Chapter 1
"Do you really not want my blessing?" Behind her stood a figure, his gaze unwavering and heavy with an indescribable pressure that sent a shiver down her spine. Lady Isolde felt exposed, the bare skin beneath her wedding dress prickling as if it were sensing the tension in the room. She slowly turned to face the man who was confronting her. “Cedric…” He remained silent, his eyes red-rimmed, a flicker of pain flashing across his features. Lady Isolde froze. The silence between them stretched thick and oppressive, suffocating her. The makeup artist, sensing the charged atmosphere, silently excused herself from the room. Sir Cedric broke first, lips pressed tightly together as he fumbled for a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly hold it. “Whitley Dawn, don’t marry him.” “Brother, don’t you wish me happiness?” “Whitley Dawn, after everything we’ve shared over the years, is ‘blessing’ all you can say to me now?” Cedric threw the cigarette away, stepping forward with intensity that radiated anger barely contained. “Lady Isolde, do you even have a conscience left?” Seeing the rage etched on his face was a struggle for Lady Isolde. She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to respond. She desperately wanted to avoid ruining her wedding, so silence seemed her best option. But her quietness only infuriated him further. “I refuse to let you marry him!” His voice rose, nearly a roar, filling the air with a vibration that made Lady Isolde flinch. The coldness washed over her, leaving her complexion pale and void of color. A small, painful sob escaped her throat. She trembled slightly, managing to whisper, “Brother…please calm down.” “I can’t! How can I calm down?” Sir Cedric’s face contorted as he stormed toward her, wrapping his arms around her tightly as if he could physically pull her back from the precipice of her decision. In that moment, Lady Isolde felt as if her heart was being pierced; memories flooded back to her unbidden. The anointment chamber descended into a heavy silence. Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud bang. Startled, Lady Isolde looked up to see Lord Alaric standing in the doorway, his expression as still as ice, yet coldly assessing. The chilling look in his eyes felt like knives aimed at her. “Oh, what a sweet sibling embrace! The bond between the White siblings is quite an intriguing tale, isn’t it?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Lady Isolde felt a rush of panic, her heart racing as she pushed away from Cedric, breathless with anxiety. How long had he been standing there? Did he hear everything? Clenching her fists, she found herself trapped in a swirl of emotions: conflict, embarrassment, and apprehension squeezed tightly in her chest. She felt as if she had already ruined her wedding. What was she supposed to do now? Lord Alaric’s cold gaze bore into her. Before they were even married, the insinuation of infidelity hung heavily in the air. The woman he claimed as his future wife was embroiled in a familial debacle. Ice-cold scrutiny enveloped her, making her insides quiver, and Lady Isolde bit down hard on her lip to stop from trembling. “Lord Alaric, it’s not what you think. My brother and I…” “Is this a heartfelt farewell already?” Lord Alaric scoffed, a mocking grin appearing on his lips, his gaze laced with ridicule. “Lord Alaric, please don’t pressure her. If there is anything, it should be directed at me,” Cedric stepped forward, shielding his sister, his eyes blazing with defiance. Lord Alaric advanced, confidence radiating from his posture, and a smirk crept onto his face. “And which eye of yours saw me pressuring her? I am merely here to…” His demeanor shifted to a deceptively gentle one as he extended his hand toward Lady Isolde, his voice silky. “I just came to invite Whitley Dawn to join her guests. It’s time for the wedding; let’s not keep everyone waiting.” The softness of his tone was a stark contrast to the tremor in Lady Isolde's heart, a sinking realization dawning. He saw her brother embrace her openly and was unfazed by it, offering his hand with a semblance of warmth… This man was terrifying. Cedric, his resolve breaking, stepped between them, cutting off Lord Alaric’s path. “Whitley Dawn, don’t marry him.” The desperation laced in his words revealed how far he was willing to go. Lord Alaric raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips, as if he were entertained by the unfolding drama. He tilted his head, his expression steely, and asked softly, “Whitley Dawn, do you really want to keep entangling with your brother?” Her entire body seemed to jolt, his phrase sinking in like lead. His choice of words suggested he knew quite a bit about the Lennox family’s inner workings. “Lord Alaric, don’t misinterpret our relationship; we are completely innocent!” Cedric ground out, teeth clenched tightly. Lord Alaric’s laughter was soft, almost mocking, his gaze still locked on Lady Isolde. She appeared ethereal in her wedding gown, graceful yet innocent, the soft glow of her skin reminiscent of fine porcelain. Even without makeup, her beauty was striking. It was no wonder Cedric found it impossible to maintain control; she was a beguiling vision. Lady Isolde raised her chin, matching the piercing gaze of Lord Alaric, and slowly reached out to take his hand. “Lord Alaric, keeping our guests waiting is not proper. We should get moving.” “Whitley Dawn…” Cedric’s expression shifted to one of horror. Lady Isolde’s eyes glimmered with a reflection of pain as she turned back. “Brother, Evergreen is waiting for you. Please go.” When Cedric processed her words, he staggered back, his face pale and drawn like death.
