CHAPTER 1: THE FOG-LADEN CONTRACT
Autumn in London wore a heavy, melancholic cloak of gray. Pounding rain lashed against the glass windows of Saint-Jude, dissolving into long, weeping streaks before they could dry.
Elowen Vance sat in the most secluded corner of the VIP dining room, her fingertips gently rotating a crystal glass. She wore a faded high-necked wool sweater under a bulky, shapeless quilted coat. Amidst the opulent gold-gilded luxury of the five-star restaurant, she looked like a jarring, misplaced note—a girl born from a windswept, impoverished northern island town, stepping into high society solely on the strength of a generational promise.
Elowen’s hand unconsciously brushed against the ugly, blackened antique ring on her index finger—the only heirloom left by her late father. Nobody in London knew that beneath that rough exterior lay the key to a vault housing an invaluable art collection and the ownership of rare mineral mines worth hundreds of millions of pounds. She had been nurturing the idea of using a portion of this inheritance to invest in Lysander’s firm, Kensington.
“This steak is a bit overcooked, Elowen,” Lysander said, cutting across her train of thought. “Let me ask the waiter to get you another one.”
“I think it’s fine. No need to waste it.” She waved a hand to stop him.
Sitting opposite her in a flawlessly pressed suit with his hair slicked back with gel, his smile was so standard it looked programmed. “Go ahead and eat, then. I need to step outside for a quick phone call.”
Lysander strode toward the corridor leading to the private balcony. Elowen hesitated for a fraction of a second before getting up and following him, intending to surprise him.
Yet, as she neared the deserted terrace, the mocking, casual voices hanging in the cold air stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Come on, Lysander, how much longer are you planning to play the part of the devoted fiancé?” Rupert, Lysander’s close friend, jeered over the click of a lighter.
Lysander took a sip of wine, replying with a chilling indifference:
“Let Grandfather cling to that idiotic sense of ‘honor.’ Once Kensington’s shares are firmly in my hands, the name Elowen Vance will be nothing more than a memory... A rustic, nauseating memory.”
“And what about Odette?”
Lysander chuckled, every word dripping with a tenderness Elowen had never heard directed at her: “Odette is the only woman I love. We secretly went to Monaco and registered our marriage last month, and I spent a small fortune bribing officials to keep the records buried. The engagement paper I handed that fool Elowen last week was just a fake that cost a few thousand pounds to pull the wool over Grandfather’s eyes. Once I secure the inheritance, I’ll toss her back to her pathetic little fishing village with a few pennies of pity.”
“Damn, you’re ruthless! Have you touched her yet?”
“I promised Odette. My body belongs only to her. That idiot still thinks I’m some kind of gentleman...”
The clink of crystal glasses mingled with a burst of mocking laughter echoing through the phone.
Behind the wall, Elowen froze. Her chest constricted for a heartbeat, and then her breathing deliberately locked down, slowing into an eerie, steady rhythm. The ten fingers hidden inside her bulky coat pockets clenched so hard her nails dug deep into her palms with a sharp sting. But not a single tear fell. Instead, a glacial, razor-sharp wave of absolute clarity swept through her mind, flash-freezing every shred of pain into a cold, lethal hatred.
The corners of her lips curved upward in a bitter smirk. How fortunate. How lucky she hadn’t handed over that vault key just yet. He loved playing theater? Then she would gift him a role of a lifetime.
Elowen quietly turned back to the dining table.
A few minutes later, Lysander walked in wearing his familiar, practiced smile. Elowen looked up, her eyelashes fluttering with manufactured innocence. She interlaced her fingers, lowering her voice into a hesitant murmur:
“Lysander... truth is, the reason I asked you here today is because... my father’s old house finally cleared probate. My lawyer told me I’ve inherited fifty million pounds.”
Clatter.
The fork slipped right out of Lysander’s hand, clattering against the porcelain plate. He lunged forward across the table, his eyes locked onto Elowen. His pupils dilated, every muscle in his face twitching with a cocktail of shock and unadulterated greed.
