Pale Moon Bay villa.

Nine in the morning.

Clara Ashford woke up sore all over, like she’d been run over twice. Bits and pieces of last night drifted into her head, blurry and broken. She froze, then yanked the blanket up to look underneath. The second she saw herself, her whole face flared red.

Her fingers shook as she grabbed her phone and opened the three-person group chat on WeChat.

“What do I do? I brought a man back to the villa. I totally cheated on Adrian Blackwell!”

“Oh my god, with how petty and ruthless Adrian Blackwell is, if he finds out I cuckolded him during the marriage, is he going to have me torn to pieces?”

Sophie Caldwell: “? Yinyin, is there a chance the man you brought back was Adrian Blackwell?”

Iris Mercer: “Yeah, Yinyin, your husband was the one who carried you away last night.”

What?

Adrian Blackwell was back in the country?

The second that thought hit her, Clara quickly turned to look at the other side of the bed.

Empty.

But the sheets were still rumpled, and there was a faint scent lingering there—cool, clean agarwood mixed with a trace of tobacco.

That was Adrian Blackwell’s smell.

Ding.

A new WeChat message came in.

Clara switched on speaker.

Sophie Caldwell’s voice burst out at once. “Yinyin, well? Did you and your husband finally have your wedding night or what?”

“Your Mr. Blackwell totally looks like the kind of guy with insane stamina. So? Was he good in bed?”

Good lord.

That damn Sophie—what kind of question even was that?

This contract husband of hers had flown abroad to handle business the very day they got their marriage certificate. He left for three full years and, no joke, never came back even once.

She barely knew him at all.

And honestly, in the past three years, Adrian Blackwell had been as cold as ever. Every message Clara Ashford sent went unanswered. Every call she made got ignored. Not once had he picked up.

Clara was long used to it. If he stayed overseas forever, even better.

Because from the very start, their marriage had been nothing more than a contract. Each of them wanted something out of it. That was all.

The Ashford family had gotten dragged into a construction case, and their cash flow had snapped clean in two. As long as she agreed to marry Adrian Blackwell, Old Mrs. Blackwell would step in and cover the five-billion gap for the Ashfords.

That way, her father and her brother could stay out of trouble too.

Of course, Clara had promised Old Mrs. Blackwell that she would act like Adrian Blackwell’s admirer, his fangirl, his hopelessly devoted pursuer. She didn’t dare tell the old lady that Adrian had already laid down his terms: contract marriage, five years, no more, no less.

When the five years were up, they would divorce on schedule.

So in these three years, Clara had done plenty of fake caring on WeChat, asking if he’d eaten, if he was resting, layering on that sweet, phony concern and pretending she liked him, loved him, couldn’t live without him.

She had played her role well—

the woman who had to have him.

Last night, Sophie Caldwell and Iris Mercer dragged her to Velvet Note Bar to celebrate the three of them graduating from senior year.

And well... once she got happy, she drank too much.

Clara was the type who got drunk the second alcohol touched her lips, the kind who got tipsy fast and hit hard. But graduation was graduation. It was goodbye to a whole stretch of youth. No way was she leaving sober.

So when she saw Adrian Blackwell, her first thought was that her eyes were messing with her. She staggered after him anyway, heels unsteady, and called out for him to stop.

Adrian Blackwell didn’t slow down.

Because no woman had ever been able to make him stop.

He was ridiculously good-looking, and in Capitalis, he was the Blackwell heir who could practically cover the sky with one hand. The women who wanted to be with him could line up all the way to the other side of the ocean.

All kinds of pickup attempts came at him nonstop. He was beyond sick of it.

But Clara, a little drunk and weirdly stubborn, dug in.

In two or three quick steps, she cut in front of him and blocked his way.

The hotel was drenched in dim, cold-toned light. It slid across the man’s sharp brows and eyes, shadows shifting over his face, making him look even more distant, more untouchable.

He was tall. Seriously tall. Close to six-three.

Even though Clara Ashford had dressed up for her graduation celebration that night and put on strappy high heels, she still had to tip her chin up just to look at him.

She was a little drunk.

"Why do you look so much like Adrian Blackwell?"

Her steps swayed as she drifted toward him. Adrian Blackwell frowned at once and stepped back, then said to the broad-shouldered man beside him, "Handle it."

The young man packed with muscle was Owen Fletcher, Adrian Blackwell’s personal bodyguard and secretary, the kind who followed him basically everywhere.

Owen glanced at Clara Ashford.

She was the kind of pretty that hit people right away, soft and sweet, the sort of face you didn’t forget after one look. And for some reason, she felt just a little familiar too.

He couldn’t help thinking, wow, even a girl like this still couldn’t get Mr. Blackwell to spare her one extra glance?

He stepped forward and reached out with a tattooed arm, about to grab her.