Chapter 2
He, whatever Worthington thought. The wedding was a grand affair. Lady Isolde, with delicate fingers, held the large diamond ring that sparkled brilliantly. It was valuable, yet it could not capture the heart of Lyla's Worthington. This marriage was a union of politics and business, arranged by a matchmaker. She agreed to it only to escape from that home. “Whitley Dawn, from now on, you are married. You must behave well, and no longer act like a child,” said Lady Beatrice with a gentle smile, her eyes filled with affection as she held Lady Isolde's hand. While others were moved by the poignant scene of Brianna's farewell, only Lady Isolde felt the painful grip on her hand, as if they wanted to crush her. It seemed her brother’s visit had already been learned of. “Mom, I will,” Lady Isolde replied, a bit hesitant to meet Lady Beatrice's gaze, her chin tilting slightly up, eyes drifting to another side. “Let’s go,” said Lord Alaric from the side, his dark eyes revealing no emotion. He spoke, placing his hand gently on Lady Isolde's waist, guiding her with a considerate tenderness. “Evergreen, I will take my leave now,” Lady Isolde said, picking up the hem of her gown and following Lord Alaric. “Whitley Dawn.” Sir Cedric’s voice pierced the moment from behind, sounding raw and heart-wrenching, as if plunging a cold knife deep into Lady Isolde's heart. She hesitated for a moment, almost as if she were stepping into a dream. … The sleek black carriage glided through the night, its understated luxury glimmering in the faint light. Inside the car, aside from the sound of their faint breaths, there was a heavy silence. The atmosphere felt oppressive. Should she break the silence? Lady Isolde pondered, biting her lip, stealing a glance at the sharp contours of the man beside her, feeling her nerves tighten further. Suddenly, a warmth brushed her ear. She turned, puzzled, “What’s wrong?” The man, with narrowed eyes gleaming coldly, watched her for a few seconds, saying nothing. Under his intense gaze, Lady Isolde tensed, afraid to move. What was worth waiting for, Worthington thought. Just as Lady Isolde opened her mouth to speak, she sensed the car coming to a halt. The man’s thin lips parted, coolly uttering, “You, get out.” Lady Isolde’s face stiffened for an instant. “Lord Alaric.” “Get out.” His voice was cold and quiet, his piercing gaze glinting like frost, devoid of warmth. Lady Isolde blinked, their eyes locking in a stalemate, “Is it about what happened in the dressing room? I can apologize.” “No need.” “Why?” Lady Isolde replied in disbelief. Lord Alaric regarded her profile, a smile that was more mocking than kind crossing his face, “Because I don’t like sharing a carriage with flirty Hazel.” “You…” Lady Isolde was choked with anger, her nails digging deep into her palm. “Get out.” Lady Isolde abruptly yanked the door open and slammed it shut forcefully. Flirty? What did he see in her that made him think that? With a loud bang, the carriage sped away like an arrow released from a bow, not pausing for a moment. … Nightfall. Lady Isolde limped along, covering ten miles till she finally arrived at her destination. She looked up and was met with the striking words “The Warm Hearth” in front of her. The Warm Hearth. She frowned slightly, her mind racing. Lord Alaric’s last name was Warm, and he had committed suicide over a decade ago. This luxurious mansion must belong to his estate. “This is private property; no unauthorized personnel allowed.” “I am Lord Alaric’s wife,” she replied with an unwavering demeanor, her face betraying no fear or embarrassment. At that moment, a tall, striking woman stepped out from inside. Lady Vivienne, with her flawless features, hair perfectly styled into a bun, and wearing a tailored outfit that screamed sophistication, approached with an air of authority. “Steward Harold,” she commanded, causing the guard to retreat a few steps as her sharp gaze landed on Lady Isolde. Her hair had already fallen apart, draping loosely over her shoulders, while beads of sweat dotted her forehead and nose. Her gown was smudged with dirt, and her shoes were held limply in her hands. “Ma’am, Sir Edgar dislikes disorder; I hope you’ll pay more attention to this in the future,” Lady Vivienne’s voice was stern but confirmed Lady Isolde’s status. Lady Isolde narrowed her eyes, silently following as they walked in. “Dinner is ready; please dine, ma’am.” As Lady Vivienne suddenly turned back, her harsh gaze fell on Lady Isolde’s muddy feet, leaving a “majestic” trail on the soft wool carpet. “Ma’am, Sir Edgar has a peculiar dislike for anything that isn't pristine; I hope you will remember this,” Lady Vivienne added, and Lady Isolde’s pupils constricted in alarm. (End of the chapter).
