Chapter 3
511words
I stared at him in horror, backing away until my spine hit the iron door. Trapped.
He stopped inches from me, looking down with the cold calculation of a hunter examining trapped prey.
That's when I noticed it—beneath his sleeve cuff, the edge of a ring peeking out, engraved with an emblem I knew all too well.
A letter "W" intertwined with a sword.
The Wilson family crest!
My father's sycophantic face flashed through my mind. How many times had he whispered: "Irene, the Wilsons are not a family we can afford to offend."
Damon... Wilson.
That bookworm?
No fucking way.
Worse, I hadn't just run away from our wedding. Before escaping, I'd recorded a video for my private social media, publicly mocking my arranged marriage partner as "a spineless wimp who's good for nothing except counting money, not even worthy of holding my shoes."
That video had probably gone viral through New York's high society by now.
I was so screwed.
He—Damon—must have been sent by that bookworm to get revenge!
"Scared?" He seemed pleased with my reaction, gripping my chin and forcing my face up.
"Who—who exactly are you? What's your connection to the Wilson family?" My voice trembled pathetically.
"Who do you want me to be?" His eyes bored into mine. "Or rather, who do you hope I'm not?"
I had no answer.
I bit my lip hard, and to my horror, felt tears welling up.
Seeing my tears, something in his expression shifted.
"I'm just a small-time player in the underworld," he released me, casually twisting the ring. "This thing? Just a trophy from some poor bastard."
I studied him, torn between belief and doubt.
If he were truly from the Wilson family, he wouldn't waste time talking to me.
I forced myself to calm down. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and called one of my father's informants who had eyes in every gang.
"I need info on someone called Damon. Operates on the west side."
The voice on the other end responded quickly: "Just checked, Miss. He's a nobody—makes his cash through cage fights and protection rackets. Nearly got himself killed in a turf war last week. Why you asking about street trash like him?"
I let out a long breath, my body sagging with relief.
Thank God. Not him.
I hung up and looked at him with fresh eyes.
A desperate criminal would be even easier to control.
If I brought him to my father and announced I wanted to marry a street thug—maybe even get knocked up—breaking off my engagement would be a done deal.
The plan crystallized perfectly in my mind. The fear on my face vanished.
I straightened my spine and walked deliberately toward him. Under his wary gaze, I boldly wrapped my arms around his neck and slid into his lap.
"I don't care who you are," I stared into those pitch-black eyes, my fingertips tracing circles on his hard chest. "All I want is this body... and this life."