The moment Clara Ashford saw him moving in, she hurriedly wrapped both arms around herself. "I’m warning you, don’t touch me. He—Adrian Blackwell—is my husband."

"If you dare lay a hand on me, he’ll chop your hand off."

Owen’s brow twitched.

Only then did he suddenly remember that his young master was, in fact, a married man.

And if he remembered right, Mrs. Blackwell was super into Mr. Blackwell too. She sent him messages every single day, making her feelings painfully obvious, like she was completely gone for him, no saving her.

Owen quickly pulled out his phone and flipped up their wedding photo. He looked at the picture, then at Clara Ashford again.

Clara Ashford had gotten the marriage certificate with Adrian Blackwell back in her freshman year. It had been three years, sure, but she had only grown into her features more. Compared to now, she really hadn’t changed that much.

One quick comparison was enough. Same person. No doubt.

Owen immediately reminded him, "Mr. Blackwell, I think she’s your wife, Clara Ashford."

Adrian Blackwell frowned.

He lowered his eyes with a flat, distant look, and just happened to meet Clara Ashford’s gaze.

She was drunk.

Those clear, clean eyes of hers were blurred by alcohol, hazy like they were covered in a thin layer of mist.

Even the corners of her eyes had been stained with a faint rosy red.

Crazy alluring.

His thumb pressed lightly under her chin, lifting it as he looked her over with a sharp, cutting stare.

He knew this face way too well. He had been abroad for three years, and during those three years, his grandmother had practically sent him a photo of Clara every single day. At that point, even if he wanted to forget her, no shot.

"You’ve been drinking?" His voice was cold and hard, obviously not pleased.

"Mm, just a little."

Seeing that no one was stopping her, Clara got bolder. She stood on tiptoe, cupped Adrian Blackwell’s face with both hands, and leaned her whole body closer. Her bright eyes shimmered as she looked at him. "Oh... then you must just look like him. My husband’s overseas."

After saying that, she leaned straight into Adrian Blackwell’s chest and closed her eyes.

Adrian Blackwell frowned, irritation written all over his face.

His expression turned even colder. "Why are you all still standing there? Get her off me."

Owen Fletcher didn’t move. Keeping his head lowered, he said, "Young Master Blackwell, Miss Ashford is your wife. It wouldn’t be appropriate if I carried her."

The bodyguards standing nearby all lowered their heads too, each one with survival instinct fully online.

Adrian Blackwell clicked his tongue in annoyance, grabbed her by the arm, and was about to dump her onto the table beside him.

Owen Fletcher spoke up again. "Old Mrs. Blackwell is very fond of Miss Ashford. If she finds out you came back to the country without telling your wife, and then learns that your wife got drunk and you just shoved her aside, she’ll definitely call you back to the old residence tomorrow and give you hell."

The moment Adrian Blackwell thought of the old lady—and her endless nagging—he stopped himself from tossing Clara away.

"Wasn’t she supposed to be the obedient type?" he said with a dark face. "What’s she doing out drinking this late at night?"

The second those words left his mouth, the phone rang.

Owen Fletcher picked it up first.

He glanced at Adrian Blackwell and said quietly, "It's Old Mrs. Blackwell."

Adrian took the phone from him. "Grandma."

"A-Kun, you're back?" Her voice was bright with obvious excitement.

"Yeah."

"Does Yinyin know yet?"

"I didn't tell her."

Old Mrs. Blackwell instantly got annoyed. "Look at you. The day you got the marriage certificate, you hopped on a private jet and flew abroad. One trip, three whole years. You didn't even give Yinyin a wedding. Thank goodness she's a good girl. She didn't make a scene, and she's been caring about you this whole time."

"Tonight, you must go back to the villa and consummate the marriage with Yinyin."

Adrian held back his impatience, his tone cold as ice. "I didn't even want this marriage in the first place. Clara Ashford is less my wife and more someone I married for all of you."

"You brat." Old Mrs. Blackwell's voice rose on the spot. "Yinyin is a good girl. And all those messy scandals of yours outside? Cut them off for me, now. Since you're back, hurry up and have a child with Yinyin. She's already graduated from college too. She's several years younger than you."

"The fact that she doesn't dislike you is already more than enough. And you still dare say something this outrageous?"

This was exactly why Adrian never wanted to come back.

He had no idea what kind of trick Clara Ashford had used on his grandmother, but the old lady had practically threatened him with her life to force this marriage through.

That only made him dislike Clara even more.

Adrian Blackwell hated one thing most in this world: being controlled.

"Oh, right. Yinyin went to Velvet Note Bar tonight. Go pick her up and bring her back to the villa."

With that, Old Mrs. Blackwell hung up.

Adrian took a deep breath, then looked down at the woman in his arms with open disgust.

He bent down and lifted her up.

"Back to the villa."