III

MY. GOD.

I blinked rapidly, rubbing my eyes as if that would change the reality before me. But no matter how many times I did, the man lying beside me was still Zion Yohan Warren—not Harrison Pierre Whitmore.

Shit. What the hell have I done?

No. No. No. This can’t be happening!

A piercing scream tore from my throat as I scrambled backward—only to miscalculate my movements and fall off the bed with a painful thud.

"So damn loud," Yohan groaned, his deep, irritated voice cutting through the chaos of my mind.

I gasped and quickly grabbed the blanket, wrapping it tightly around my naked body as I pushed myself up. My heart pounded wildly as I turned to face him.

Yohan was already sitting up, shirtless, his disheveled hair only making him look even more intimidating. His sharp gaze locked onto me, unreadable yet piercing, making my breath hitch.

Then my phone rang.

MY. GOD.

A horrifying realization hit me.

I had set up my plan last night. I had told my secretary to inform my father where I was if he asked. And to make matters worse—I had left my GPS on.

My entire body went cold.

I lunged for my sling bag, ignoring Yohan’s burning stare as I frantically pulled out my phone. The moment I unlocked the screen, my stomach dropped.

A hundred missed calls.

From Dad.

No. No. No.

A sharp, urgent ringing echoed through the apartment.

I didn’t need to guess who it was.

Dad was here.

My eyes snapped to Yohan, and for the first time, true panic settled in my bones. He stared at me, unmoved, before exhaling heavily and standing up.

I watched in horror as he grabbed his shirt and slipped it on, his expression unreadable.

He was about to open the door.

“No—NO! Don’t open it!” I rushed forward and grabbed his arm, desperate. “Please, just ignore it! We need to talk!” My voice cracked, tears threatening to spill.

Yohan’s gaze flickered down to me, cold and detached.

Then, without a word, he pushed me aside.

I stumbled back, stunned.

Before I could stop him, he strode to the door and opened it.

I’m dead.

Scrambling, I grabbed the nearest clothing I could find—his oversized T-shirt—and yanked it over my body. Forget about the soreness, forget about my missing skirt—my father was outside.

The moment I stepped out of the bedroom, I froze.

“Damn you! What did you do to my daughter?!”

My father’s voice boomed through the apartment, thick with rage.

I gasped, my heart hammering in my chest.

Oh, my God. Mom’s here too.

Her hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock as she took in the scene—me, barely dressed in Yohan’s clothes, and Yohan… on the floor.

My gaze darted to him.

Blood.

Yohan sat on the ground, clutching his face, blood trickling from his nose. A dark bruise was already forming on his cheek.

Dad had hit him.

“COSETTE!” My father’s furious voice snapped my attention back to him. His face was red with anger as he stormed toward me.

“D-Dad, let me explain—”

SLAP!

The impact was so forceful that I nearly lost my balance, but I managed to grab onto something—anything—to keep myself from collapsing to the floor.

A sharp, stinging pain spread across my cheek, and before I could stop myself, tears spilled down my face.

Dad had never hit me this hard before.

It hurt—physically, emotionally.

“Stupid girl! I thought you were different. Decent. But you’re just like your sister Geneva—both worthless!” Dad’s voice thundered through the room, laced with venom.

I bowed my head, unable to meet his gaze. I couldn’t.

Shame, pain, and heartbreak tangled inside me like a suffocating knot.

“Marcel! She’s still your daughter!” Mom’s desperate voice cut through the tension.

Before I could process what was happening, Dad grabbed my arm—too tightly.

I gasped in pain. “D-Dad, stop! You’re hurting me!” I whimpered, struggling in his grasp.

“Let go of her.”

The room froze.

Yohan’s voice was sharp, commanding—deadly.

I turned toward him, still crying, my breath catching at the sight of him.

He was standing now, wiping the blood from his nose, his dark eyes locked onto Dad with a chilling intensity.

“Is she your daughter? If she is, how dare you lay a hand on her?” Yohan’s voice was cold, controlled—but beneath it, there was a dangerous edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

Dad faltered, momentarily stunned by his words.

But the shock quickly turned to rage. “You bastard! You have no right to tell me how to raise my child!”

He lunged, his fist aimed at Yohan’s face again.

But this time, Yohan was faster.

With a swift move, he dodged the blow, grabbed Dad’s arm, and spun him around.

I gasped, slapping a hand over my mouth in horror.

“Let go of me, you beast!” Dad barked, struggling in Yohan’s grip.

Yohan held him for a moment longer before shoving him back.

Dad stumbled but remained upright, his face contorted with fury.

I turned to Yohan, my heartbeat erratic. He was staring at me now—but his gaze felt different.

It wasn’t just anger. It was something else. Something unreadable.

And then he spoke.

“Who the hell are you? And why did you bring your damn family into my condo?”

I stiffened.

His voice was cold. Unforgiving.

I opened my mouth to explain, to beg, but Dad spoke first.

“You’re going to marry my daughter, asshole! I won’t let you escape responsibility!”

What?!

My stomach dropped. My lips parted in pure shock.

I turned to Yohan, my breath catching as I saw the color drain from his face. His eyes widened slightly before flicking to me with a dangerously sharp glare.

And then—he mouthed something.

You. Are. Dead.

I swallowed hard, my entire body stiffening under his gaze.

Oh, God.

This is the end of me.

And Geneva is going to kill me.

I’ve just made everything so much worse.

Stupid, Cosette Blanche Allen!