The warm morning sunlight poured gently over her body as **Lily Quinn** stirred awake, her throat unbearably dry.
She tried to move her arm, but a wave of soreness shot through her entire body. It felt as if she had fallen from a towering cliff, shattered into pieces, and then been painstakingly stitched back together bit by bit.
Helpless, she lay there, breathing faintly, gathering what little strength she had before reaching out again.
But hadn't her favorite teddy bear been sleeping beside her? Since when had the little bear's soft arm turned thick—hard—and warm?
Instinctively, she opened her eyes to see what she was holding.
Instead of plush fur, she found herself gripping a man's arm.
A stranger's face loomed before her, magnified in her vision. Startled as if electrocuted, she released him at once.
His face emerged against the backlight, edged with a thin golden halo that made it almost impossible for Lily to open her eyes fully.
He was breathtaking—like an exiled immortal stepping out of a painting. A broad forehead, sharp brows, star-bright eyes, a high nose, thin lips. Every feature was exquisitely sculpted, flawless as a masterpiece.
Especially those thin lips—one glance at them sent a chill straight to the bone.
She stared, momentarily lost, forgetting her own predicament.
"Have you seen enough?"
His voice carried bone-deep coldness and undisguised displeasure.
Embarrassed, Lily quickly lowered her gaze—only to suddenly realize something even more shocking.
A strange man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, was standing beside her bed.
She instinctively covered her chest with both hands. A chill ran down her back as she discovered she was completely naked.
Her eyes reddened, her entire body tensed as she shrank backward defensively.
"Y-You… who are you? What are you doing in my house? What did you do to me?"
The man looked as though he had just heard the most amusing joke. The corner of his lips curled into a smile more dazzling—and more dangerous—than a poppy in full bloom.
Leisurely, he extended a large hand. His long fingers suddenly tightened around her delicate chin. His deep eyes gleamed with something sinister as he asked coldly, "Do you need me to help you remember?"
Pain flared in her jaw. She struggled, but his grip only tightened. Stubbornly, she bit her lower lip, refusing to let out a sound.
He glanced at her with disdain before abruptly tossing her face aside. The smile vanished from his features. His coldly handsome face loomed closer again, and his body pressed down like an immovable mountain.
His pitch-black eyes flickered with frost and contempt as he said in a low, mocking tone, "Your performance in bed was terrible."
With that, his hand tore away the thin cover she had clutched to her chest.
The blatant humiliation ignited her anger. Unable to break free from his grasp, she bit down on his hand without mercy.
She might be fragile—but she was not someone to be trampled on.
Surprise flickered across his face. Yet his deep eyes glinted with amusement, as if he felt no pain at all. He gazed down at her from above, his cold stare sharp as a blade, freezing everything it touched.
Under that gaze, she felt powerless. For reasons she could not explain, she slowly loosened her bite.
Tears pooled in her eyes, turning them into a swamp of sorrow.
She clearly remembered her engagement ceremony with her fiancé the night before. She had only drunk one extra glass—so how had things turned into this?
Through blurred tears, she could still see the bruises scattered across her shoulders and arms. And the aching in her body.
This was no joke. It was not a dream.
"Who exactly are you? Why are you doing this to me?" she cried hoarsely, her voice filled with regret and accusation.
Her anguish stirred not a trace of emotion in him.
He walked leisurely to the window, lit a cigarette, and took a slow drag before exhaling a ring of smoke.
Then he gave a cold snort. His patience was clearly running out.
"Who sent you?" he demanded, his tone icy and pressing.
Her mind buzzed violently, as if the world had exploded around her. Her pride felt crushed under the wheels of a thousand trucks, ground into dust and scattered into the air.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, suppressing her fury, she finally snapped. Gathering strength from nowhere, she raised her hand, intending to slap this man who had taken advantage of her and still dared to insult her.
But just as she lifted her head, darkness clouded her vision. Her body swayed, weightless for a moment—then she collapsed heavily to the floor.
A cool voice drifted to her ears, tinged with faint amusement.
"Playing hard to get?"
He shook his head as if disappointed.
The pain in her body, combined with the humiliation of his mockery, left her feeling utterly hopeless.
Was he some demon from hell? How could he comment on her misery as if watching a show?
She hurriedly pulled the blanket around herself.
When she looked up, she met an even more contemptuous gaze. The man frowned slightly, disappointment evident on his face.
"Caught red-handed and now you have nothing to say?"
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Lily insisted, her body trembling but her expression unyielding. She would defend her last shred of dignity with her life.
Without another word, he pulled a stack of photographs from his coat and tossed them in front of her.
She froze.
In the photos, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy. She was clinging to a man like an octopus. His face was unclear—but the Italian-made, purely handcrafted suit he wore was unmistakable.
It was the man standing before her.
Every single photo told the same story.
Her face flushed dark red, as though blood might drip from it. Even her once-clear eyes were filled with veins of red.
How could this be?
Each photograph struck like a bolt from the blue, making it difficult for her to breathe.
Weakly, she collapsed. The photos slipped from her fingers and scattered across the floor.
If the first one could be dismissed as a "misunderstanding," then the rest were undeniable proof—solid evidence that she had, while drunk, taken the initiative to seduce him.
Her face turned ashen. Was it truly she who had betrayed her fiancé?
No. That could not be the truth.
Turning her face away, she let tears wash over her shame. Her small fists clenched tightly, long nails digging into her palms without her noticing.
Through gritted teeth, she forced out one sentence:
"Get out. I never want to see you again."