chapter 1

When consciousness returned, I was lying on the soft bed of a hotel room.

The crystal chandelier above cast a dizzying, hazy light that made my head spin.

I struggled to sit up, but my body felt as limp as a ragdoll.

My husband, Vincent Lowe’s, voice sounded beside me, laced with a hint of barely concealed ingratiation and guilt.

"Serena, you're awake? Is your head still spinning?"

I turned my head and saw him crouching by the bed, holding a glass of water.

"How did I get here?" My voice was hoarse and scratchy.

My last memory was from the company celebration banquet, where Vincent kept plying me with drinks, saying we should celebrate his upcoming promotion.

Vincent’s eyes dodged mine as he brought the glass to my lips. "You got drunk. I brought you here to rest."

I didn't drink. Instead, I stared fixedly at him.

The air carried the faint, unfamiliar scent of fir—not Vincent’s usual aquatic cologne, nor the standard hotel fragrance.

A powerful unease gripped my heart.

"Vincent," I asked, enunciating each word clearly, "what is really going on?"

He fell silent.

After a long moment, as if steeling himself, he suddenly grabbed my hand, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush my bones.

"Serena, I'm begging you, help me this once."

His voice trembled with a desperate, almost frantic hope.

"Mr. Grant… the CEO of our group… he has taken a liking to you."

"Just spend one night with him, and the position of Marketing Director is mine! Serena, just one night, and we’re set for life!"

My mind went blank with a deafening roar, as if thunder had struck.

I looked at the man I had loved for three years and felt only utter strangeness.

His face was etched with a craving for power and a ruthless, unhinged ambition.

A chilling cold spread through my entire body, every pore screaming with rejection and disgust.

"Vincent, you're insane! What do you take me for?"

I mustered all my strength to shove him away, desperate to escape this filthy room, but my legs refused to cooperate, useless and weak.

There was something in the drink.

This realization sent an icy dread coursing through my veins.

Vincent staggered back from my push, a flicker of anger crossing his face, quickly replaced by renewed pleading.

"Serena, just this once! I’ll treat you twice as well from now on, I swear!"

"Get out!" I nearly screamed.

Just then, the room door clicked open, swiped from the outside by a key card.

Vincent’s expression shifted instantly. He scrambled up from the floor, his face spreading into an obsequious smile.

"Mr. Grant, you’re here."

I stiffly turned my head toward the door.

A man in a wheelchair was being pushed inside by an assistant.

He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, his face obscured in the interplay of light and shadow, unclear. Yet, the oppressive aura he emanated seemed to drop the temperature of the entire room.

This was the legendary Mr. Grant Vincent spoke of—Mr. Grant.

A man who, five years ago, was sabotaged in a business rivalry, resulting in the loss of the use of his legs. Since then, he had become known for his violent temper and ruthless methods.

The assistant wheeled him to the bedside, then bowed and retreated, closing the door on his way out.

Now, only the three of us remained in the room.

Vincent bowed and scraped, like a dog eager to please its master.

"Mr. Grant, I've... brought her as agreed. About my contract..."

Mr. Grant ignored him. He simply maneuvered his wheelchair slowly closer to the bed.

I nervously clutched the sheets beneath me, my body trembling slightly with fear.

He finally stopped and lifted his head, his gaze settling on my face.

What kind of eyes were they?

Deep, icy, like frozen pools, swirling with intense, unreadable emotions.

Under his stare, I felt intensely uncomfortable, instinctively wanting to look away.

"Get out."

Mr. Grant finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, carrying a metallic quality.

Vincent was taken aback for a second, then nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll get out immediately. I won't disturb your enjoyment, Mr. Grant."

Before leaving, he glanced back at me once. His expression was complex—tinged with guilt and a trace of reluctance, but mostly a desperate, all-or-nothing resolve.

The door closed, plunging the room into complete silence.

I could hear the pounding of my own heart, beat after beat, hammering against my eardrums.

Mr. Grant just watched me quietly. Not speaking. Not moving.

His gaze was like an invisible net, trapping me firmly in place, unable to budge.

I even felt that, true to the rumors, he might violently tear me apart the very next second.