Chapter 2

Richard Collins fell silent for a few seconds.

Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice unusually gentle, like coaxing a three-year-old child.

“Anna…”

He called to me, even adding a deliberate touch of affection.

“Listen to Dad. The Bennett family…”

He paused on purpose.

“They have an exceptionally, exceptionally amazing kitchen!”

His voice rose slightly, as if trying to create excitement.

“They’ve hired a Michelin three-star chef! He can make your favorite dessert every single day…”

His eyes darted quickly to the table, landing on the remaining corner of an elegant pastry on the dessert plate, and he immediately continued:

“Strawberry mille-feuille! Yes, the one with the bright red strawberries on top, all those crispy, flaky layers! You can have as much as you want!”

My hand holding the chopsticks stilled ever so slightly.

Strawberry mille-feuille?

How thoughtful—he remembered that before I was poisoned at seven, the only time I’d tasted that dessert, I’d mumbled that it was “delicious.” Such a precise lure.

I suddenly lifted my head, eyes wide, and even clapped my hands in exaggerated delight.

“Really, Daddy?”

“Every single day? Lots and lots of them?”

Richard seemed to relax, his face stretching into a satisfied smile as he nodded repeatedly.

“Yes! Yes! Every day! As much as you want!”

“Then…”

I tilted my head, pretending to think hard. After a few seconds, my smile grew even wider, full of a foolish certainty.

“I’ll marry him! I’ll marry him!”

“Pfft—”

Someone finally couldn’t hold it in, letting out a short laugh.

Snickers quickly spread around the table.

Emily’s eyes brimmed with scorn and schadenfreude, almost spilling over.

Jason turned his face away, his shoulders trembling as he struggled not to laugh.

I acted as though I couldn’t hear the grating noise, still basking in the enormous “joy” of strawberry mille-feuille.

My smile was dazzling, but under the table, my other hand had already dug its nails deep into my skin, leaving blood-tinged crescent marks.

The dome of St. John’s Cathedral soared high above, colored light streaming coldly through the stained glass.

I wore the expensive, elaborate lace wedding gown “carefully” chosen by Emily.

Countless eyes pricked at the exposed skin of my neck, back, and arms.

Whispered gossip crept into my ears.

“Tsk, the Collins family really went all in—sending a fool to bring him luck…”

“Poor Adrian Bennett, even in that condition, he still has to…”

“Shh! Keep it down! Old Mr. Bennett is watching! Still… a ‘good luck’ bride? Only he would believe in that…”

“Look, look—she can’t even walk straight…”

I kept the vacant, ignorant smile on my face, my eyes unfocused, as if oblivious to everything around me.

Half-supported, half-dragged by the bridesmaid, I took clumsy, wavering steps down what seemed like an endless red carpet—step by step—toward the man in the wheelchair before the altar.

My “groom,” Adrian Bennett.