Chapter 1

My tenth year trailing after Bruce Sanchez like his shadow.

We were finally going to register the marriage.

He'd had someone deliver me a box-seat ticket to the Bayley Playhouse.

On the stub was written:

"Third-floor VIP room. An absolutely spectacular show. You'll regret missing it."

I thought it was a surprise.

When I pushed the door open, what met my eyes was a floor scattered with lace lingerie.

Bruce Sanchez had a tight grip on a woman's waist from behind.

My legs went weak, and I braced myself against the wall as a hopeless sound escaped me.

"Why?"

Bruce Sanchez shoved the woman off of him, unhurriedly pulled up his trousers, and smiled, cruel and taunting.

"That's what you get for always being so well-behaved. I've slipped out to hunt for wild game behind your back so many times and you never noticed a thing. Honestly, no thrill in it at all."

The signed English-and-Chinese wedding vows in my hand

seemed, in that instant, to have become a joke.

...

The woman lounged back on the sofa, half-covering herself with a shawl, hand pressed over her mouth as she snickered,

her eyes full of gloating delight at the sight of me.

She was a new actress Sterling Studios had just signed.

Bruce Sanchez fastened his cuff links, then walked over to me and looked at me.

"Why throw such a tantrum? The position of Mrs. Sanchez will always be yours."

He reached out to touch my face.

I turned my head away.

"Don't touch me."

His hand froze in midair, then he drew it back with indifference and pulled a cigar from the case.

"You're always too well-behaved, too dull. I'm a man—I go looking for a little fun outside now and then. In all of Harbor Island's circles, who doesn't?"

He bit down on the cigar and lit it.

"Be good, stop making a scene. I'll take you to the Ninth Street Slums for that sweet dessert soup you love."

Ten years ago the Ninth Street Slums were filthy and chaotic. A few thugs had cornered me in a dark alley.

He was the one who charged out with an iron bar and put himself between me and them.

When one of those thugs swung his machete at me,

he turned without hesitation and took the blow across his back to shield me.

Blood soaked his shirt, and though his face went white with pain, he held me tightly.

"Don't be afraid, April. Brother Bruce is here—nobody can touch you."

That scar, over a dozen centimeters long, is still on his back to this day.

I looked down at the wedding vows in my hand, at his signature on them.

I tore the vows in two with all my strength.

Bruce Sanchez's expression shifted slightly.

"April Henson, have you lost your mind?"

His fingers, holding the cigar, went still.

I shredded the marriage certificate stamped with the law firm's seal, then flung my hand up and threw the scraps in his face.

The shredded paper drifted down onto the lingerie on the floor.

"Bruce Sanchez, I'm not marrying you."

The Sterling Studios actress let out a gasp.

"Mr. Sanchez, look at her."

Bruce Sanchez's face darkened, and he stepped forward and seized my wrist.

"Do you even know what you're saying? The news of the two families' union is already front-page—all of the Downtown Financial District knows! And now you're playing at breaking up with me? You think you're some avant-garde Western girl?"

"I'm not throwing a tantrum. I find you filthy."

"April Henson, you can't live without me," he said with certainty. "Walk out that door today, and tomorrow you'll come back crying and begging me."

I looked at his face, then turned and grabbed the vase from the display stand in the corner of the box,

and smashed it to the floor.

The actress screamed.

Several security men rushed in, followed by a few reporters with cameras.

The camera flashes kept firing.

"Mr. Sanchez, may we ask what's going on here?"

"Ms. Henson, weren't the two of you registering tomorrow?"

The reporters' lenses fixed on the lingerie and the actress on the floor.

A financial-empire heir caught cheating—that was definitely tomorrow's headline.

Bruce Sanchez didn't lose his temper; he waved the security men away and stepped in front of the cameras.

He came over to me and, with the fingers holding the cigar, brushed the scraps off my shoulder.

"Why throw such a tantrum,"

he said, his voice low.

"How about I buy the whole theater for you to smash?"

Then he turned to the reporters, his eyes turning vicious.

"Anyone who dares put out a single word, I'll make sure he can't stay on Harbor Island."

The reporters were so scared they lowered their cameras.

I pushed him aside, stepped over the wreckage covering the floor, and walked out of the box.

From behind me came Bruce Sanchez's voice.

"Let her go. Let's see how long she can keep up the tough act."