Ch5 - Act starting

Back then, when the arranged marriage was first proposed,

Grace had already prepared herself for it, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t fought back. She told her father flat out that she refused to marry someone she had no emotional connection with.

Surprisingly, the usually cold and pragmatic Mr. Bellavance actually softened his tone and told her,

"Among all the young men of marriageable age in our circle, none can compare to Raphael—he's mature, steady, clean in both reputation and background. The Sterlings are an old, well-respected family. If you marry him, at the very least, you won’t suffer."

Back then, she was intrigued. 

Who was this man that even her father, a man with impossibly high standards, could praise so highly?

At the time, Raphael was stationed in London. No one in her social circle was particularly close to him. She didn’t know him, and she certainly wasn’t about to agree to anything so easily.

But she did know the Sterlings.

A 130-year-old private banking dynasty that had once produced politicians, with ancestors who had fought in the trenches during World War I. A family that had accumulated generations of wealth, power, and connections—none of which could be summed up in a few words.

Seeing that persuasion wasn’t working, Mr. Bellavance dropped his usual cold, authoritative tone. Instead, he said,

"If you refuse, then your sister will take your place."

"What?! That’s impossible! Evelyn is still in school!" Grace was 24 at the time, and her younger sister, Evelyn, was only 21.

"All the better. And while you're at it, you can shut down that little workshop of yours."

His tone left no room for argument.

Grace’s eyes widened. Of course. There was nothing her father didn't know—her newly launched atelier was no exception.

He had put two of the most important things in her life on the chopping block, pressuring her from both sides. His negotiation tactics were brutal, but effective.

At that time, she had no way to escape the family’s grasp. She was still financially dependent on them, raised in a life of luxury where she had never lacked for anything.

What leverage did she have to resist? She wasn’t naive or foolish enough to make empty threats about running away.

Marriage? Fine. She had already made up her mind.

Three years.

That’s all she would give.

Once three years passed, she’d walk away.

And if her husband turned out to be some greasy, overbearing, or insufferable man? Then he wouldn’t so much as touch a single hair on her head.

"Grace."

A deep, magnetic voice pulled her back to reality.

She snapped out of her thoughts and turned her head—those deep, stormy blue-gray eyes were already watching her.

Raphael had already stepped out of the car, standing by the open door, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Instead of letting the chauffeur handle it, he personally held the door open for her, extending his hand—palm up—wordlessly offering his assistance.

The cool night breeze rushed in, meeting the lingering warmth of the car interior. Under the moonlight, his features looked even more strikingly chiseled.

Grace stared at his hand. The impeccable cuff of his tailored suit peeked out from beneath the sleeve, perfectly pressed.

She felt momentarily dazed. Was the act starting this quickly?

Her gaze flickered to the front of the car.

The chauffeur, David. She recognized him instantly—a long-time employee of the Sterling family, loyal for over twenty years.

It clicked.

This wasn’t just a simple gesture—it was for appearances.

She gathered her gown with one hand, then elegantly placed her other hand—four fingers together—lightly into his palm.

She barely touched his hand before his dry, broad palm closed firmly around hers, his long fingers wrapping securely around hers. His grip was steady, controlled—but undeniably strong.

With effortless ease, Raphael helped her out of the car.

She moved slowly, but he waited patiently, never making her feel rushed.

When both her feet touched the ground, Raphael still didn’t let go.

His head tilted slightly, his gaze calm as he looked down at their joined hands.

A simple platinum band encircled his ring finger—unembellished, understated, just a faintly engraved inscription inside the band.

Much like the man himself.

Without a word, his hold shifted, his warm palm shifted slightly, adjusting its angle as he took her hand in a gentle yet secure hold.

Completely natural.

Grace lifted her head as the wind gently lifted strands of her hair.

She stared at the man walking ahead of her—his tall, commanding frame, his broad shoulders cutting a striking silhouette against the dimly lit streets.

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

She could clearly feel how his steps slowed slightly to match hers.

Just as she heard the quiet rumble of the car engine behind them, she instinctively tensed her fingers, trying to pull away.

For the first time, his grip didn’t loosen.

Raphael turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

"The car's gone. You can let go now."

Raphael’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t ask why. Instead, he wordlessly released her hand.

They arrived at their duplex penthouse near Champ-de-Mars.

Grace had personally chosen this place. Due to the rushed timeline, the renovations had only just been completed before their marriage, and Raphael had stayed here for only a few days.

He had only stayed here for a few days.

As soon as they walked in, the double-height entryway chandelier lit up, casting a warm glow over the space.

The apartment was a blend of classical French elegance and modern sophistication—ornate hand-painted ceilings, rose-gold-trimmed walls, and Versailles parquet flooring.

Among all their properties, this wasn’t the biggest.

But it had the best location—from the living room, she could see the Eiffel Tower.

Raphael had heard that his wife liked lively places, which was likely why she chose to live here.

Grace wasted no time.

The moment she stepped inside, she kicked off her heels, sighing in relief.

She noticed the housekeeper approaching Raphael, ready to attend to him.

Ignoring them, she headed straight upstairs, barefoot.

She entered the master bedroom, walking past the spacious suite to a carved chestnut-colored wooden door.

With a quick fingerprint scan, the doors slid open automatically.

A soft, familiar fragrance drifted out.

Inside was her sanctuary—a vast walk-in closet.

Tonight, the housekeeper Mila had chosen an orange basil diffuser, its notes of bergamot, citrus, and green tea blending into the air.

A white cashmere chaise lounge sat beside a glass-topped central island.

On either side, two rows of glass display cabinets stretched along the walls—one dedicated to handbags, the other filled with shoes.

Deeper inside, rows of designer clothing, meticulously arranged.

At the heart of the room, a six-meter-long central island showcased an array of sunglasses, silk scarves, perfumes, hats, and other less valuable accessories. Adjacent to it, a separate enclosed space was reserved exclusively for her most precious jewelry and watches.

White and platinum marble tiles lined the floor, making the space feel even more opulent.

This walk-in closet was originally two guest rooms, but she had knocked down the walls to create this dream space.

This was her favorite part of the house.

Grace tossed her jewelry onto the dresser and walked up to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her deep chestnut hair spilled down her back like a silk cascade. As she reached up to remove her hairpin, placing it aside, she finally noticed something that hadn’t been there before.

Two suitcases.

Jet-black. Sleek, hard-edged metal. The kind that looked precision-engineered, every corner forming a perfect right angle.

The realization hit her a second too late.

By the time she pieced it together, the owner of those suitcases was already standing at the doorway of the walk-in closet.

Grace turned her head.

Raphael was there, mid-motion, his hand just inches away from the doorframe. He had been about to knock, but she had caught him first.

"Sorry, I called you from outside, but you didn’t respond. So I just walked in."

Raphael lowered his hand, tucking it back to his side.

Grace’s lips parted slightly.

Of all the things she had considered tonight, she had somehow forgotten the most important one.

The top floor of the penthouse originally had four rooms—one master bedroom, two that she had converted into walk-in closets, and the last one?

She had turned it into a private home theater.

So now, there was just one problem.

Where the hell was her husband supposed to sleep?