Chapter 1 An Unexpected Twist of Fate

• "Ophelia, you've indulged far too much tonight," her mother, Evelyn, gently admonished, her voice as soft as a whispering breeze. "Please, don't embarrass yourself here. Go upstairs and rest. We'll call you when we're ready to leave." With a delicate touch, she slipped a room key into Ophelia's hand, her fingers lingering for a moment as if to convey an unspoken plea for decorum.
• Despite the tenderness in Evelyn's voice, a faint crease of disapproval etched itself between her brows, betraying her underlying dissatisfaction.
• Ophelia felt the sting of rejection, like a thorn pricking her heart, yet she concealed her disappointment with practiced grace. She accepted the key with a nod of compliance and gracefully excused herself from the lively gathering at the table.
• The guests, absorbed in their animated conversation, offered only perfunctory advice before allowing her to slip away into the shadows.
• As she rose from her seat, the world around her seemed to tilt and sway, a testament to the excess of alcohol that clouded her senses. Her steps wavered as she ascended the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the ornate banister for support.
• Once a cherished daughter of the esteemed Lark Family, Ophelia had been lost to them as a child and raised by a humble rural family. It was only six months ago that she was reclaimed by her biological parents, who had agreed to cover her adoptive mother's substantial medical bills.
• Reluctantly, she had returned to the family she barely knew, a stranger in a familiar yet foreign world. Tonight marked the first occasion her biological parents had taken her out for a meal as their daughter, a gesture that felt as fragile as glass.
• With toasts flowing like a river, it was no wonder she had consumed more than she had intended, each glass a reminder of the tenuous bond she sought to forge.
• At last, she reached the room upstairs, the numbers on the door blurring before her eyes like distant stars. As she fumbled with the key, it slipped into the lock with surprising ease, the door yielding to her touch.
• The room was shrouded in darkness, a velvet cloak that enveloped her as she crossed the threshold. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar tension, and she heard the sound of rapid, uneven breathing.
• Before she could react, the door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, echoing like a judge's gavel in the silence.
• Startled, she attempted to back away, but a hot, relentless hand seized her arm with a grip that felt as unyielding as iron. Her world spun, and she was forcefully pinned against the wall, her shoulder gripped with a ferocity that took her breath away.
• "Drug her? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" a voice growled in her ear, low and seething with fury. The words slithered into her consciousness, each syllable a drop of venom that sent a shiver down her spine.
• Summoning her courage, she replied, "I haven't. Isn't this room 316?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, laced with an edge of desperation. Unsure whether she had mistakenly entered the wrong room or if the man before her had, she felt an acute sense of danger, a primal instinct urging her to flee.
• In the oppressive darkness, Ophelia collided with something solid, eliciting a low groan from the man hidden in the shadows. His presence was like a looming storm, his voice a gruff rumble that sent a jolt through her.
• "This is 319. Who are you?" he demanded, his grip tightening around her arm like a vice, intensifying Ophelia's rising panic.
• "I'm just a college student, not what you think. Please, let me go," she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperation. Her heart pounded in her chest like a trapped bird, and her struggles seemed only to quicken the man's breath, his heated exhalations washing over her face and causing her cheeks to flush with embarrassment.
• Weakened by intoxication, Ophelia felt her strength ebbing away, slipping through her fingers like sand. The realization dawned upon her that she was indeed in the wrong room, not the person he was expecting. Slowly, the man's aggression lessened, and a shift occurred as he pulled her closer by the waist, his intentions becoming disturbingly clearer.
• "Help me," he murmured, his voice a mix of urgency and vulnerability that caught Ophelia off guard.
• In shock, her eyes widened, and she instinctively tried to knee him in a vulnerable spot. But the man anticipated her move and swiftly trapped her legs, his grip unyielding.
• "Help me. I'll give you anything you want," he implored, his voice strained, revealing the depth of his desperation.
• In a hurried gesture, he removed his limited-edition watch, its polished surface gleaming even in the dim light, and pushed it into her pocket as if it were a token of his sincerity.
• Before she could react, he leaned down, capturing her lips with a fervent passion that stole her breath away. His lips were warm and commanding, tasting of rich alcohol and assertiveness, a potent mix that overwhelmed her senses.
• Ophelia felt something shatter in her mind, like glass fracturing under pressure. The kisses fell upon her relentlessly, each one a wave crashing over her. Under the numbing effect of alcohol, the man's presence swiftly consumed her consciousness, pulling her into a tide of emotions and sensations she couldn't comprehend.
