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Had I known

VALERIE'S POV

Descending the stairs to join Mrs. Brentwood for dinner, I wrapped myself in the luxurious robe provided by Madam Montana.

"So Valerie, what do you think of my son?" she inquired with expectant eyes.

His true colors flashed before me: rude, arrogant, selfish, and abusive. But voicing such thoughts would shatter her heart, possibly casting me out into the cold, unforgiving streets.

"He's okay," I managed to say, mustering a semblance of neutrality.

"Just okay?"

"Yes, that's all I can muster for now."

"I see. Believe me, he has a kind heart. His exterior is just armored against vulnerability. I have no doubt you'll find common ground," she reassured me with confidence I struggled to share.

As if summoned by our conversation, he strode into the room. Oliver Brentwood's timing was as impeccable as it was inconvenient. He hesitated when asked to join us for dinner but eventually relented. Seated close to me by his mother's design, he stepped on my foot, clearly intentional.

Suppressing a cry of pain, I fantasized about giving him a taste of the rage simmering within me—a mere five minutes would ensure our paths never crossed again, even reincarnation notwithstanding.

Mrs. Brentwood surprised me yet again; after orchestrating this forced union, she now revealed plans for a two-week honeymoon. The thought alone suffocated me—I wished fervently for an escape, any escape.

Dinner concluded, and as the maids began clearing the table, I felt compelled to assist, familiar as I was with a life of servitude.

"Valerie?" Mrs. Brentwood called out just as I was about to exit with the maids.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Meet me upstairs."

With swift compliance, I ascended to her quarters. Her maids were busy preparing her bath as I entered.

"Here I am, ma'am... I mean, Mother."

"Good. Sit down, please," she commanded, dismissing her attendants with a wave of her hand. Privacy enveloped us.

I perched at her bedside, her gaze locking onto mine.

"Valerie?" she began, her voice laced with gravity.

"Yes, Mother."

"The haste of my decision may have taken you aback," she admitted, a statement that hardly needed confirmation.

"I want you to seduce my son during your time together," she declared, her request startling me.

"Huh?"

"My son is not one to yield easily, but I implore you—try to draw him in. My final peace rests on the hope of news of your pregnancy," she confided, her eyes brimming with tears.

The raw emotion in her plea was palpable, and I found myself vowing, "It's all right, Mother. I will fulfill your wish, even if it's the last thing I do."

Her gratitude was profound. "Thank you, my child, thank you."

After a comforting embrace, I retreated to my room, where Oliver lay asleep on the bed. Uncertain of his reaction, I opted to claim a duvet from the wardrobe rather than risk disturbing him.

Sleeping on the floor seemed a small price to pay for a night without conflict. As I settled in, doubts swirled—how would I fulfill such a daunting vow? With these heavy thoughts, I drifted into a fitful sleep.


Morning light teased my senses awake, and to my surprise, I found myself on the bed. How did I transition from the hard floor to this soft expanse? Oliver was conspicuously absent.

Rising, my gaze landed upon a pristine white dress. Was it truly meant for me? A rub of the eyes dispelled any hint of illusion.

"Good heavens! It's my wedding day!" How could a bride forget the very day she's meant to wed?

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