Chapter 3
It was so easy to get angry. "Not Juliana’s stuff." She could almost see Lord Alaric’s mocking gaze when he ordered her out of the car. "Since he has a Juliana obsession, I suppose I should take a bath and change into something clean before I go down. No offense, Worthington, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment." Lady Isolde climbed the stairs, and just as she had taken a few steps, she suddenly turned around to cast a faint glance at Butler Jasper. "Oh, I forgot to mention, after just ten kilometers, I’ve inhaled enough dust and exhaust for one day, so… let’s skip dinner," she added tartly. Lady Vivienne watched her delicate figure retreat, the expression on her face darkening. At the expansive windows, a solitary figure stood. "Sir Edgar, it seems the young lady is upset," Lady Vivienne said, walking closer. "Is that so?" Lord Alaric smirked, his cold gaze sweeping over her. "So easy to anger—do you think the Mercenary will drive me to my grave in five years?" Lady Vivienne lowered her head, unsure how to respond. Lord Alaric lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before offering a slight smile. "After the price I paid to marry Hazel, dying of anger over it seems a bit unfortunate." "Sir Edgar, we must exercise a degree of discretion; the White Keep folks are watching," Lady Vivienne gently reminded him. "Shut up." His reply was chilly, a strange smirk playing across his features. "Did you forget? I want the White Keep to see everything." "Understood, Sir Edgar." "If you want to live well in this house, you’ll have to endure this little humiliation." Lord Alaric’s voice carried no warmth as he extinguished his cigarette. After a long soak, Lady Isolde emerged from the dressing chamber. Her garments had been sent via her clerk long before the Mercenary arrived, meticulously organized in the wardrobe. She casually picked out a comfortable nightgown. As she dressed, her gaze fell upon the large bed adorned in festive red. From this point forward, she would share this bed with a man she barely knew. If someone had told her that she would be in this position just a month ago, she would never have believed it. Lord Alaric still hadn’t shown up; he was likely not home. A half-hearted abandonment of the bride... Leaving on their wedding night... So, he didn't care about this marriage. That was fine. At least if he didn't care, Lady Isolde could simply live her life peacefully. She closed her eyes for a moment, a weight settling in her chest. Reaching for her phone, she noticed a message: "[Lady Isolde, you’re ruthless.]" Her heart twisted painfully at those words. She pressed a hand to her chest, quickly deleting the message and tossing the phone aside. Don’t think about it. Banish all thoughts of him; you’re married, and can't get entangled with him again. Inwardly, Lady Isolde calmed herself with that mantra. The ten-kilometer trek had drained her, and the moment she lay down on the bed, exhaustion washed over her, pulling her into a deep sleep. In her dreams, she was jolted awake by rustling sounds. The unfamiliar setting left her disoriented for a moment before she recalled where she was. She heard the sounds again. It was no illusion. She pulled open the door, stepping onto a dimly lit hallway, but suddenly froze in her tracks. Covering her mouth with her hand, she fought against making a sound. Her heart raced, disbelief overwhelming her as she stood in shock. Around the corner, two figures were embraced, intimately close, and one of them was her husband, Lord Alaric. But it was the other figure that filled Lady Isolde with sheer terror. This was definitely another man. How could this be possible? The disillusioning scene lay before her, undeniable. The stranger's hand traced down Lord Alaric’s erect spine, moving lower—lower—almost reaching his firm rear end... At that moment, the unfamiliar man lifted his gaze, making unabashed eye contact with her, exuding a challenging, oppressive aura. Every hair on Lady Isolde’s body stood on end. She sucked in a sharp breath and scrambled back, fleeing as if the demons were hot on her heels, slamming the door shut behind her.
