For Better, Not Yours

Charles Ford's voice came through from the other end of the line. His voice was low and a little hoarse. "Whitney, what nonsense are you talking about?"

I let out a soft laugh, tinged with mockery. "You saw the news, didn't you? That wonderful son of yours? He disgusts me. I'm serious. I want someone else."

There was a pause. Silence for a few seconds, and then his voice returned, trembling slightly, "This isn't something we can talk about over the phone. I'll come see you."

"Sure," I said coolly, "I'll be waiting at home."

The corners of my lips lifted into a small smile, my eyes flashing with quiet determination.

Charles was just a little over thirty, but due to a hereditary condition that made it difficult for him to have children, years of IVF attempts all failed. In the end, he had no choice but to adopt Jayden Ford from a distant branch of the family and groom him as the heir.

As for my family—the Sheridan family—our place in this marriage with the Ford family rested entirely on one thing: the Sheridan women's famed fertility lineage, passed down for generations.

Legend had it that women from the Sheridan family conceived easily and often gave birth to twins or multiples.

Regardless of what happened to my father, this marriage between the Ford and Sheridan families was always a silent, mutual understanding. It was a transaction that benefited both parties.

What I did not expect was for Jayden, after five years of dating me, to be dumb enough to father an illegitimate child right before our engagement banquet—and then have the nerve to expect me to swallow my pride and go through with it.

He thought I would stay quiet and obedient? He did not know me at all.

I, Whitney Sheridan, was not the type to suffer in silence.

Not long after I hung up the phone, the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent.

Standing outside was Charles, his expression a complicated mix of emotions.

Just as he was about to speak, I grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into the room.

"Whitney, you—"

Before he could finish, I kissed him—firmly, deliberately, shutting him up. My fingertips slid along the collar of his shirt, then down the line of his buttons.

There was no hesitation in my actions, no shyness. I made my intentions crystal clear.

I was not bluffing—I meant every word I said.

I could feel his internal struggle, his hesitation, but in the end, desire won out. He gave in.

We indulged in a night of reckless passion.

Afterward, as he held me in his arms, his voice was husky and low.

"There are some urgent matters I need to handle overseas. I'm flying out tomorrow—it might take a while. Wait for me."

"What about the wedding?"

He lowered his eyes and looked at me.

"It'll go on as planned. I'll make it back in time. You're the Sheridan family's only daughter, and the one most fit to marry into the Ford family."

After he left, I intended to crawl back into bed and catch up on sleep, but my phone buzzed insistently from the nightstand.