• Hours later, in the depths of the night, Ophelia awoke to a throbbing pain that resonated through her entire being. Blinking into the dim light, she saw the man from the previous night sprawled on his side, his lower body modestly covered by a thin blanket.
• The sight of his sculpted V-shaped torso struck her like a cold slap, making her face turn ashen as memories of the night's madness surged back with vivid clarity.
• With haste, she dressed, her movements a blend of urgency and anguish as she endured the pain that lingered from the encounter. Clutching her phone like a lifeline, she fled the hotel room, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the hallway.
• Before she disappeared, she glanced back, confirming the room number was indeed 319, validating that she had stumbled into the wrong room, a fateful mistake that changed everything.
• Her mother had promised to call when it was time to leave, but there were no missed calls on her phone, the screen blank like a clean slate.
• Confusion mingled with relief that her nocturnal escapade remained a secret, hidden from the world's prying eyes. She hoped the events of that night would be forever buried in the recesses of her mind, a forgotten chapter she would never have to relive.
• The Lark Residence lay steeped in tranquil silence, a majestic estate surrounded by lush gardens and ancient trees that whispered secrets to the wind. Ophelia, careful not to disturb the serene stillness, quietly retreated to her room. Her heart weighed heavy with unspoken turmoil as she closed the door behind her.
• In the bathroom, her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, revealing a face that was pale and drawn. With trembling hands, she removed her heavy glasses, uncovering a delicate, refined visage that seemed foreign and fragile under the harsh bathroom lights. The freckles she had painstakingly applied the previous night were now smudged, washed away by the sweat of anxiety and sorrow.
• Gently, she removed all her makeup, each stroke revealing the fresh, enchanting face beneath—a face that had long been hidden behind layers of artifice. Ophelia hardly recognized the girl staring back at her, a stranger with eyes full of secrets and unshed tears.
• She changed out of her disheveled clothes, finding them as crumpled and weary as she felt. As she did so, her fingers brushed against something in her pocket—the watch. It was large and elegant, an object of undeniable value, suggesting it belonged to the mysterious man from the previous night. Her brow furrowed with confusion as she pondered how it had ended up in her possession, a tangible reminder of the night's bewildering events.
• With a weary sigh, she placed the watch in the bottom of her drawer, as though burying it might conceal the memory itself. Quickly washing up, she collapsed onto her bed, the softness of the sheets offering little comfort to her troubled soul. Exhausted, her heart ached with an intense sorrow that refused to abate.
• Whenever she closed her eyes, haunting images of the night replayed in her mind—the man's heated breath against her ear, the overwhelming sense of vulnerability and confusion. It felt like a tormenting nightmare from which she could not awaken.
• In a state of restless half-sleep, the hours slipped away, and morning arrived all too soon, unwelcome and unrelenting.
• Downstairs, the sounds of the housekeeper's activities echoed through the house, a symphony of clinking dishes and sweeping brooms that marked the beginning of a new day. Ophelia awoke with a splitting headache, a dull throb that pulsed in time with the memories she longed to forget.
• Accustomed to early mornings, she splashed cold water on her face, the icy shock momentarily clearing the fog of fatigue. After applying some basic makeup, she descended the grand staircase with her glasses on, a shield against the scrutiny of the world.
• Her parents, Walter and Evelyn, were seated on the couch downstairs, engrossed in conversation. The sight of them sent a wave of apprehension crashing over Ophelia, like the chill of an unexpected winter breeze.
• "Isn't Ophelia back already?" Walter's voice cut through the air, making Ophelia pause mid-descent.
• Evelyn's voice followed, laced with skepticism, "She won't be back so soon. It would be a miracle if she returned before noon."
• Ophelia's confusion deepened, a gnawing sense of unease tightening around her heart. Why did they seem so certain I wouldn't return soon? What clandestine plans had they woven?
• Walter's voice was laden with regret, each word a weighted sigh. "I was too hasty. The deal with Kingsley Corporation is still pending. If we can manage a bit longer, things might change. Although Mr. Kingsley likes her, he is more than ten years older."
• What was he implying? The insinuation hung in the air, a noose tightening around Ophelia's neck.
• Her face grew even paler, a ghostly pallor that mirrored the dread pooling in her stomach. The Lark Family was one of the city's prominent families, their influence stretching across a multitude of enterprises. Did they truly intend to use their daughter as a mere bargaining chip for a business deal?
