Chapter 2

Benson decided to invite Samuel to our place to lay everything out.

Charlotte stood by, twisting her handkerchief in worry.

I, however, had already moved past my tantrum. I was busy stuffing my face with a freshly baked custard tart, crumbs clinging to my lips as I mumbled, "Relax, Charlotte. It's just a meeting. Honestly, who in this city isn't thrilled to see me?"

People usually wait for the bride to face the firing squad, but this time, the groom was the one on trial.

To be fair, Samuel was actually quite easy on the eyes.

He had a strikingly handsome face with deep eyes and a prominent nose. His defined jawline gave him a stony look that felt both powerful and elegant.

His behavior was so stuffy and formal, like a boring old preacher.

His clothes didn't have a single fancy stitch, and his cuffs were actually frayed. It made me sigh just looking at him.

I had always skipped the boring classics in school, but I was a literal pro when it came to fashion and gourmet dining.

Clearly, Samuel didn't have a romantic bone in his body. He was the complete opposite of the dashing man I had imagined for myself.

I ducked behind Charlotte, twisting my handkerchief and muttering quietly.

"Seriously? He dresses more simply than our footmen..."

Benson let out a sharp cough and shot me a warning look.

I instantly shrunk back like a scolded kitten and glared at the human statue in front of me.

Samuel sat perfectly upright, back straight as a board. He acted like he hadn't heard a word of my complaining, merely tracing the rim of his cup with his finger.

Seeing the tension, Benson and Charlotte slipped out to let us talk privately.

After ten minutes, Samuel still hadn't said a word. He just sat there with his eyes lowered.

My patience hit zero. Ignoring Charlotte's advice to stay "ladylike," I grabbed my lace fan and tossed it right into his lap.

"What is your problem? Am I not good enough for you? You've been sitting there like a statue. My legs are getting tired!"

The fan brushed his sleeve. He shifted slightly to avoid it, but I noticed his ears were turning a subtle shade of crimson.

"I wouldn't dare," he replied.

He finally looked up, his long lashes casting soft shadows.

He whispered, "But we both know this marriage is purely for show. If you ever want to leave and divorce me..."

"You!"

I cut him off, stomping my foot on the hardwood floor.

The crystal chandelier above seemed to shimmer with my rage.

Every bachelor in the city was practically begging for a chance with me, but Samuel, who somehow won the lottery by marrying me, was the first one to bring up divorce!

That was supposed to be my line! Since when did he get to call the shots?

"Miss, why the long face?" my maid, Grace Smith, asked as she helped me with my corset later.

I ignored her and pouted at my reflection.

With my perfectly arched brows, sparkling eyes, and creamy, flawless skin, I was the most stunning girl in the city. But he remained unfazed.

He was a total idiot with no eye for beauty.

The big day was set for the eighth of December, just as the first winter berries were frosting over.

The palace sent over a mountain of gifts, all wrapped in white and gold ribbons, filling half a room.

I just scoffed at the display.

Maybe the King wasn't completely heartless. In those days when he was a forgotten prince, Charlotte was the one who risked everything to keep him company.

I was little then and hated the cold, so Charlotte would wrap herself in a thick coat and carry warm biscuits to him alone.

That place was freezing. Charlotte was already fragile, and she never truly recovered from those freezing nights. That was where her health first began to fail.

Now, those cold nights felt like a faded dream from another life.

Samuel's house was tiny. It was basically a small cottage with a single yard.

He lived there with only a tight-lipped coachman and an elderly housekeeper for company. There wasn't even a maid.

Though the house had been freshly restored, it felt strangely desolate. Whenever the wind rattled the window frames, a draft crept in that left my heart feeling utterly hollow.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt like a martyr. My eyes started to sting.

I flung my veil aside and reached for the glacé cherries on the tray, devouring them as if I were choking down my own resentment.

Grace hurried over, placing a hand on my wrist, and whispered, "Miss, you're here now, so try to make the best of it. Don't eat so fast. You'll get a stomachache."

Indeed, Grace was my unofficial medic.

Since I loved to eat and always ended up with a stomachache, my father had her keep a close eye on me.

But right now, I didn't care.

After ten minutes of eating, my stomach felt warmer, and the urge to cry started to fade.

Then, with a creak, the door opened. A tall figure stood in the doorway.

My eyes met a pair of clear ones.

With his long lashes and that perfectly straight profile, he was transformed. Stripped of his drab gray work suit and draped in a dark velvet tuxedo, he possessed a masculine elegance that put those rich playboys in the city to shame.

My ears felt hot.

Who would have thought this dull bookworm could be so strikingly handsome?

He walked in and just stared at me. Grace took the hint and slipped out.

He stepped forward, carrying a simple spare blanket, with his back turned to me.

"In three years," he said coldly, "we get a divorce."

All those fluttery feelings vanished instantly.

I snatched a silk ribbon and threw it at his head.

"Fine! Whoever backs out is a total loser!" I yelled.