"Bastard..." she mumbled.

The word, meant as an insult, acted as a catalyst. It lit a fire in Nathaniel's eyes.

He should stop. Every rational fiber of his being screamed at him to walk away. But the thread had snapped.

He crushed his lips to hers.

Meanwhile, in suite 8898, Derek Carlisle ripped off his bow tie. He'd expected to find a crying, hysterical bride.

Instead, he found a woman asleep in his bed.

In the dim light, her face was half-buried in the pillow, her hair fanned across the sheets. He assumed it was Chloe, passed out drunk before he'd even arrived.

A cold, cruel laugh escaped him. What a ridiculous family.

He'd been dragged here, forced into this marriage, and now his bride couldn't even stay conscious for the wedding night. Fine. She wanted to sleep through it? He'd give her something to wake up to.

A vicious thought took root in his mind.

This would be his own act of rebellion.