ผู้ใดก็บอกว่าสามีของข้านั้นอัปลักษณ์

Lillian, this is not about love. It comes down to obligation. Her father spoke with a hard, relentless quality. Edward Ashford was a man fashioned from stone, his presence an immobile force in the upper society of New York. His slicked back salt-and-pepper hair, his perfect tailored suit, a picture of control and expectation. 

Lillian's emerald-green eyes flicked up to meet his sight. And what about satisfaction? 

A scorn. A contemptuous sweep of his hand. You have wasted too much time believing in illogical dreams. Married to Damon Blackwood guarantees our legacy. Only that counts. 

Blackwood, Damon Just the name caused her to shiver involuntarily. Everyone in the city knew him, the cold, merciless billionaire who used iron fists to build his empire. Their participation had been planned for years, whispered in elite social circles, but he had never once acknowledged her presence. 

just a contract; nothing more. No flowers, no proposals, no softly worded pledges. Just a legal agreement tying her to a man who had not even bothered to show up for his own engagement announcement. 

The attorney cleared his throat with a bland, businesslike attitude. "Miss Ashford, if you are ready..." 

Lillian squeezed her fingers over the pen. ready? She wasn't exactly. But did there exist another choice? Her father's eager gaze, the silent weight of the Ashford name, the crushing walls of their past, all of it collapsed down on her, pushing her forward. 

She agreed. The ink dried quickly, dark swashes marking her doom. 

A minute of quiet, weighty and stifling. The attorney nodded then quietly snapped the folder closed. 

The contract is finalised. 

Lillian breathed, half-expecting the ground to move beneath her, for something to feel different. 

Nothing. 

Her pulse thumping, she moved towards the door looking for the guy she had just legally pledged herself to. 

There was no Damon Blackwood visible. 

The door moaned open. 

Inside Damon Blackwood carried the weight of an unheard storm. 

Tall, broad-shouldered, and shockingly composed, he was the kind of man whose presence quieted rooms. Precision cut jet-black hair framed a face made from harsh angles, cheekbones carved like stone, lips set in an incomprehensible line. But his eyes caused the air to stop in her throat. ice-blue, cutting, cold, devoid of warmth. 

Neither spoke for a little instant. 

Then he started the quiet breaking. Let's not pretend this implies something. 

She cut the words over her. 

Lillian's fingers curled across her gown's silky silk. I never said it as well. 

Though it never came to his eyes, a smile ghosted his lips. Good. Then we really get each other. 

Like a guy evaluating an investment rather than a bride, his eyes strayed over her, aloof, uncaring. 

She raised her chin, not allowing the embarrassment show. At least you could have been there at the deal signing. 

Damon's face stayed devoid of emotion. I squander time on formality not at all. 

Her chest began to ache hollow-style. His speech was devoid of hatred, of cruelty, only a pure, unvarnish indifference. 

"then I hope you don’s expect me to waste my time pretending." She faked a grin, cool and practiced, the ideal copy of a lady not breaking inside. 

His eyes stayed too long, something unreadable blazing behind those frigid blue eyes. 

It vanished then, just as fast. 

Damon started to face the door. The ceremony gets underway in one hour. Don't be late. 

Lillian watched him vanish, his presence hanging like a ghost in the poorly lighted room. 

She cracked something inside of her. 

not noisy. Not quite obvious. 

Just a little silent, breaking thing. 

"Poor girl," someone said in a whisper. a loveless marriage. 

Blackwood hardly even looks at her. 

Lillian stood at the altar, calm force gripping her bouquet. Damon, across from her, exuded measured grace. Perfect black tuxedo, hands held casually, his face devoid of feeling. 

The voice of the officiant boomed throughout the great hall uttering vows that ought to have significance. But the words fell hollow, a simple deal closing before the elite of the city. 

"I do," Lillian answered with even, steady voice. 

The turn of Damon. Stop. Then, like the words bored him, "I do." 

The air seemed heavy and oppressive. 

The officiant said, "Seal the vowels with a kiss." 

Lillian's breath paused. 

Not in tenderness, not possession, but in cold necessity, Damon leaned in and his lips brushed hers. 

Breathing ghostly on her cheek, he said, "Don't expect a fairy tale." 

Lillian Ashford stood at the brink of the bed, her silk bridal gown gathering about her feet. The weight of the diamond ring on her finger seemed more than it had hours ago. She had spent the past hour believing herself Damon would come by listening to the subdued buzz of the metropolis outside the glass. 

right now, any moment. 

He would come through the door, untie his tie, and make some offhand comments on the ridiculousness of the event. Maybe he would let himself smile, one just for her. Maybe he would see her waiting, expectant, and something in him softened. 

Still, the door closed never opened. 

The expectation turned from curdled into uncomfortable. 

Silence was broken by a knock. 

Her pulse became faster. She proceeded towards the entrance, swallowed down the anxieties, and polished the lace on her gown. When she opened it, though, Damon was not standing there. 

a housekeeper. Young, restless, eyes downcast. 

She held out a well-folded note, her words just audible above a whisper. "From Mr. Blackwood." 

Before Lillian opened the paper, her fingers clenched around it. The handwriting was exact, crisp, totally emotion-free. 

Something arrived. Avoid waiting for me. 

Her heart came to halt. 

The maid stopped, as though she sensed the change in the air. Would you like me to do? 

"No." Though her fingers shook against the clean paper, Lillian's voice was shockingly calm. You can go. 

This evening she had envisioned differently. 

Not in a naive, romantic sense, but with the naive expectation Damon may at least admit her presence. That he would view her as anything more than a transaction. 

He had left her with silence instead. 

She stretched for the champagne bottle, twisted the cellophane, but her fingers slipped. She laughed, bitter and silent, then stopped. She had never especially enjoyed champagne. 

She glanced at a flutter of light. Diminished but alive, the television screen showed breaking news from The Avalon, the most elite club in the city. 

Her breath became stopped. 

The broadcast focused on a familiar person slumped back in a leather booth, a whisky glass in hand, radiating simple arrogance. Blackwood Damon. 

Not only Damon but also others. 

Beside him, Seraphina Langley wore a crimson dress that hung to every curve and tilted her head to whisper something to his ear. 

Lillian turned over in her stomach. 

Before Seraphina leaned in, the camera caught her lips twisting into a smile; her words were clear despi

te the subdued volume. 

"Poor Lillian," she said, fingers tracing Damon's sleeve. She assumed he would have come to her, really.