“You... you’re serious?! Fifty million pounds?!”
“Yes...” Elowen smiled. “I honestly wouldn’t even know how to spend that kind of money. Once we’re married, I was thinking of handing the whole thing over to you to manage so you can expand Kensington...”
Lysander snatched her hand, leaning in close as he rushed to pour honeyed poison straight into her ear: “Elowen! You truly are the best woman in the world! Don’t you worry, once we’re married, I’ll take care of you like a queen. Our wedding is going to be the grandest spectacle in all of London!”
“Yes, I trust you,” Elowen nodded, burying the chilling gleam in her eyes.
At eight o’clock that evening, claiming he had an urgent matter to handle, he called a taxi for Elowen to head home alone. As always, she played the part of the obedient, compliant fiancée.
The London night rain poured down in sheets. The car pulled into a quiet, deserted alley near Mayfair so Elowen could pick up a prescription. The moment she stepped out of the vehicle, a barrage of violent shouts and blows assaulted her ears.
“Get lost, you filthy beggar! You’re dragging your trash all over my storefront!”
In a dark corner of the alley, three bulky security guards were relentlessly kicking a man collapsed on the ground. Despite the torn coat smeared with mud and blood, his posture remained as rigid as a bronze statue. His spine stayed straight without an ounce of cowering or begging, and his eyes burned with the wild, lethal glare of a beast, even though blood stained the edges of his brow.
“Stop right there!” Elowen’s voice cut through the air like ice as she pulled a handful of pound notes from her bag and flung them toward the guards.
The alley fell silent. Elowen stepped closer to the man leaning against the brick wall. As she caught sight of the fresh blood trickling down from a deep laceration on his forehead, she furrowed her brow. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a cream-colored silk handkerchief and a roll of British banknotes, holding them out toward him:
“Use this to clean your cut, and take the money to grab something to eat and find somewhere dry to wait out the rain.”
The man raised his head.
Beneath the dim glow of the streetlamp, the dried streak of blood could not mask the razor-sharp, chiseled perfection of his bone structure. He had a high, straight bridge of a nose, and most striking of all were his ash-gray eyes—as deep as a bottomless abyss, radiating an oppressive, razor-sharp authority that made it hard to breathe, entirely mismatched with his wretched, mud-caked state.
He didn’t take the money, instead lifting a slender hand to accept the silk handkerchief. His movement as he pressed the fabric gently against the gash on his forehead to stem the bleeding was unhurried and composed, entirely devoid of the panic of a man who had just been beaten senseless.
He asked, his voice a gravelly, slow, yet resonant rumble: “Why did you save me?”
“I simply don’t like watching a pack of cowards bully someone alone. No other reason.” Elowen resolutely pushed the cash into his hand, turned on her heel, and started to walk away.
“Miss,” his voice called out behind her.
Elowen stopped in her tracks. Through the amber light filtering past the mist, the man, despite his tattered clothes, radiated an untamable, defiant pride as he leaned against the wall. Those gray eyes pierced straight through her, as if looking right past her gentle exterior to the cold resolve beneath.
“You just saved me,” he continued at a leisurely pace. “How should I repay you?”
A bold, reckless thought flashed across Elowen’s mind. Lysander wanted to use a fake marriage to trap her? Then she would use a real marriage to drag him straight into the abyss.
Elowen stepped back toward him: “You want to repay me?”
“If it’s within my power.”
“I don’t need money,” Elowen lowered her voice, locking her gaze onto his. “I need a husband. A legally binding husband on paper to enter into a contract with me. Do you have the guts to take it?”
The man paused for a single heartbeat. Then, a dark, profound spark ignited deep within his cold ash-gray eyes. He let go of the blood-stained handkerchief, extending a long, elegant hand.
“A contract...” His voice was low and gravelly, yet saturated with command. “I look forward to our cooperation, Miss.”
Elowen gripped his freezing hand. The game had officially begun.
