Chapter 1
Adrian Pemberton and I were childhood sweethearts.
Our families were close friends for generations.
Since I was little, my parents had told me that I would marry Adrian someday and become Mrs. Pemberton.
So they forbade me from dating and restricted who I could be friends with.
In junior high, I got close to the top student in our grade; we often discussed our studies together.
Later, that boy transferred schools.
Before he left, he came to see me secretly. It turned out my parents had given his family a sum of money to make them take him away.
“Celeste, I like you,” he said, his eyes burning with passion, bright and intense.
He mustered up the courage to hold my hand and promised me a future: “I don’t want you to live in this beautiful cage. Come with me, and I’ll always treat you well.”
As soon as he said those words, several bodyguards—who seemed to appear out of nowhere—took him away.
It was autumn then.
Half-green, half-yellow sycamore leaves fell from the branches and landed at my feet.
I tucked that autumn leaf into a book. The cover looked like a Chinese literature textbook, but inside, it was actually a popular romance novel of the time.
No one had ever told me what “liking someone” or “loving someone” meant, so I wanted to figure it out on my own.
Adrian laughed at me for being silly.
“Liking someone means you want to kiss them; loving someone means you want to sleep with them. Don’t you even know that?”
He was lying lazily on the sofa, a lollipop in his mouth.
The grade director had caught him smoking in the bathroom and called his parents. His mom and dad had slapped him right then and there and thrown all his cigarettes away.
That was the first time I saw Adrian’s eyes turn red.
“Is the lollipop good?” I asked.
He frowned and shook his head.
I felt a little disappointed. It smelled so sweet—why didn’t he like it?
My family had strict rules about my diet, limiting my sugar intake. Besides, how could a lady eat a lollipop? That would be so unladylike.
I stared at the candy in his hand, breathing in the sweet scent in the air, and swallowed hard.
Adrian was amused by me. He leaned over, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“You want some?”
I nodded, then shook my head. “I do, but I can’t.”
Adrian stared at me.
“Do you know what I hate most about you?”
I was shocked. Did Adrian hate me? I had no idea.
Adrian gritted his teeth in anger: “I hate how you’re just like them—always saying ‘you can’t’ or ‘you’re not allowed.’ But I will do it anyway!”
With that, he leaned in. A sour-sweet kiss landed on my lips. He was clearly inexperienced too, only pressing his lips against mine and licking like a puppy.
I remembered that in the romance novel, kissing meant prying open the other person’s lips, sweeping every corner of their mouth little by little until they were out of breath, gasping for air.
Soon, Adrian pulled away, defeated. His face was red, and he kept panting.
He cursed me: “Celeste Sinclair, you’re shameless!”
