Chapter 1 · Triplets and Scandal

Clutching the ultrasound report showing my triplets, I stormed into the Preston Memorial Hall.

The entire assembly stared at my swollen belly, their eyes sharp and incredulous, as if I were a madwoman attempting to climb beyond my station.

And there he was—the ascetic, soon to take his vows—head bowed, fingers tracing the rosary, not even sparing me a glance until I tore his cloak open for all to see.

*****

Three minutes earlier, the Preston Memorial Hall was locked up tight, and inside, the tonsure ceremony was in full swing.

I stood there, five months pregnant, blocked from entering by two bodyguards.

"Miss, the Preston family is having an important event today. No outsiders are allowed in," one of them said.

I smirked, pulled the ultrasound report out of my bag, unfolded it, and shoved it right in his face.

"Take a good look. Triplets. You still think I'm just some nobody?" I shot back.

The bodyguard froze for a split second, instinctively glancing down at the report—three tiny sacs, clear as day.

That half-second was all I needed. I pushed past him and kicked the door of the Preston Memorial Hall wide open.

The door slammed against the wall with a deafening bang.

At least fifty people in the hall—all at once—snapped their heads in my direction.

Right in the center, Rayden Preston was on his knees on a ritual cushion, draped in a cloak, with an old priest standing before him, razor in hand.

Sunlight streamed through the carved window frames, bathing his face in a soft glow. He looked a hundred times more handsome than in any monastery publicity photo.

His features were cool and distant, his nose straight and proud, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like a statue, untouched by the world.

Caroline Preston, the old lady decked out in gold and jewels, was the first to react. She slammed her cane on the floor and shouted, "Who let this crazy woman in? Security!"

"Wait," a voice called out.

The voice came from the middle-aged man sitting at the head of the hall—Braden Preston, the head of the Preston family and Rayden's father.

He narrowed his eyes, sizing me up. His gaze lingered on my belly for a couple of seconds before shifting to the paper in my hand.

"What's that you're holding?" he asked.

I walked in, belly first, and the crowd parted.

I stopped right in front of Rayden.

He still didn't look up, just kept turning his rosary beads one by one, his movements so graceful it was like he was playing the piano.

I slapped the ultrasound report down on the ritual cushion in front of him.

"Rayden, that rose-shaped birthmark on your back? I kissed every single petal into existence that night," I said.

The whole place went dead silent for a full three seconds.

Then, like a bomb going off, the room exploded with noise.

"Wait, a birthmark? Rayden has a birthmark on his back?" someone blurted.

"No way. The ascetic grew up in the monastery. Who's ever seen his back?" someone snorted.

"Is this woman nuts? Trying to mess with the Prestons now?" someone whispered.

Rayden finally lifted his gaze to me.

Those eyes—I'd only ever seen them in photos before. They were cold, distant, completely out of reach.

But now, standing this close, I realized there wasn't a hint of Buddhist serenity in his eyes.

He looked at everyone like they were just ants beneath his feet, including me.

He finally spoke, his voice even colder than the monastery's morning bell. "You've got the wrong person."

I laughed.

I took another step forward, my belly out front. He didn't budge from his spot on the ritual cushion, but I caught the faintest tremble in his lashes.

"Wrong person?" I bent down, leaning close to his ear, and spoke in a voice just for the two of us. "Rayden, that night when you were drunk, you grabbed my hand and begged me not to leave. You sure didn't look like this then."

His ears turned visibly red.

At last, a crack split that dead-cold stare in his eyes.

I straightened up, and before he could react, I grabbed the collar of his cloak.

"What are you doing?" someone gasped from the crowd.

I gave it a hard pull.

With a sharp sound, the cloak slid off his shoulders, exposing his lean back.

The collective gasp from the crowd was so loud it felt like the roof might blow off.

That rose bloomed just below his shoulder blade.

The petals were layered, red as if they could bleed, almost blinding against his luminous white skin.

"Oh my god... he really does have a birthmark..." someone whispered.

"That shape... it really is a rose..." another person murmured.

"How could he have a birthmark like that?" someone else blurted out.

I didn't give anyone a second to react. I grabbed the ultrasound report from the ritual cushion and raised it high, making sure everyone could see.

"Look closely! Triplets, five months in," I said, stressing every word. "Do I really need to tell you whose kids these are?"

