That Mad Girl Is Mine โทษที ผู้หญิงสติไม่ดีนั่นเป็นของผม

Hazel's world didn't go instantly dark when the black silk fabric wrapped around her eyes; instead, it left a faint, dim light that made her keenly aware of every moving shadow. His warm breath grazed the skin of her neck, sending continuous waves of shivers down her spine. This was a sensation she had never felt before—a mix of fear and piercing longing.

His large hands were not rushed. With movements full of authority, he explored every curve of Hazel's body like a sculptor recognizing his own masterpiece. When his fingers found Hazel’s wrists and bound them behind her back with a fine piece of cloth, Hazel felt her entire structure melt. ‘Is this what it feels like… to be touched by a man?’

Heat spread from her toes to her temples, churning like an unstoppable flow of lava. Not like ants, but like a constant, low-voltage electric current. Hazel writhed, her body tight, tormented by an endless anticipation.

Then, suddenly, a pair of warm lips pressed against her neck—not just kissing, but as if tasting her skin. Hazel gasped, her chest rising and falling erratically, as if her heart wanted to leap out. Those rough fingers continued their exploration, relentlessly, igniting a fire with every touch. A wild tremor shook her body, from her shoulders down to her calves.

The throbbing in her most secret part intensified, honestly acknowledging how her body was now completely dominated by the man. It felt like a punishment, but one seduced by intoxicating pleasure.

“Admit it…” he whispered, his voice hoarse and full of obsession, “You craved my touch.”

Hazel sobbed, her body surrendering to the overwhelming surge of desire. “I… I missed you…”

TRING! TRING!

The phone alarm blared. Hazel’s eyes snapped open.

Damn it. It was only a dream.

Hazel sat up in bed, her long hair spread out damply, cold sweat clinging to her temples. The large mirror across from her bed reflected an image she barely recognized—thick dark circles framed her eyes, her skin was pale and dull, her cheeks sunken. Ironically, her wide eyes and long lashes made her look more like a zombie than a normal human.

‘I look awful!’ Hazel cursed to herself.

She sighed, patting her cheeks lightly. How could a man like Diego ever be interested in her?

With sluggish steps, Hazel walked toward the small table near the window. The tiny apartment she rented was comfortable enough, but the cost nearly killed her every month. To pay the rent, she had to work relentlessly—as a low-level journalist by day and a ghostwriter by night.

Ironic, she thought. The books she secretly wrote were exploding in the market, becoming bestsellers, elevating other people's names. Meanwhile, she remained submerged in the shadows, unknown, finding even a good night's sleep difficult to achieve. But it was okay, as long as it gave her money.

No wonder her face now resembled a corpse.

Hazel looked at her reflection once more. Damp hair, panda eyes, thin face. God, if Diego ever saw her in this state, he would surely flee before she could even greet him.

She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the sudden ache that crept into her chest.

How could a man like Diego ever want her? He wouldn't even glance her way.

Hazel jumped out of bed, gasping for breath. “Wake up, Hazel!” she mumbled to herself, patting her cheeks to snap out of the strange dream that had trapped her. Her forehead and the back of her neck were wet with cold sweat, while her heart pounded as if she had just run through a storm.

What she had just experienced wasn't just an ordinary dream. It was too vivid and too real, so much so that her body still remembered it.

She rubbed her face, trying to laugh at herself. It must be because of last night, she thought.

One of her clients asked her to write an erotic manuscript—something Hazel had never even considered before. And of course, to write the male lead character in detail, she needed to imagine a perfect figure who could embody every description.

Her client wanted a character almost two meters tall, with a lean waist, broad chest, muscular abdomen, and a captivating, mature aura. Unconsciously, that image immediately shifted to the one name she had only ever written about in the gossip columns: Diego Ronan Blake.

The veteran actor, thirty-four years old, the sole heir to a diamond and luxury hotel business empire in Herlington. A man who dominated not only the screen but also the world outside it. People called him The Tycoon of Temptation.

Hazel always wrote about him from a distance—about his exclusive parties, his perfect lovers, and his seemingly uncevering career. But in last night’s dream, Diego was not a distant, untouchable figure. He was real. He looked at her with hypnotic dark eyes, touching her in a way that was too gentle to be a mere figment of imagination.

Legend has it that when two souls dream of each other on the same night, it is not a coincidence. It means they truly met—in a place where time stands still, and fate rewrites its own lines.

Hazel remained silent for a long time at the edge of the bed, her right hand slowly tracing down, feeling something that made her cheeks burn. Her body reacted as if the dream had truly happened.

Good heavens... how cheap of me, she murmured to herself, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her long hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes looked sadder than usual.

She stood up, took a deep breath, and walked into the bathroom. Cold water washed over her body, but even the water couldn't fully erase the sensation that still lingered on her skin.

Today, as usual, she would return to the real world—to her desk at the gossip tabloid office, where reality was never as beautiful as a dream. But for some reason, beneath the suffocating shame, a small, undeniable sense of curiosity surfaced.

That morning, the smell of cheap coffee and printing ink filled the newsroom of Herlington Daily Buzz, a gossip tabloid more often read for its scandals than its accuracy. Hazel Quinn had been sitting at her desk since eight o'clock, typing out a story about a celebrity divorce rumor that she herself knew was false.

She was used to it.

Four years working there, starting from an internship in Communications and Journalism, taught her one thing: in the world of gossip, the truth is the first thing to be sacrificed.

Hazel was only 24, but the fatigue in her eyes seemed to belong to someone who had lived twice as long. She wasn't a top reporter, not even on the priority list for major coverage. Her job was always the same: chasing mid-level stars, writing light articles, or tidying up the manuscripts of senior journalists who were too lazy to edit.

But today was different.

“Hazel!” the editor-in-chief’s baritone voice cut through the office chatter. “You’re covering for Patrick today.”

Hazel turned quickly, surprised. Patrick was a senior reporter who had been at the tabloid for ten years, always got priority and golden opportunities, and was usually never replaced by anyone.

“Covering for him? What do you mean?” Hazel asked cautiously.

“He suddenly can't make it. You're the freest today, aren't you? The interview is at two o'clock this afternoon at the Grand Bellagio Hotel.”

Her editor tossed a map containing the schedule and the interview confirmation sheet.

The name on the first line instantly stole Hazel's breath away.

DIEGO RONAN BLAKE.

It felt like the world stopped for a split second.

The universe, it seemed, was playing a joke with a cruelly specific sense of humor.

Hazel stared at the name for a long time, her heart pounding in her chest like a hammer demanding attention. Only last night she had dreamed about the man—and now, she had to look at his face from a distance that was no distance at all.

‘Universe… is this your way of messing with me?’