Jason struggled to free himself from Heather's tight grip, but she clung to him with all her strength, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vine.

"Jason, I know you and your brother have different mothers," she whispered seductively. "He acts like a good brother on the surface, but behind your back, he's always plotting against you, keeping you at arm's length."

Her voice softened, full of temptation. "If I get pregnant with your child and marry him, everything in the Vanders will belong to us. No matter how hard he schemes, in the end, he'll be working for you. Doesn't that sound satisfying?"

Jason's gaze lowered to her, his expression cold and unreadable.

Heather leaned closer, her breath tickling his ear. "Are you really not interested in your brother's money? Or his woman?" Her lips brushed against his nose, trailing down to his Adam's apple.

She sank to her knees on the carpet, lifting her tearful eyes to look up at him, her red lips parted slightly — as if she were a faerie, drawing him deeper into her web.

Just then, a group of people approached the door outside, led by a server. They were laughing and chatting, ready to enter the room. As the door handle turned, Jason's fingers tightened in her hair, yanking her back abruptly.

The noise outside seemed to fade, and the footsteps grew distant again.

Breathing heavily, Heather reclined on the sofa, her lips glistening with moisture as she watched him, silently inviting him with a sly smile.

But Jason remained emotionless as he methodically adjusted his disheveled clothes.

Heather sat up, her eyes gleaming with provocation as she hooked her arm around him. "Jason, come on. It's my ovulation period, the best time to conceive a boy. Don't you want to seize this chance?"

Jason straightened, his usual air of dignity returning as he looked down at her with disdain. "A woman like you doesn't deserve to carry my child."

Heather watched in disbelief as he headed for the door. Infuriated, she chased after him. "Jason, are you even a man?"

He glanced back at her, his gaze lingering on her bold, red lips. "Didn't you already find out if I'm a man just now?"

Heather's fury surged. "Is that it? Are you impotent or something?"

He didn't bother to respond, just walked away without looking back.

Fuming, Heather shouted after him, her anger spilling over. "You deserve to be a cuckold! Chrishell and your brother are making a fool of you, and you don't even dare lay a finger on me!"

But Jason paid no attention to her taunts, leaving her behind without a second glance.

Heather returned to the private room, her heart ablaze with frustration, only to find Jason absent while Brett and Chrishell were already back.

Chrishell sat at one side, her face glowing with affection as she sang a love song, her eyes filled with longing. Brett listened, utterly entranced.

Suddenly, Heather felt the atmosphere suffocating and dull. She rose abruptly, leaving the room in search of air.

After a short drive, she arrived at the Jenner family home, where a servant was trying to feed her mother dinner. However, her mother was being uncooperative, splattering soup all over herself.

The servant, irritated, raised a hand to strike her but quickly recoiled upon seeing Heather approach.

Heather stepped in, took the bowl of soup, and sat down next to her mother. She looked at her mother, whose figure seemed to sag, a shadow of her former self.

Six months ago, her mother had discovered that her father not only had a mistress but also a secret illegitimate son. In a fit of rage, she had jumped from the second floor, landing hard.

Her father felt no remorse; instead, he continued to flaunt his affair, bringing his mistress and their child out in public. Since then, her mother had become a shell of herself, existing as a vegetable with no hope left in her life.

Heather gazed at her mother's burnt-red lips and sighed. "Mom, you're being foolish. Why punish yourself for someone else's mistakes?" She scooped up a steaming spoonful of soup. "If anyone should suffer, it should be the one who erred!"

In a sudden outburst, she flipped the hot bowl of soup onto the servant. The woman screamed in pain but dared not retaliate, only stammering apologies, claiming she hadn't taken proper care of Heather's mother.

Heather returned to her chair, wiping the soup stains off her mother's clothes.

The servant's fear of her wasn't just because she was the eldest daughter of the Jenner family, but because she was on the brink of becoming Brett Vander's wife. If she lost that status, she and her mother would have nowhere left to stand.

Determined, Heather made a vow in her heart: she would do everything in her power to hold onto this marriage.

Not long after, it was time for Brett and Jason's father's birthday celebration, and the family banquet was lively, filled with the buzz of laughter and conversation.

Brett, in his role as heir, orchestrated the entire event. He was basking in the attention, exuding pride with every movement.

Heather was at his side, smiling politely, playing the perfect companion.

Every familiar face they encountered would inevitably ask the same question, "You've been together for years now, haven't you? When's the wedding?"

Brett brushed it off each time with the same vague response. "Soon."

But he avoided the topic, and Heather couldn't help but notice how uninterested he seemed in the idea of marriage.

His evasiveness triggered a sudden thought—Marriage needs a certain spark of impulsiveness. The longer a couple stays together, the harder it is to take the leap.

