The entire bridal chamber had a sense of exquisite refinement. On the west side was a tightly closed carved door; on the south wall hung a painting of court ladies, elegantly mounted, with the lady in the painting smiling sweetly, her eyes seeming to mock Charles Clark with a half-smile. Below the painting was a lamp stand and a small table, on which hung a diamond-shaped bronze mirror. Against the north wall stood a screen adorned with the character for “double happiness,” its surface turned pink by the flickering candlelight. To the east was the canopied bed where Charles Clark sat, the red gauze curtains rolled up with hooks. Of course, what most attracted Charles Clark was the motionless bride beside him.

Charles Clark thought to himself, Did that little girl Yvonne Foster really trick me? What kind of person is the eldest Miss of the Wen family?

At this point, the answer was almost within reach.

Charles Clark reached out his hand, his heart full of anticipation, and extended it toward the bride’s red veil.

Just then, the bride, who had been sitting upright and proper, suddenly spoke: “This marriage was my father’s idea. I am gravely ill, so you’d better think carefully. If you lift the veil, from this moment on, you and I will be husband and wife, and should support each other through thick and thin. But if you were only forced here by my father, it would be better for me to have someone secretly send you out of the residence, so as not to ruin your future.”

The bride’s voice was icy cold, her tone resolute.

Hearing this, Charles Clark’s hand paused in midair, recalling the bride’s words. He steeled himself, thinking, “I’m already here, the wedding rites are done—how could I leave without even seeing her?”

Charles Clark said mockingly, “I’d like to leave, but after being beaten up for no reason by someone named Yvonne, how could I just walk away?”

The bride, draped in red, remained motionless and silent.

Charles Clark began to feel bored. An idea flashed through his mind: Since the Wen family dragged me here, I might as well tease her a bit.

Charles Clark sighed and said, “Are you the elder sister of that little Yvonne? Her name is Yvonne Foster. Let me think—could your name be Muruo?”

The bride still showed no reaction, continuing to ignore Charles Clark.

Charles Clark rubbed his nose, feeling speechless. It seemed this young lady had a rather bad temper—should I prepare myself just in case? If she really turns out to be a shrew, wouldn’t that be terrible?

Thinking of the Wen family’s eldest daughter’s cold attitude toward him, Charles Clark couldn’t help but feel angry. Damn it, you snatch me here, then try to drive me away—do you think I’m a ball to be kicked around at will? You won’t let me lift the veil? All the more reason for me to do it.

Having made up his mind, he reached out again. The bride seemed to sense something, her delicate body trembling, and she couldn’t help but press Charles Clark’s hand with her own slender one.

Charles Clark felt the bride’s hand trembling. Almost in tears, the bride said, “I’ve changed my mind. I… I’ll give you money, as compensation. Please… just leave.”

Charles Clark was stunned, his hand involuntarily withdrawing. He felt a surge of anger: Who wants your filthy money? You’re the one who brought me here, and now you want to send me away like this?

The bride’s shoulders trembled slightly. “I… I already have someone I love.”

Charles Clark frowned, and heard the bride continue, “He is gentle and refined, writes beautiful calligraphy, is well-educated and reasonable—not like you, so frivolous and shameless.”

Charles Clark was speechless. His curiosity was instantly doused like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. He thought, There’s no point in sticking around—might as well just leave.

He made up his mind, stood up, and went to inspect the doors and windows, thinking about how to escape. He pushed open the wooden window opposite the door; outside was deep and pitch-black. Charles Clark climbed onto the window, about to jump down, but suddenly felt a surge of indignation. Damn it, this is too much of a loss. No one in the Wen family is any good. She won’t let me lift the veil? All the more reason for me to do it before I leave. She calls me shameless? Well, Clark will be shameless just this once.

With his mind made up, Charles Clark quickly returned to the bed, reaching out again to lift the bride’s veil. The bride cried out in alarm and tried to block him, and the two nearly started wrestling. Amid the chaos, the veil floated down, the candlelight flickered, and the light in the bridal chamber wavered. What appeared before Charles Clark’s eyes was a breathtaking face.

Her face was like a lotus blossom, brows like slender willows, a pair of deep, ethereal eyes that tugged at the heartstrings. Her snow-white skin was tinged with a sickly pallor, making her even more alluring. Her black hair was styled in a high bun, her head adorned with pearls that glittered dazzlingly in the candlelight. Her bright red lips were gently pursed, like a fairy descended to earth.

The two of them locked eyes, first sizing each other up warily, then, in the next instant, both involuntarily showed looks of surprise—though within that surprise was a hint of indescribable delight. Charles Clark was first stunned by her otherworldly beauty. In modern times, there were countless beauties on TV, but compared to this dignified lady, they all paled in comparison. Then, Charles Clark was even more shocked, for he vaguely recognized this beauty before him.

The bride and Charles Clark exclaimed in unison, “It’s you?”

The coldness on the bride’s face vanished without a trace, replaced by an unmistakable shyness. After her exclamation, she said softly, “Master Clark, so it’s you.”