Adrian's expression had lost all ferocity. He looked at her like they were having a normal conversation.
"Want to be the Pryce bride? And ask for thirty million?" His cold hand paused at her chest, lips tugging with an almost-smile, voice mild as if making small talk.
There was no telling from his face whether he would kill her or spare her.
Serena knew—Edric had told him everything.
He leaned in slightly. The sharp tip of the fruit knife toyed with the buttons on her white dress. With a flick, one popped off.
If the blade tilted even slightly—it would pierce her heart.
"Money? Power?" With each question, another button snapped off.
She wore a cinched white dress that day. Four buttons down the front. Now her chest was bare.
Reclining slightly, she still didn't resist.
Their proximity was far beyond what Adrian ever tolerated with any woman.
Then a gust of wind swept through the balcony window, making her shiver slightly.
Was the wind scarier than the knife?
That thought crossed Adrian's mind—just as her voice, quiet but firm, reached his ears:
"I want you."
…
The smile froze on his lips.
Without meaning to, the final button was flicked off.
Her eyes lowered, unfazed. Adrian's hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
Sure enough—clear, bright eyes. Empty.
His smile disappeared. "Do you think you deserve it?"
She didn't. Of course she didn't.
Then he laughed again. Their gazes locked.
"Serena, did you miss me?"
It sounded like a lover's whisper.
If you ignored the knife against her heart.
…
She said nothing.
So he answered for her.
"I missed you."
His voice was low, calm.
"Every night. I couldn't sleep thinking about you."
The knife pulled away from her chest. Without glancing down, he slashed open the cuff of his own left sleeve.
The blade cut deep. Blood immediately began to flow.
The sleeve slid down, exposing his muscular forearm. Red dripped steadily.
And higher up—hundreds of needle marks. Faded but unmistakable.
Serena, who had been expressionless until now, widened her eyes. Her breath caught.
She closed her eyes in despair.
Her lashes trembled.
His hand clutched her jaw again. Warm breath brushed her face.
He was close.
The faint scent of green bamboo wrapped around her. Not nauseating—not anymore. It felt… warm.
His hand released her jaw.
Then gripped the back of her neck.
With one sharp pull, he crushed his lips against hers.
He was far stronger than she was. There was no room for resistance.
Her top was already undone. Only a thin undergarment separated her from his shirt. Her chest pressed against his.
His heat seared through.
Adrian's dark eyes scanned her face, catching every flicker of emotion.
She didn't fight. She let him kiss her. Let him take what he wanted.
Even… tried to respond.
…
Adrian pulled back, hand still on her neck. His eyes drifted from her flushed lips to her tear-bright eyes.
Wet—but cold.
They were still inches apart. He could kiss her again with a tilt of his head.
"Serena."
Soft. Like a lover's murmur.
"You make me sick."
His voice was deep, even.
The wind and rain outside abruptly stopped.
Then, in a burst, roared back again.
He let go.
Threw her back onto the headboard. Her body crumpled in disarray.
From the nightstand, he yanked open the document folder.
He stood, towering above her.
His left hand in his pocket—the needle marks still fresh. His right hand pulled out the marriage certificates.
He lit a match.
The red booklets burned instantly on the marble floor.
He looked down, smiling faintly.
Only when they were reduced to ashes did he crush the embers with the toe of his shoe.
Like crushing Serena herself.
"Serena Sangster, any other woman in the world is more suited to this title than you."
…
She stayed crumpled there for a long time. Long enough for night to deepen and the villa lights to go out.
She stared at the ashes, then slowly gathered her clothes and walked into the bathroom.
Hot water streamed down her skin. The steam scalded her, reddening her pale complexion.
But only this could chase away the cold in her bones.
She closed her eyes.
All she could see were those needle marks.
She lifted her right hand and gently touched the inside of her own left arm.
There—one needle mark.
…
Opaline Court, an island estate in the lake district, was the ultimate haven of wealth in Brightmoor.
Luxury cars lined the gates. Only the most elite of the Thirteen Provinces were allowed in.
When a black Bugatti pulled up, the crowd parted instantly.
A tall, lean man stepped out. Black slacks hugged long legs. A white dress shirt tucked neatly into a black belt emphasized his narrow waist.
His chiseled face emerged from the shadows—flawless.
Adrian Pryce tossed his keys. Ryan caught them, passing them to a bodyguard.
Adrian walked in. Ryan followed a step behind. "Sir, the Irisport have been handled."
Adrian didn't answer. His face was dark.
Ryan's heart sank. He knew Adrian had come from Glassridge Hill.
Which member of the Pryce family had messed up this time?
Inside the third-floor lounge, men and women filled the space. Ethan Langley had invited them all.
As soon as Adrian entered, the room's air grew tight.
"Adrian, over here—come sit!" Ethan shoved away the woman in his arms and rushed to pour a drink.
Adrian said nothing. He sank into the window-side chair.
Downed a glass of whiskey. His grip on the tumbler tightened.
Still, the storm inside didn't settle.
Ethan, sensing he was being ignored, returned to his date, trying to pick up where he left off.
Then he felt it—a burning gaze.
He turned.
Adrian was staring directly at him. Expression unreadable.
"A-Adrian…" Ethan stammered.
What now? Adrian never cared about his flings before!
The woman in Ethan's arms flushed, eyes darting in fear. She knew better than to look directly at Adrian.
Adrian swirled the glass in his hand, gaze never shifting.
"Both of you," he said slowly, "kiss again."