1 Don’t Worry, I Won’t Live Long

“To love and be loved at the same time—that’s something worth bragging about.”

—Evelyn Hart

A late winter evening.

In a quiet corner of New York City, inside the Vellum Society.

Evelyn Hart folded up her umbrella and handed it to the attendant. She brushed the snowflakes from her coat and walked straight toward the private room labeled Chamber L1.

Knock, knock.

She tapped politely on the door before pushing it open.

The room was still and quiet. The first thing that caught the eye was the man sitting on the sofa. Sharp brows, striking eyes, a tall nose—his looks were impeccable, almost dangerously so.

His presence was cold and commanding, not someone easy to approach.

When Evelyn’s gaze landed on him, the man turned his head toward the door. The moment their eyes met, she instinctively tightened her grip on the folder in her hand.

She took a few deep breaths, steadying herself, then stepped forward.

A black English-style tea table separated them as Evelyn sat down on the sofa opposite Nicholas Drake. Her nerves were palpable—no, more than that, she was scared of the man sitting before her.

Her eyes flickered uneasily, afraid to meet his.

After a few seconds of mental preparation, she forced a small smile, handed him the folder with both hands, and said, “Mr. Wilson, I was introduced by Jennifer. This is my profile. Please take a look.”

Mr. Wilson?

So she had walked into the wrong room.

Nicholas gave her a glance. Pretty face. God had been generous with this one. But she looked fragile, almost sickly, and timid to a fault.

He reached out and took the folder from her, flipping it open.

It was her personal information, neatly typed and detailed across three pages.

“Mr. Wilson, I know you’re only here because your family has been pressuring you to get married. My health isn’t good. The doctors say I won’t live past twenty-nine. If you marry me, when you don’t need me anymore, I’ll die early.”

She wasn’t lying.

Nicholas noticed the attached medical report tucked among the pages. The diagnosis matched her words perfectly—she really was sickly.

Just then, there was another knock on the door. The waiter stepped in, bowed politely to Nicholas, and then turned to Evelyn. “Miss Hart, you’re in the wrong room. Mr. Wilson is next door.”

Evelyn froze, her expression flickering.

She quickly stood up, stammering multiple apologies to Nicholas. She reached out to take back her folder, hesitated, then pulled her hand back, too flustered to move.

Definitely timid.

Nicholas mentally noted his impression of her.

He handed the folder back to her. Evelyn immediately took it with both hands. “I’m so sorry, truly. I must’ve taken my medication before coming out and got a little confused. Sorry for disturbing you.”

Evelyn hurried out of the room.

Nicholas watched her retreating figure, small and panicked, then withdrew his gaze. He stopped the waiter who was about to leave. “Do you know her?”

“Yes, Mr. Drake. Miss Hart’s been coming here for matchmaking appointments the past month. I’ve seen her often.”

He glanced again at the profile. She was young—had just turned twenty.

The waiter added, “Miss Hart’s family situation isn’t great. I heard her uncle wants to marry her off to a disabled man for business reasons. She’s been going on blind dates nonstop to try and find another way out.”

Nicholas fell silent for a long moment.

Then he stood up and left the room.

At the entrance of the club, his assistant Dustin hurried to his side. “Sir, are you leaving already? Miss Atkinson hasn’t arrived yet. You skipped meeting Miss Flynn last time and Mr. Drake Senior was furious. If you don’t meet Miss Atkinson again, then—”

“Find someone named Evelyn Hart,” Nicholas interrupted. “Tell her to register the marriage tomorrow.”

Dustin blinked. “Yes, sir.”

Inside the car, Nicholas received a message from a friend.

“How’d the matchmaking go?”

If he refused his father’s arranged marriage, he was expected to find someone from the New York social circle to appease the family.

“Found someone.”

“Damn, if you picked her yourself, she must be something special.”

Something special.

Nicholas thought for a moment and replied, “Yeah. Sickly. Won’t live long.”

Inside the club, Evelyn stood by the entrance, watching the black Maybach pull away until it disappeared from view. Only then did she lower her gaze.

She slipped a stack of bills into the waiter’s pocket and said gently, “Thank you.”

“Miss Hart, you’re too kind.”

The waiter held an umbrella for her and walked her out.

Evelyn pulled her coat tighter against the cold wind. Her figure was thin, almost frail.

She disappeared into the snowy night, shrinking into a small speck beneath the streetlight.

Her phone rang.

The moment she answered, a voice burst out from the other end. “Evelyn, did you meet Mr. Drake? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“God, you scared me!” Her friend let out an audible sigh of relief.

Nicholas Drake’s reputation in New York was terrible. People said he had a violent temper, ruthless methods, and a habit of never letting anyone off once they crossed him. Every woman his father tried to match him with refused to marry him, afraid they’d end up dead.

When Patricia heard that Evelyn planned to marry him, she nearly lost her mind. From Europe, she almost booked a private jet just to fly back and stop her.

“Evelyn, I know you want to get away from your uncle’s family, but this is way too dangerous. Don’t mess with Nicholas. He’s not a good man…”

The more dangerous, the safer.

As the head of the Drake family—one of New York’s Five Great Houses—Nicholas Drake controlled the city’s economic lifelines.

Standing on the shoulders of a giant made everything twice as easy.