Celine's POV

I understood the situation perfectly.

As long as I didn't get married, I'd be stuck living at the Darnell estate and tied to Gavin, with no escape from the endless back-and-forth between us.

Just hearing his name now made my skin crawl.

So I picked up the pen and, stroke by stroke, signed my name on the marriage contract with Max.

With Gavin working behind the scenes to speed things up, the wedding date was decided almost immediately. Whether it was fate or a strategic choice, the ceremony ended up on the same day as Gavin's wedding to Kierra.

...

Max didn't bother to show up on the wedding day. He sent a driver in his place.

Not that I was surprised. We hadn't even met in person.

This marriage wasn't based on compatibility or love. Max had been unhealthy for years, and the Pierson family needed someone to marry him in hopes of bringing him some luck. They likely thought we'd be divorced within a few years. My height, appearance, or looks didn't matter.

As I arrived, Gavin stepped into the venue with Kierra in his arms.

The moment he saw me, his mouth curled into a mocking smirk.

"Celine," he said, lifting an eyebrow, "you've always been a greedy little opportunist. The Piersons have more money and power than your family ever did. Marrying into that? Not exactly a downgrade. At worst, you'll be stuck wiping down a dying man."

Gavin paused, just long enough to let the insult settle. "Don't worry. When that sickly bastard finally kills you, I'll make sure you get a beautiful funeral."

The words were cruel, almost a curse.

But I didn't flinch. I calmly smiled instead.

"Then I wish you and your beloved all the happiness in the world," I replied. "May you have many children, and grow old together."

Gavin wasn't expecting that. His face flickered with surprise for just a moment. He looked at me, as if trying to figure out who I'd become.

Then Kierra tugged gently on his arm and leaned in close, her voice soft and pouty. "Gavin, my back's sore… carry me to our room and give me a massage, will you?"

He blinked as if waking from a trance. Without saying another word, he turned and carried her inside the Darnell estate, smiling all the way.

I felt nothing as well.

Wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet of fresh gardenias still damp from the morning dew, I stepped into the wedding car the Pierson family had sent for me.

...

That night, the so-called bridal chamber was far from romantic. Pierson Manor was old, cold, and silent, resembling more a haunted house than a honeymoon suite.

Still, the air carried a faint trace of sandalwood.

I paused.

It was the same scent I remembered clinging to the man who had pulled me out of the fire.

Could it really be him?

I was staring at my toes, lost in thought, when slow, steady footsteps echoed beyond the door. The soft tap of a cane punctuated each one.

I looked up.

Max stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on me.

He was... strikingly beautiful.

Skin pale as marble, his eyes dark and sharp like ink dropped in water—clean, elegant features framed by a cold, unreadable expression. There was something regal about how he carried himself, radiating distance, composure, and an untouchable aura.

Under the soft lamplight, Maxwell Pierson didn't even look real. He looked like he'd walked out of a painting.

Before this moment, I'd imagined him as some brutish tyrant, terrifying and violent.

Not this.

His gaze slid over me without emotion. Then he turned his head away.

"My health is poor," Max said flatly. "I sleep lightly. I'm not used to sharing a bed. You can leave. The maids will show you to your room."

On our wedding night, he was kicking me out.

But I didn't argue.

I stood, crossed the room, and quietly poured a cup of tea. I walked over to Max and held it out.

"I'm not leaving," I said, my voice calm. "I'm your wife now. If your health is fragile, it's my responsibility to take care of you. Walking away would be neglect."

Surprise flickered in his eyes before he masked it. He glanced at the tea in my hands, then finally took the cup.

As he brought it to his lips, I added with a small smile, "Besides, if your health improves, that benefits me too. I mean, who wants to go to bed every night next to a gorgeous man they can't even touch?"

Celine's POV

Max's hand froze halfway through pouring the tea.

The cup trembled slightly in his grasp, and a few drops of steaming liquid splashed onto the back of his hand. Yet he acted as if he didn't even feel it.

After a long stretch of silence, a single word slipped coldly from between his lips.

"Leave."

I pressed my lips together.

Max's dismissal stung more than I wanted to admit, but I wasn't stupid. I knew when to pick my battles.