Chapter 4
"Tell me the truth: will it kill you?" That was Master Gregory's first reaction upon seeing Lady Isolde. She was, to put it mildly, strikingly beautiful. His second thought? She can hold her own and doesn’t back down from a stare. "Let go," she ordered, her tone as icy as the grave, causing Master Gregory to immediately retract his hand, without a hint of hesitation. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern hidden beneath layers of bravado. What he received in return was a glacial glare from Lord Alaric, one steeped in malice, with barely concealed rage lurking in the corner of his eye. "Brother, save the menace for later. Don’t forget, she was your request," Master Gregory quickly distanced himself from the situation. Lord Alaric tilted his head, casting a brief glance toward the door, which now stood ajar. Whoever had just left had vanished—yet he was certain Lady Isolde had witnessed the exchange. "And what of it?" he said dismissively. Master Gregory felt the weight of the tension between them and almost spat blood from the strain. Taking a deep breath, he ventured, "What did you feel just now?" "A desire to kill." "How strong was it?" A sharp glare from Lord Alaric dropped the temperature in the room, forcing Master Gregory to take the hint and drop the subject. "Lord Alaric, you married her, and now you treat her this way. Honestly, she's the innocent one here." "Innocent?" Lord Alaric's cold laugh sliced through the air, his smile possessing a horrifying edge. "Blame it on her title—Lady, after all. Blame it on how that portly Lennox boy was foolishly smitten with her—a compelling enough reason, wouldn’t you agree?" Master Gregory shuddered, inwardly lamenting the situation of Lady Isolde. Poor girl… --- "Is this fate’s cruel joke?" The nuptials had just finished, and he had spotted himself in brotherly embrace with Lord Alaric, a sight which turned his stomach. Lady Isolde felt like ice, unsure how to process the chaos she had witnessed. But reflecting on it, it was rather fair. Slicing his way into marriage with her was her way to escape the clutches of the White Keep, while he sought her out to shield his own mysterious inclinations. Yet, what terrified her was the unavoidable fact: tonight, they were to share the same bed. What would she do? With a loud click, the door swung open, and in a flash, Lady Isolde was on high alert, every nerve tingling. Her dark eyes fixed on the figure entering. The man was tall, his haunting gaze as impenetrable as midnight, glinting with danger and intrigue. Lord Alaric casually discarded his coat onto a nearby chair, his words dripping disdain. "I thought you’d rush back to the White Keep and complain to your brother." "I’ll say it again, my brother and I are clear," she retorted defiantly. "Ha." Lord Alaric’s gaze flicked with a shadowy intensity, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Lady Isolde, do you truly think that telling me the truth will spare you?" Lady Isolde smirked coldly, "Lord Alaric, do you believe your faith in me will save you?" "Oh." The raging fire in Lord Alaric’s eyes flickered with unpredictable anger as he drew closer, his tall frame emanating an unsettling power. "Perhaps we should test whether your words hold truth or otherwise." "What do you mean?" Panic coursed through Lady Isolde as her delicate fingers clutched at her clothes over her pounding heart. She watched him approach, noticing how his collar had been loosened, revealing a physique that invoked a mix of fear and unfamiliar desire. The next thing she knew, she collided with the bed, scrambling backward—but he simply pulled her back, effortlessly. "What's wrong? Afraid? You were quite the talker moments ago." Lord Alaric's icy tone was devoid of compassion, dripping with cruelty. Lady Isolde felt as if her very blood had turned to ice. This man was utterly unhinged. Her mind flickered with images of him entwined with that other man—now he was about to claim her? She felt nauseated. The thought of being touched by him made her skin crawl. As Lord Alaric loomed above her, his intentions as unclear as the dark night, she braced for the uncertainty that awaited.