That evening, Brett drank a lot, flushed with excitement after his father officially announced his plans to retire. It meant that soon, Brett would hold the reins of power.

After the party, Heather guided him back to their room.

As she started to help him undress, he stared at her neckline, his eyes dark and intense. Without warning, he grabbed the fabric and tore her gown open with a roughness she hadn't seen in him for a long time.

It had been a while since he'd been this passionate, and Heather responded, half-resisting, half-leaning into his desire.

Both of them were swept up in the moment, but just as they reached the brink, Brett faltered.

Breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his face, he muttered, "It's no use. I still can't do it."

Heather lay there, staring at the ceiling. "Didn't you say you'd see a therapist?"

There was a long silence, thick with the unspoken. Finally, slurring slightly from the alcohol, Brett admitted, "It's not me... it's us. We've been together too long. There's nothing exciting anymore."

He stood, pulling his trousers back on. "Let's think about the wedding later. I'm going to be really busy for the next year or two."

Without another word, he left the room, leaving Heather staring up at the ceiling, her mind spinning. There was a sting in her chest, a sharpness that made her throat tighten, but no tears came.

Lying there, she heard the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway.

She sat up, glancing toward the half-open door. It was Jason.

His eyes swept over her, noticing the disheveled state of her clothing. He averted his gaze, his voice detached. "Dad wants Brett to go see him."

Heather's gaze locked onto Jason, her mind racing.

Earlier, Brett and Jason's father had made a subtle but clear point, mentioning that once he retired, he'd have more free time. It was his not-so-veiled way of hinting that she and Brett should hurry up and give him a grandchild.

She knew that Brett's father approved of her, and with his influence still intact, if she got pregnant, the wedding would be a certainty. Now was the time to act.

She softened her voice, letting it tremble slightly as she spoke, "Your brother's gone out."

Jason took a step forward as if to leave, but she called out to him, "Jason, won't you come in?"

He paused, but didn't turn to face her. "We're in the Vanders' home," he reminded her.

Heather sniffed, a pitiful sound escaping her lips as she pleaded, "I'm so cold. Please, come in and hold me."

He stood still, his posture rigid, his silhouette sharp against the dim light, a picture of untouchable elegance.

Barefoot, Heather slipped off the bed, her thin gown barely clinging to her body as she approached him.

There was something both desperate and seductive about her movements, like a ghost haunting her target. Her voice dripped with temptation as she whispered, "Jason, you've liked me ever since we were kids, haven't you? Back when we were still in school, you always waited until the last minute to head home, just so we could walk together. Isn't that true?"

Jason's face was expressionless, showing no sign that her words affected him.

Heather wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him. "Jason, it was Brett who proposed to me first. If you had told me back then that you liked me, I wouldn't have chosen him. You know that, don't you?"

Her lips brushed against his pristine white shirt, leaving faint traces of lipstick. "Jason, Jason… I've missed you so much while you were away all those years…"

Rising on her toes, she kissed him, then pulled him toward the room.

Jason watched her as she tried, with all her might, to please him, but his gaze remained as cold as ever.

Heather was relentless, clinging to him, pulling him further into the room, convinced she was on the verge of success.

But in an instant, his hand grabbed her and pinned her against the doorframe. His voice was icy, sharp with disdain. "Miss me? Or just trying to use me?"

Her hand fumbled for his belt. "Jason, I truly love you…"

His grip tightened around her wrist, stopping her. "Love? Do you even know what that means?" His eyes darkened with contempt. Her hand was just serving his brother, and now she was using it to undress him, all while telling him she loved him.

He looked her over with pure disgust. "Heather, stay away from me. You're filthy."

The words hit her like a slap. And the look in his eyes mirrored the same disdain Brett had shown her just moments earlier.

Filthy.

They both looked at her with the same disdain. What gave them the right?!

A wave of humiliation and fury crashed over her, and she felt herself being consumed by a deep, overwhelming sense of bitterness and defeat.

Ripping her arm from his grasp, her passion evaporated, replaced by cold resolve. "You're right," she said, "I was trying to use you."

She stepped away, walking toward the door, and with a frigid calm, she shut it behind him. "But now, you're not even worth using."

Heather had made up her mind to cross Jason off her list of candidates for "borrowing sperm." Since that day, she hadn't bothered with him again.

Today, she was out for business, meeting someone to discuss a deal for her family. But once she arrived, she found herself roped into a card game.

She wasn't a great player and had been losing round after round. The others teased her, one of them laughing, "Lost it all, huh? Better call Brett to come bail you out. We'll be keeping his wife as collateral."

Heather blushed, playing along coyly. "Who's his wife? We're not married yet."