Especially now, when I was still technically a guest under the Pierson family's roof, utterly dependent on their goodwill.

So I nodded once, turned on my heel, and walked out of the room without saying another word.

...

The weeks that followed were quiet.

I barely saw Max at all.

He was always busy, either working nonstop at the company or locked away in his study, a do-not-disturb fortress I quickly learned not to disturb.

As for me, I'd been moved into a guest room and was thrown headfirst into a crash course on how to be the "proper Mrs. Pierson."

It was intense and relentless.

Suddenly, my days were filled with private tutors, each handpicked by the Piersons.

There was an etiquette coach who could balance a tray of champagne flutes on her head while walking in heels. A finance veteran who mastered global market theory as easily as basic math. And a language expert who juggled five languages seamlessly.

They rotated through the house like a well-oiled machine, drilling me from morning till night on everything from negotiation etiquette to tilting a wine glass at just the right angle during a toast.

One afternoon, the etiquette coach, an elegant woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, paused mid-lesson and looked me over like a display model in a showroom.

"Miss Celine," she said sharply, "as the wife of a man like Sir Maxwell, you'll be expected to attend events with him. Banquets, galas, forums, negotiations—it never stops. And if you show up unprepared, you won't just embarrass yourself, but the entire Pierson family. And I promise, the consequences won't be pleasant."

Her words carried an unspoken warning, one I understood perfectly well.

Max wasn't the type to carry dead weight. I wouldn't be standing beside him if I couldn't handle my own and stand beside him without holding him back.

But I didn't need the warning. I already knew.

In my past life, Kierra had never understood that simple truth. She believed that merely being "in love" with Gavin was enough to keep her safe—that the world would treat her gently because she was fragile and cherished.

She was wrong, and that mistake cost her everything.

I wasn't about to make it, either.

Thankfully, none of the studying felt foreign to me.

I'd always been drawn to this world: the polish, the power, the strategy behind every move. Even in my past life, I wanted to learn it all.

But Gavin had made sure I never got the chance.

He kept me in his shadow, pushing me away from anything that might give me too much independence. Maybe he was scared I'd realize how little I needed him. Perhaps he just wanted to be the only one shining.

Well, not anymore.

And while I kept my head down and focused on my lessons, I couldn't help but catch bits of gossip from around the estate. Whispered conversations between staff, snippets overheard during calls, the usual chatter.

Most of it was about Gavin and Kierra.

Apparently, they were off on a European honeymoon. Romantic, expensive, exclusive.

One day, someone mentioned that Gavin had given her a rare necklace that there wasn't another like it in the world. He was spoiling her endlessly, just like in a fairytale.

Or at least, the version of it she thought she was in.

...

One afternoon, I finally had a sliver of time to myself. No lessons, no obligations.

So I decided to treat myself to something simple: lunch.

I made a reservation at my old favorite restaurant—the one I used to visit religiously before everything in my life flipped upside down. I hadn't been back since.

It felt like the right time.

But when I walked in, I unexpectedly ran into Kierra.

The last empty table was the one I had booked.

Her eyes widened slightly as she saw me, as if she hadn't expected to run into me here.

A second later, Gavin walked in behind her.

When she noticed him, she reached for his arm and leaned in, her voice sweet and syrupy. "Gavin, the last table's already taken by Celine."

Gavin's eyes landed on me, and just like that, his mood soured.

"Celine," he snapped, annoyed. Do you really have nothing better to do? Are you seriously following us around now, just to grab a table and ruin our mood?"

I blinked at him, then let out a dry, incredulous laugh.

He actually believed that.

I met his stare without flinching as I replied, "You really think the world revolves around you? You honestly believe the Darnells are in any position to go toe-to-toe with the Piersons?"

That landed like a slap.

His face darkened instantly, lips tightening.

Kierra gently tugged on his sleeve, trying to defuse him.

"Gavin, don't be upset," she cooed. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."

Then she turned to me, all wide-eyed sympathy and fake sweetness. "Celine, things must be so difficult for you at home. But hey, it's just a table. We're not going to hold it against you."

Gavin scoffed, clearly not done being petty.

"I heard you've been making regular visits to the hospital," he said, his tone laced with cruelty. "Guess the Piersons don't treat you like a person, either."

