Chapter 1

My sister was vacationing in Europe, celebrating her three-year wedding anniversary.

When she asked me what gift I wanted, I asked for an anonymous foreign SIM card.

Clutching the SIM card, I stood in the empty hotel room, exhaling a weary sigh.

Then, I slipped into the sheer lace nightgown I had bought specifically for this plan.

In front of the mirror, I carefully created suggestive kiss marks on my collarbone and neck.

The marks appeared scattered and intense, as if left by a man who had claimed me with overwhelming desire.

One strap of the nightgown was also deliberately torn, as if by the same "man."

Finally, I smeared the lipstick on my lips, turning it into a messy stain while staring at my reflection.

Sitting on the bed, I messed up the other side, creating the illusion that someone had been lying there.

Closing my eyes, I set the camera to a self-timer mode, capturing the scene.

Three, two, one.

The photo captured a woman who appeared to have just experienced intimacy, now sleeping defenselessly.

I stared at it for a long time.

My mind inevitably wandered to Daniel Clarkson's infamous reputation in the business world.

The smiling predator.

A capitalist who devours his prey without mercy.

But what I knew most intimately was his eternally cold and indifferent face.

He was handsome, yes—but all his tenderness was reserved solely for my sister.

I prepared for the worst.

Even though Daniel had no affection for me, no man could tolerate such betrayal from his wife.

He might retaliate against me in anger.

But in the end, he would discard me in disgust and rage, granting me the divorce I so desperately sought.

All I wanted was to leave. Just the divorce.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pressed "Send."

On the phone screen, the casually phrased text message appeared:

"Bro, she smells amazing. Hurry up and divorce her, so you can let her be mine, okay?"

Accompanied by the provocative photo.

Sent successfully.

Chapter 2

Not even two seconds.

I received a reply.

Daniel Clarkson: "Who are you?"

I leisurely changed out of my nightgown, deliberately stretching out my reply time in an almost sadistic manner.

Was he fuming with rage, wanting nothing more than to track down this anonymous sender and tear them apart?

The golden boy, flawless from birth, suddenly having his emotions controlled by someone else—by me, the very person he'd always kept under his thumb.

Three years of suffocating misery now brought me a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

As I finished dressing, Daniel sent two more messages in the meantime.

"Stop using this clumsy AI face-swapping trick. State your purpose."

"I suggest you confess everything yourself. Maybe I'll leave you with an intact corpse."

I chuckled softly.

"Mr. Clarkson, why don't you ask your wife if it's AI face-swapping or not?"

"The love bites on her neck won’t fade so quickly (＾ｖ＾)."

I dared to say this because I knew Daniel Clarkson was abroad, negotiating an important business deal.

He wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks.

But in the next moment, my own phone suddenly rang.

I jumped in surprise.

The ringtone blared loudly—it was Daniel Clarkson calling.

Pressing my lips together, I stared at the phone until the call disconnected.

But almost immediately, the screen lit up again. Daniel was relentless, calling over and over.

I realized he was truly enraged this time.

My heart pounded violently as I grasped the danger of this game I was playing—a perilous gamble on a razor's edge.

I sent another message:

"Mr. Clarkson, stop calling. We did it five times. Your wife is so exhausted she fell asleep."

Finally, the calls ceased.

My phone fell into an eerie silence.

Using the anonymous SIM card, I sent another text:

"Mr. Clarkson, I never meant to break you two apart. Your wife and I are truly in love. Please, be the bigger man and grant her a divorce. If word gets out that you're wearing a green hat, your reputation won’t hold up."

Daniel Clarkson didn’t reply again.

That night, uneasily, I threw the torn lace nightgown into the trash and checked out of the hotel before heading back to the villa.

The housekeepers were cleaning.

Everything seemed perfectly normal, serene, as if nothing had happened.

I washed up and went to bed.

At dawn, just as the sky began to lighten,

the sound of a roaring engine and the screech of car brakes jolted me awake.

Before I could fully register what was happening, someone knocked on the bedroom door.

"Emily, open the door."

The voice was deep and cold, forcibly restrained into an even tone, though hints of urgency and unease slipped through.