The group erupted in laughter. "Isn't it as good as done? You becoming Mrs. Vander is already set in stone. If you ask us, you should hurry up and start helping him at Vander Inc.. The Jenner family will go to your brother sooner or later, and here you are, working yourself to the bone…"

Her smile faltered, the laughter around the table tapering off with it.

Her "brother," still in school, was cherished by their father like a precious gem. It was no secret he was being groomed to take over the family business one day.

As for Heather, the daughter born to the legitimate wife? To her father, she was nothing more than water spilled from a cup—gone, forgotten.

If it weren't for her engagement to a Vander, keeping her in a position of some influence, her father would have likely brought his mistress and illegitimate son home long ago, making them the legitimate family.

The smile that remained on her face had turned cold, devoid of warmth, as she tossed out a card, indifferent to the game.

A voice behind her interrupted. "I wouldn't go with that if I were you."

A man leaned over, gently guiding her hand to take the card back and replace it with another.

She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the man—it was Brett's cousin, Tyler Richie.

Tyler, a notorious playboy with a trail of romantic entanglements, settled lazily into the seat behind her.

The group, always ready to tease, couldn't resist. "Rescuing the damsel in distress, are you, Tyler?"

Tyler leaned in closer, his voice casual but suggestive. "Isn't it natural for a guy to look out for his cousin's wife?" His breath brushed against her ear as he spoke. "You don't know how to play, do you? Let me help you with a few hands."

Heather's eyes met his, and she could clearly see the glint of something darker—an unmistakable, primal hunger in his gaze.

She looked at him, this younger man who, to some degree, resembled Brett.

As Tyler "helped" her with her cards, his fingers brushed hers more than once—lingering touches that were far from accidental.

Heather kept her silence, a playful smile gracing her lips as she continued to play cards. Whenever she lost a hand, she'd elbow Tyler's chest, pretending to scold him for his poor advice.

He only chuckled in response, his grin widening, his body drawing closer to hers. His hand, now with increasing boldness, found its way to her slender waist, lingering under the pretense of casual assistance.

As she played, her mind drifted, calculating. This man—Tyler—he might just work.

Tyler was a relative of the Vanders, close enough by blood that if she were to "borrow" from him to conceive a child, it wouldn't be too far off from her original plan.

The cards became an afterthought as her thoughts raced, and soon, she excused herself to the restroom.

When she emerged, she cast a knowing glance in Tyler's direction, a subtle invitation. As she expected, he followed her immediately.

They walked one behind the other, heading toward the upstairs guest rooms. Heather swayed her hips ever so slightly, feeling the weight of his gaze latch onto her like a hook.

She still had it—the power to wrap men around her finger with a mere flicker of her charms.

Except, of course, for the two Vander brothers—those two were blind as bats.

As she walked toward the elevator, her resolve grew stronger with every step. She deliberately slowed her pace, allowing him to catch up.

His voice was low, laced with mischief as he murmured behind her, "Heather, I've got a suite upstairs. How about I give you a proper lesson in cards?"

Heather smiled coyly, her lips curving in a delicate, seductive arch. She was just about to step into the elevator with him when she felt Tyler freeze beside her, his hand suddenly retracting from her waist as if burned.

She followed his gaze, and her own smile faded.

Across the lobby, standing under the bright lights, was a tall figure, his posture rigid, his eyes filled with cold fury.

It was Jason.

Tyler, ever the sycophant, scurried over to greet Jason with an overly eager smile. "Jason!" he called out, his voice dripping with forced enthusiasm.

But Jason didn't spare him a glance. His piercing gaze remained locked on Heather from across the room.

For a fleeting moment, the scene felt surreal, almost like a twisted fable. She was the seductive enchantress, moments away from ensnaring Tyler with her beguiling charms, when Jason, the righteous priest, appeared from the heavens to thwart her wicked plans.

Heather glanced at Tyler, his pitiful cowardice on full display. She knew immediately that the night wasn't going to go as planned.

Annoyance flared in her chest as she shot a venomous glare at Jason. That damned ghost, she thought bitterly, always hovering around, ruining things at the worst possible moment.

Turning on her heel, she stormed off toward the restroom, her frustration barely contained.

Inside, she washed her hands slowly, letting the cool water run over her fingers as she lathered the soap into bubbles. She sensed someone behind her, and without even turning, she caught his reflection in the mirror.

There he was, Jason. Impeccably dressed, his face a picture of cool, aristocratic composure.

The glasses he wore concealed the sharp intensity of his eyes, but she knew those same eyes were watching her closely, judging her with every passing second. He appeared as serene as ever, as if untouched by any worldly desire.

Heather let out a derisive snort. "What's the matter?" she drawled, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Seeing me with another man making you jealous?"