On the night I returned to the country, I was so drunk I mistook my all-powerful nemesis for a top escort.
I even whistled arrogantly and asked how much he charged for the night.
The whole room fell silent.
But he stubbed out his cigarette, pulled me into his arms, and murmured seductively, “I don’t do casual. If you want me, you’ll have to give yourself to me.”
One marriage contract later, I became Mrs. Ji, the talk of the capital.
Everyone laughed that I’d climbed the social ladder through an arranged marriage, and that I was just his substitute, meant to make his white moonlight jealous.
Then a collection of secretly taken photos he’d kept for six years came to light. The earliest one was from my high school graduation.
Then I happened to discover that the tattoo over his heart was the initials of my name.
Later, at a business banquet, someone publicly insulted me.
He flipped the table in front of everyone, his eyes as vicious as a demon’s.
“Apologize to my rose, or I’ll make sure your whole family goes down with you.”
Little did I know that this seemingly absurd marriage-first, love-later romance was a sweet trap he had been laying for me since he was sixteen.