In the chaos, a woman in a white dress, eyes red from crying, squeezed her way to the front.

"Rayden..." she called out.

Chapter 1

Clutching the ultrasound report showing my triplets, I stormed into the Preston Memorial Hall.

The entire assembly stared at my swollen belly, their eyes sharp and incredulous, as if I were a madwoman attempting to climb beyond my station.

And there he was—the ascetic, soon to take his vows—head bowed, fingers tracing the rosary, not even sparing me a glance until I tore his cloak open for all to see.

*****

Three minutes earlier, the Preston Memorial Hall was locked up tight, and inside, the tonsure ceremony was in full swing.

I stood there, five months pregnant, blocked from entering by two bodyguards.

"Miss, the Preston family is having an important event today. No outsiders are allowed in," one of them said.

I smirked, pulled the ultrasound report out of my bag, unfolded it, and shoved it right in his face.

"Take a good look. Triplets. You still think I'm just some nobody?" I shot back.

The bodyguard froze for a split second, instinctively glancing down at the report—three tiny sacs, clear as day.

That half-second was all I needed. I pushed past him and kicked the door of the Preston Memorial Hall wide open.

The door slammed against the wall with a deafening bang.

At least fifty people in the hall—all at once—snapped their heads in my direction.

Right in the center, Rayden Preston was on his knees on a ritual cushion, draped in a cloak, with an old priest standing before him, razor in hand.

Sunlight streamed through the carved window frames, bathing his face in a soft glow. He looked a hundred times more handsome than in any monastery publicity photo.

His features were cool and distant, his nose straight and proud, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like a statue, untouched by the world.

Caroline Preston, the old lady decked out in gold and jewels, was the first to react. She slammed her cane on the floor and shouted, "Who let this crazy woman in? Security!"

"Wait," a voice called out.

The voice came from the middle-aged man sitting at the head of the hall—Braden Preston, the head of the Preston family and Rayden's father.

He narrowed his eyes, sizing me up. His gaze lingered on my belly for a couple of seconds before shifting to the paper in my hand.

"What's that you're holding?" he asked.

I walked in, belly first, and the crowd parted.

I stopped right in front of Rayden.

He still didn't look up, just kept turning his rosary beads one by one, his movements so graceful it was like he was playing the piano.

I slapped the ultrasound report down on the ritual cushion in front of him.

"Rayden, that rose-shaped birthmark on your back? I kissed every single petal into existence that night," I said.

The whole place went dead silent for a full three seconds.

Then, like a bomb going off, the room exploded with noise.

"Wait, a birthmark? Rayden has a birthmark on his back?" someone blurted.

"No way. The ascetic grew up in the monastery. Who's ever seen his back?" someone snorted.

"Is this woman nuts? Trying to mess with the Prestons now?" someone whispered.

Rayden finally lifted his gaze to me.

Those eyes—I'd only ever seen them in photos before. They were cold, distant, completely out of reach.

But now, standing this close, I realized there wasn't a hint of Buddhist serenity in his eyes.

He looked at everyone like they were just ants beneath his feet, including me.

He finally spoke, his voice even colder than the monastery's morning bell. "You've got the wrong person."

I laughed.

I took another step forward, my belly out front. He didn't budge from his spot on the ritual cushion, but I caught the faintest tremble in his lashes.

His ears turned visibly red.

At last, a crack split that dead-cold stare in his eyes.

I straightened up, and before he could react, I grabbed the collar of his cloak.

"What are you doing?" someone gasped from the crowd.

I gave it a hard pull.

With a sharp sound, the cloak slid off his shoulders, exposing his lean back.

The collective gasp from the crowd was so loud it felt like the roof might blow off.

That rose bloomed just below his shoulder blade.

The petals were layered, red as if they could bleed, almost blinding against his luminous white skin.

"Oh my god... he really does have a birthmark..." someone whispered.

"That shape... it really is a rose..." another person murmured.

"How could he have a birthmark like that?" someone else blurted out.

I didn't give anyone a second to react. I grabbed the ultrasound report from the ritual cushion and raised it high, making sure everyone could see.

"Look closely! Triplets, five months in," I said, stressing every word. "Do I really need to tell you whose kids these are?"

In the chaos, a woman in a white dress, eyes red from crying, squeezed her way to the front.

"Rayden..." she called out.