I took my time scanning both of them.

"Coming from the Darnells?" I said slowly. "That's rich. I don't think you people ever understood how to treat anyone like a person."

Gavin's face flushed red with fury. His fists clenched at his sides.

Kierra whispered something to him again, trying to calm him down.

Eventually, he freed his arm and stormed outside to get the car. And I stood unbothered, watching them come apart at the seams.

Celine's POV

Kierra stood there, perfectly still, her expression dipped in sugar.

"My husband usually isn't like this," she said with an innocent tone that wasn't fooling anyone. "I don't know what got into him today."

She tilted her head, eyes wide as if she genuinely cared. "Celine, don't take it personally, okay? Even if you end up married to that 'living devil' Maxwell Pierson, who knows? Maybe it won't be so bad for you."

I didn't say a word. Not even a twitch of a smile.

When she realized I wouldn't play along, her fake sweetness cracked. Her lips pouted before she spun on her heel and walked off.

Later that evening, when I returned to the Pierson estate, I was surprised to find Max in the living room.

It was unusual. Typically, he left before sunrise and only came back after dark. When he was home, he stayed secluded either in his study or locked in the main bedroom.

He looked up from a file as I stepped in, his tone flat and even. "There's an event tomorrow. I need a companion. Are you ready? If not, I'll make other arrangements."

I blinked, caught off guard, then quickly checked my mental calendar.

"I'm ready," I said. "I'll go with you."

He gave me a brief nod, closed the folder in his hand, and stood up without saying another word.

...

The next day, we arrived together at the event.

Everything seemed normal at first. People mingled, glasses clinked, polite conversation buzzed in the air. But halfway through the evening, I turned to say something, and Max was gone.

A knot of panic twisted in my stomach.

And then it hit me—a sharp and unwelcome memory from my past life.

This very event. Max vanished halfway through, just like this, only to be ambushed at a nearby construction site. He survived, but he didn't walk away unscathed. The injuries were severe.

Without hesitating, I rushed to a nearby server and asked where the back exits were.

Once I received the directions, I lifted the hem of my gown and sprinted toward the unfinished building behind the venue.

The site was a mess. Steel beams jutted out at strange angles, and the ground was scattered with loose bricks and crumbling concrete.

I navigated the chaos as quickly as possible, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

"Max!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the hollow frame of the building.

No response.

Then I heard something. Shouting. It was coming from upstairs.

I raced toward the stairwell, climbed as fast as possible, and saw him when I reached the third floor.

Max was in the corner, surrounded.

A group of men was attacking him—relentless, organized, merciless. He was holding his own as best he could, but was outnumbered and outmatched. Within minutes, he was on the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His face was bruised and battered, and his clothes were stained with dirt and blood.

I didn't think. I just ran toward Max.

"Don't take another step!" I shouted at the attackers. "The security team will be here any minute!"

The men hesitated, their steps stalling, unease crossing their faces.

I rushed to Max's side and put an arm around his back to support him. He leaned into me, weak and trembling. Then one of the men pulled out his phone and made a call.

Whatever he heard on the other end made his face twist.

"Hmph. Pierson security?" one of the assailants scoffed. "They haven't even moved yet."

Then, the man said, "You're not getting out of here."

I clenched my grip on Max. My mind was racing, but I forced myself to stay calm.

If I panicked, I'd take him down with me.

The men closed in again.

I stepped in front of Max, backing up slowly with each advance until my heel caught nothing but air.

I froze.

We were at the edge of the building.

One step more and I'd fall.

They didn't stop. One of them moved forward and kicked me hard in the ribs. The pain was sharp and instant, causing me to grunt and collapse, sliding backward toward the edge.

I reached out for something to hold onto, but nothing was there.

Right as I started to go over, a hand grabbed my arm.

I looked up.

It was Max.

Even bloodied and bruised, he dragged himself across the concrete just to catch me.

"Hold on!" he growled, his voice strained.

His face was pale, sweat dripping down his brow.

But there wasn't time to process what had just happened. The assailants kept coming, their faces cold and focused. They wouldn't stop until we were both down.

Then, I saw a figure turn from nearby, his eyes locking on me.