The Price of His Youth

On the night before the wedding, my fiancé’s female best friend, Marisol Vance, sent me a set of photos.

In the photos, she wore the custom haute couture wedding gown I had commissioned, leaning into Lucian Darke’s arms, with the provocative caption: [Borrowing your groom and your dress for a moment—after all, Lucian said I look better in this than you do.]

Soon after, my social feed was flooded with their wedding photos.

In the images, the two of them staged a mock kiss, the caption reading: [More than friends, not quite lovers. If we had been born ten years earlier, there would have been no place for anyone else.]

My fingers tightened around my phone, turning faintly pale, and before I could reply, the comment section was already filled with their mutual childhood friends egging them on:

[Marisol and Lucian are the perfect match!]

[This is what divine friendship looks like—I’m so jealous I could cry!]

[Evangeline won’t mind, right? Everyone knows Lucian is loyal above all.]

I grabbed my car keys and drove straight to Lucian’s apartment.

Along the way, fragments of the past seven years flickered through my mind.

I was the only daughter of Cross Industries, while Lucian had been nothing more than a poor boy whose ventures failed time and again.

For him, I had fallen out with my family, used the Cross’s resources to pave his way, and even called in personal connections to bring in a top overseas medical team when his mother fell gravely ill.

I had thought I was nurturing love, never realizing I had been feeding a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

The moment I pushed open the apartment door, Lucian was sitting shirtless on the carpet, absorbed in his game, not even turning his head at the sound.

As for Marisol, when she saw me enter, she showed no trace of panic.

She smiled but it did not reach her eyes.

“Eva? What are you doing here so late?”

When Lucian saw the look on my face, his brows immediately drew together.

“The wedding is tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be resting at home instead of coming here to check up on me?”

I looked at him coldly and raised my phone, the intimate wedding photo displayed on the screen.

“Aren’t you going to explain this?”

Lucian glanced at it, then casually tossed his phone onto the sofa, his face full of impatience.

“Are you done yet? I told you, it was just for fun, a way to commemorate our youth. I’m marrying you tomorrow, so why are you arguing with a patient?”

“A patient?”

I was so furious I laughed instead, pointing at Marisol, whose flushed complexion and hurt gaze betrayed no sign of illness.

“Does she look like a patient to you?”

“Marisol was just diagnosed with severe depression!”

Lucian shot to his feet, stepping in front of Marisol as he shouted at me with righteous indignation.

“The doctor said she’s emotionally fragile right now—she needs companionship, she needs her wishes fulfilled!

“She just wanted to wear a wedding dress once, to experience what happiness feels like.

“She’s afraid she won’t have another chance. What’s wrong with me indulging her?”