I was instantly wide awake, as if doused in ice water. My body turned cold.

It was Daniel Clarkson.

Chapter 3

I panicked.

How could he be back?

To him, I was nothing more than a tool, a stand-in.

The knocking resumed—three soft raps, restrained to the extreme.

His voice quickened slightly:

"Emily, I want to see you."

I sat up. I couldn't lose my composure; I couldn't expose any flaws.

Taking a deep breath, I feigned grogginess and replied with forced calm:

"Mr. Clarkson, I… I need to use the restroom and take a shower. Please wait a moment."

I darted into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stared intently at the kiss marks on my neck.

These were self-inflicted yesterday using the rim of a bottle. I’d pressed so hard for realism that not only would they not fade, but even foundation wouldn't cover them!

Still, I had to try.

After all, someone caught cheating would instinctively lie and attempt to hide the evidence.

Daniel Clarkson was sharp—if I wanted to play this part, I had to commit fully.

I wet my hair to mimic the look of someone freshly showered, slipped into a black turtleneck dress that covered even my arms, and carefully stuck a bandage over the faintly visible kiss mark at my neckline.

Standing before the mirror, I rehearsed an expression—nervous but pretending to stay composed.

It was revolting enough, I thought.

Daniel would undoubtedly find me disgusting and demand a divorce on the spot.

I opened the door.

Daniel Clarkson was sitting on the sofa, his brows tightly furrowed, eyes closed as if resting.

His complexion looked pale, his jaw shadowed with faint stubble.

He had forgotten his watch, and his suit’s cufflinks were nowhere to be seen.

One hand gripped his phone tightly, while the other rested on the sofa armrest, knuckles bearing four deep wounds—like he had struck something repeatedly, and not lightly.

But he seemed unfazed, not even bothering to bandage them.

"Mr. Clarkson, why are you back?"

Daniel opened his eyes and stared at me, his pupils dark and intense.

Propping himself up on the sofa, the man who moments ago seemed so impatient now walked toward me with deliberate slowness.

Instinctively, I stepped back, only for Daniel to grab my arm and pull me closer.

His gaze fell to my neck, pupils narrowing as they took in the bandage.

I forced a shaky smile.

"Is… is something wrong?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, with his cold fingers, two of them pressed together, he slowly hovered over the bandage, as if ready to tear it off at any moment—along with all my lies.

I trembled, closing my eyes, bracing for the revelation and his inevitable rage.

But his fingers merely rested lightly on the bandage.

"What happened?" he asked calmly.

I deliberately avoided his gaze.

"I… accidentally got scratched by a page of a book yesterday."

"A page of a book..." Daniel repeated, his eyelids lowering slightly. "What were you doing last night?"

His fingertips grazed my collar, tugging slightly—just enough that, with a bit more force, he could uncover the marks hidden beneath the fabric.

I swallowed hard.

"I… went out for a hair treatment."

Daniel’s breathing grew heavier.

Expressionless, he stared at me, and for a brief moment, I felt as though he might devour me whole.

His fingers tugged harder at my collar, and I stumbled forward under the force, nearly falling into his arms.

Frantically, I extended my arms, pressing them against his chest to maintain some distance.

His palm encircled my waist, tightening like an iron clamp, as if venting his suppressed fury through the crushing grip.

I couldn’t match his strength; even my resisting arms began to weaken.

Daniel Clarkson leaned closer, inch by inch.

"M-Mr. Clarkson, don’t," I stammered, my voice trembling. I didn’t know what he intended, but instinct told me it was dangerous.

My mind went blank as I pleaded incoherently.

After three or four seconds, he suddenly withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist. His face turned ashen, and his lips pressed into a tight line.

It was only then that I realized what I had been saying—"I’m scared. Don’t touch me. Please."

"I will assign you two bodyguards. They will accompany you whenever you go out to ensure your safety," Daniel announced coldly.

Without hesitation, he turned and left.

It wasn’t until I heard the familiar sound of his car engine starting outside that I snapped out of it.

He wasn’t pursuing this?

How was that possible?!