Chapter 5
"You think I would want to touch you, Worthington?" Lady Isolde struggled to break free, her voice trembling, "Let me go. You can't do this." "Can't do what?" Lord Alaric's hand smoothed over her shoulder, and with a sharp rip, the silk of her nightgown tore open at the collar, leaving a gaping cleavage that barely concealed her upper body. His dark gaze flitted over her pale skin, a flicker of surprise momentarily interrupting his otherwise steely demeanor. Lady Isolde was horrified; she had never faced such a terrifying situation in her life. Panic surged through her as she flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to defend herself. Was this fiend truly going to assault her? She couldn't allow it. A sharp sound echoed through the room. The sudden crack of her palm meeting his cheek halted Lord Alaric's advances. She slowly collected her senses back, eyes widening in shock as she noticed a faint red mark blossoming on his cheek. What had she done? She had struck Lord Alaric. A bone-chilling cold radiated from the depths of his dark, unfathomable eyes, wrapping around her like an unbreakable net, leaving her gasping for air. "I didn't mean to—" her words stumbled out, the realization of her defiance settling like lead in her stomach. Lord Alaric straightened, his posture imposing and authoritative, resembling a king looking down from his throne. His contemptuous stare bore into her. "Ha. Do you think I wished to touch you? I have no interest in used goods like yourself," he sneered, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. Lady Isolde's breath hitched, pain clawed at her chest, almost suffocating her. How could he twist the truth so grotesquely after hiding his intentions, casting all the blame on her? Bitterness morphed into rage within her; being falsely accused repeatedly was intolerable for anyone, even a saint. "Lord Alaric, don’t overstep your bounds," she managed to assert, propping herself upright. Despite the redness in her eyes fueled by indignation, she met his gaze defiantly. Like a cornered wildcat, every strand of her hair seemed to bristle with newfound fury. Her eyes, usually soft and inviting, turned to tempered steel, radiating an unexpected fierceness that caught Alaric off guard. His sharply arched brow lifted slightly, surprise evident in his expression, "You're not as defenseless as I thought. I assumed you to be just a fragile little thing." "That's your mistake," she spat, anger surging through her veins. "You were the one who married me with ulterior motives. It’s not as if I was panting to wed you." The moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. The atmosphere shifted in the room, temperature plummeting as Lord Alaric's dark gaze turned freezing. Like she had cracked open a tightly guarded secret, dread gnawed at her. Would he silence her now? With a personality as cold as his, it didn't seem impossible. Lady Isolde swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, every instinct urging her to be alert, keeping a close watch on his each movement. "Ha, ha, ha..." His low, almost amused laughter resonated in the silence, a sinister delight evident in his tone as if her defiance provided some twisted pleasure. "What are you laughing at?" she challenged, her voice shaky yet firm. Lord Alaric reached forward, gripping her chin tightly, purposely tracing his thumb along her jawline, his touch unexpectedly delicate. "Your naivety amuses me," he whispered, lowering his face closer to hers, forcing her to tilt her head back. She quickly recognized the futility of retreat; there was nowhere to run. In the heavy tension that filled the room, dread weighed on her like an iron shackles. "You can’t presume to guess my intentions. I’ve chosen to marry you; you know you wouldn’t dare refuse," he stated assertively. Her heart sank. She yearned to argue, to shatter the disdainful expression that lingered on his face, but deep down, she knew his words rang true. "Hmph." Lord Alaric released her chin, viewing her as one might a loathsome insect, his disapproval clearly written on his face. Such an ugly look indeed. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud behind him. Alone now, Lady Isolde glanced around the room to find it empty. On her wedding night, no less, her husband shunned her as if she were a disease. With a weary sigh, she sank back onto the bed, feeling utterly defeated.
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