Chapter 2

Preston said with a laugh:

"She's Wyatt's wife after all. Not cool to provoke her like that."

"We won't touch her. There's no possibility of that."

Wyatt said something I couldn't make out clearly—things got chaotic on that end, drowning out his voice.

The call lasted fifteen minutes. I turned off the Bluetooth and got out of the car.

That sharp pain had long since passed, now hidden beneath a calm surface.

Fragmented and scattered, like ants gnawing away.

As I headed upstairs, I ran into Preston on his way out.

He seemed rushed, his clothes not even properly fastened, his exposed upper body covered in ambiguous scratches.

Seeing me, he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and pulled me into his arms.

"Where'd you go, baby? I thought I'd lost you."

"Just went downstairs to throw out some trash."

I looked up, my palm against his cheek, fingertip landing on the mole at the corner of his eye.

Wyatt had a mole in the same spot.

Preston's eyes darkened as my finger slid down, his Adam's apple bobbing.

The moment my fingertip touched the corner of his lips, he caught it in his mouth with a gentle bite.

Preston had this habit—like a rabid dog, dedicated to leaving every mark of his possession on me.

Even though this territory wasn't his.

Preston's breathing gradually grew heavier, desire pooling in his eyes.

He pressed me down onto the bed.

I suddenly stopped his hand:

"Wyatt, don't use that. Let's have a baby."

Preston's pupils contracted as he stared at me fiercely.

Preston was especially rough that night.

I discovered Wyatt's deception a few days before the wedding, when I received an anonymous video.

The video was filmed in a private bar room, with Wyatt sitting beside Vivian.

She suggested playing a blind box dating game, and a group of them drew lots that landed on me.

Besides Wyatt, there were four other players.

Preston was one of them.

"Boring."

He impatiently kicked over the table and left the room cursing,

"If you want to play, play without me."

Vivian laughed it off:

"It's fine, four people can still play. Just be careful. For Wyatt's sake, don't get her pregnant."

That was when I learned that the wedding I'd been anticipating for eighteen years was merely the opening signal for a game.

My heart ached until I could barely breathe.

That person sent me a message: [It's not too late to cancel the wedding.]

I ignored them, sitting in a daze staring at the video all night.

In an arranged business marriage, I had no right to cancel the wedding.

I still needed the Anker family's help to establish my foothold in the Harrison family.

The wedding proceeded as scheduled the next day.

But before the ceremony even ended, Wyatt took a call and left.

Preston was the one who came home that night.

I have face blindness, but I'm not an idiot.

After nursing a crush on Wyatt for eighteen years, how could I not recognize him?

In my world, people fell into only three categories:

Men, women, and Wyatt.

That night, Preston stood with his arms crossed, looking at me mockingly and playfully.

I remember he seemed about to say something, but before he could speak, I walked over and kissed him:

"Wyatt, I knew you'd come back."

Everything after seemed to fall into place naturally.

Four men took turns pretending to be Wyatt.

Transferring huge sums to me five times a day, sending the same gifts five times over.

We were like an ordinary married couple.

Dating, holding hands, hugging, shopping, kissing.

But at night, only Wyatt and Preston ever came home.

Distinguishing between Wyatt and Preston was too easy.

Wyatt wouldn't touch me. Just one glance at me and he couldn't hide the disgust in his eyes.

Preston, on the other hand, never tired of it.

He had all sorts of tricks and boundless energy.

He'd patiently accompany me on mountain hikes covering thirty thousand steps, then still have energy to go at it until dawn when we got home.

He loved to kiss me everywhere, inside and out, making me call him "husband," then kissing me until I couldn't catch my breath.

"Baby, I really, really like you."

He'd whisper those words in my ear a million times each night, forcing me to respond.

Later it turned into unwillingness.

Sometimes I'd drift off to sleep in a daze.

In my dreams, someone would trace my features, murmuring:

"Why did you marry him when you knew he was deceiving you?"

"Why won't you divorce him? Do you love him that much?"

I wanted to ask him too.

Why he'd changed his mind and joined this game.

I used him as Wyatt's substitute—what did he use me as?

I never asked, and Preston never answered.

In my blurred world, there was now one more category: Preston.