Chapter 1

My absurd marriage to Emmet Henson began with me taking advantage of him when he was vulnerable, and it was sustained by Jasmine Pruitt's every provocation.

I thought I was the one holding the script, the one in control of everything.

Until that night, when I finally grew tired of this endless tug-of-war and decided to separate.

Only, at the door of the study, I overheard him say to his weeping childhood sweetheart, in a chillingly cold tone:

"One last time. Jasmine, go provoke her one more time. I want her... to never be able to leave me."

The next second, the door swung open, and he saw me standing in the doorway, looking like I'd been struck by lightning.

The motion-sensor light in the entryway flicked on, dispelling the darkness in the room.

Emmet was back.

He carried the chill of the late-night air, along with a scent I knew all too well—Jasmine's favorite "Forest Rose" perfume. Sweet, cloying, and full of blatant provocation.

I sat on the living room sofa with the lights off, only the tablet in front of me giving off a faint glow.

On the screen, the bold black headline of the entertainment news was brazen and glaring: Henson Group President Emmet Henson Spends the Night with Childhood Sweetheart Jasmine Pruitt—Is a Wedding Near?

The accompanying photo was a blurry candid shot from a paparazzo. In a revolving restaurant, by the floor-to-ceiling window, Emmet was looking down, wiping the corner of Jasmine's mouth with a tissue.

The angle had been caught perfectly; his profile was sharp, his expression focused, while Jasmine looked up, her eyes shining with adoration and reliance.

A golden couple, made for each other.

In the comments, their shipper fans were already celebrating:

Ahhh, the real couple is giving us sweetness! I always said true love wins!

Where's that Winfield heiress who bought her way to the top? Why doesn't she hurry up and get lost and make way for our Jasmine?

Three years. She stuck with him from a nobody to being worth billions—our Jasmine deserves it! Emmet Henson, you'd better not do her wrong!

I scrolled through the comments expressionlessly, then switched off the tablet.

The "vicious female second lead who bought her way to the top" they were talking about was, at that moment, rising from the shadows in a burgundy silk nightgown, barefoot, stepping onto the cold wool carpet, walking step by step toward the man countless people envied—the man I had tied down with a single contract.

Hearing the movement, Emmet looked up.

He wore a dark gray cashmere coat today, which made his frame look even taller and leaner. Perhaps because he'd run into someone he didn't want to see, his eyes, usually as clear and cold as an old well, were now visibly tinged with weariness and impatience.

"Still up?" he said, his voice deep as ever, like snow steeped in a winter night.

I said nothing, only walked up to him and, quite naturally, raised my hand to unbutton his coat.

The cool, crisp scent of cedar and white tea that belonged to me instantly and forcefully wrapped around him, scattering the sweet rose fragrance that didn't belong here.

Emmet's body stiffened for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing almost imperceptibly. He lowered his eyes, watching my slender fingers move across his chest, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"I saw the news." I unhurriedly helped him out of his coat and draped it over my arm, then looked up at him, my tone as calm as if I were discussing some trivial report. "Nicely shot, plenty of mood. Anyone who didn't know better would think you'd already married someone new, Mr. Henson."

"It was just a business function," he explained, his tone flat and even, like a machine without feeling.

"Oh? Does a business function with your childhood sweetheart require booking out an entire restaurant, and wiping her mouth with your own hand?"

I gave a soft laugh, my fingertip lightly pressing over his heart through his expensive white shirt. "Emmet, don't forget whose name this company goes by now."

His gaze darkened—the cold of someone whose sore spot had been struck.

"Dora," he said my name in warning.

"I'm here." I tipped my head up and gave him a bright, wicked smile. "Mr. Henson, you know my rules. Jasmine provokes me once, and I have to take it back from you twice over."

This was the twisted balance between us.

I had forced him to marry me, bound him to my side, and vented my unrequited love by tormenting him.

And he punished me with coldness, distance, and his eternally unchanging "devotion" to Jasmine.

He had to do as I said.

Because I held over forty percent of Henson's shares, making me the company's largest shareholder. His pride, his career, his lifeline—all of it was in my hands.

So whenever Jasmine stirred up trouble out there, whether by putting out press releases to jab at me, or, like tonight, deliberately manufacturing a scandal to disgust me, I never went and traded words with her.

Beneath me.

I would simply wait for Emmet to come home, and then, in my own way, make him "pay the price."

For instance, having him cancel an endorsement Jasmine had her eye on, or handing the path he'd paved for Jasmine straight over to Jasmine's worst rival.

Every time, his face would go ashen with rage, fury churning in his eyes, and yet he'd have no choice but to swallow it, and, humiliated, do exactly as I said.

I loved watching him look like he wanted to kill me but couldn't. It gave me a sick sense of satisfaction. As if only this way could I confirm that this man I loved to the point of madness was firmly under my heel.

The air froze in that moment.

I looked into his suppressed eyes, and the smile on my lips deepened.

"What? Not happy about it?" I rose onto my toes and leaned in close to his ear, my breath warm and suggestive. "Mr. Henson, want your childhood sweetheart to lose that lead role in the new film by tomorrow?"

His breathing turned suddenly heavier.

Those eyes, always coated in frost, now rippled like a deep pool with a stone thrown in, spreading out circle after circle of dark, unreadable waves.

After a long while, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, every emotion had been reined in, leaving only a dead, still calm.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse with suppressed feeling.

"Nothing in particular." I took a step back, tossed his coat carelessly onto the sofa, then turned and headed for the study on the second floor. "Come with me."

Emmet's study was my favorite place in this villa.

Like the man himself, it was calm, restrained, meticulous. The walls were lined with books, from finance to philosophy, from architecture to art, showcasing the owner's deep learning and remarkable taste.

I walked behind the wide mahogany desk, pulled out the leather chair, and sat down without ceremony.

This was his throne. And I was brazenly, openly occupying it as my own.

Emmet followed me in and stood on the other side of the desk, his tall figure casting an oppressive shadow under the overhead light. He didn't speak, only looked at me in silence, as though watching a child throwing a tantrum.

I ignored his gaze and went on toying with an ornament on the desk.