• "Dad, it's all my fault!" Cecilia's voice rang out, a sharp, pitiful note in the unfolding drama. She was the Lark Family's adopted daughter, a jewel polished to perfection, and ever eager to shine.
• When the Lark Family lost their child, Evelyn, heartbroken and desperate, adopted a baby girl from an orphanage. Cecilia had grown up under their care, blossoming into a young woman of grace and accomplishment.
• Ten years ago, the police had found the lost child in a small county. Evelyn had visited her biological daughter, Ophelia, who had been playing in the dirt at seven years old—a child of the earth, untamed and innocent.
• While the biological daughter had been raised as a country child, the adopted daughter excelled in various arts, and her talents were a testament to her upbringing. Consequently, the reunion with the biological daughter was repeatedly delayed, pushed aside in favor of the known over the uncertain.
• Only when the Lark Family faced a crisis that demanded a marriage alliance did they recognize their biological daughter, who had grown into a beautiful young woman, a diamond yet to be cut and set.
• Cecilia sobbed softly, adopting a submissive demeanor that seemed to both plead for forgiveness and cement her favored status. "If only I had impressed Mr. Kingsley during dinner, I would have done whatever it took to secure the deal for Dad, even if it meant accompanying him."
• "Cecilia, what nonsense are you speaking? How could you possibly accompany that old man?" Evelyn said urgently, her voice tinged with a mother's protective instinct.
• Realizing she had been overly emotional, she softened her tone, smoothing it like silk over rough edges. "If Mr. Kingsley desires Ophelia, it's her fortune. She's plain and lacks talent. Such a person wouldn't find a match in high society.
• "Mr. Kingsley's family is influential, and he genuinely likes her. If he wants to marry her, it's a considerable opportunity for her."
• Evelyn's words dripped with pragmatic calculation, a mother's logic twisted by the necessities of survival.
• Cecilia lowered her head, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her lips. It seemed she was still her mother's favorite, the biological daughter falling short in comparison, a pawn too simple to play the game.
• Upstairs, Ophelia's face turned an ashen hue, her skin as pale as porcelain.
• During the dinner, there had been only one Mr. Kingsley—a man who was shorter and heavier than she was, a figure of unimpressive stature but considerable wealth.
• She had initially thought her drunken state was due to her poor tolerance, but now it was clear they had intentionally gotten her drunk, sending her to Mr. Kingsley's bed as though she were a lamb to the slaughter.
• No wonder Mr. Kingsley had kept his eyes on her, pouring her drinks with a practiced hand, a sinister smile curling his lips. She hadn't realized her father was willing to barter her future, willing to send her to another's bed for the sake of a deal.
• And her mother had handed her the room key, sealing her fate with the pretense of concern!
• Shaking with emotion, Ophelia gripped the wall for support, her body trembling with a storm of indignation and betrayal.
• "Indeed, marrying Mr. Kingsley would ensure a lifetime of comfort…"
• "If Dad wants to marry me off, shouldn't he at least ask for my opinion?" Ophelia's voice sliced through the air, cold and resolute, like the keen edge of a blade.
• The three individuals downstairs were startled, their heads snapping up to see Ophelia descending the stairs, her face a picture of fury, eyes blazing like twin storms.
• "Ophelia, what are you doing here?" Walter asked, astonished, his composure slipping away.
• "Where else would I be? In Mr. Kingsley's bed?" Ophelia's voice was icy, dripping with disdain, each word a calculated blow.
• "How dare you speak to your father like that? This is how you treat your elders?" Evelyn's voice was harsh, the veneer of civility stripped away to reveal the raw nerve beneath.
• Ophelia met her gaze, her mind flashing back to the room key, her body trembling with resolve, and her heart steeled against the betrayal.
• Cecilia hurriedly stepped forward, attempting to placate Ophelia with her saccharine sweetness. "Ophelia, don't blame Mom and Dad. The company is in a precarious situation, and Mr. Kingsley happens to have a preference for clean college girls like you… They had no other choice."
• "If it's a matter of necessity, why not send you instead? You're more attractive and would likely please Mr. Kingsley even more."
• Ophelia wrenched her arm free from Cecilia's grasp, her voice a thunderous declaration of defiance.
• Cecilia stumbled, falling to the ground, her composure shattering like a fragile mask.
• Smack!
• Seeing Cecilia pushed down, Evelyn responded with a sharp slap across Ophelia's face, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder.