Chapter 3

Remembering how Beauchamp chose Monica without hesitation before the kidnappers and walked away without looking back, I dug my nails hard into my palm to jolt myself from the pain.

No matter what, for the rest of our lives, Beauchamp and I—it would be to the death.

I watched that Aston Martin disappear in the distance outside the window, my gaze ice cold.

Beauchamp, did you think that after choosing your first love, all I could do was stay put and cry?

You were wrong.

The moment you signed your name, I'd already plotted out my entire plan to devour the Jennings Group.

In my past life, when I was madly infatuated with Beauchamp, a mysterious gentleman had someone propose marriage to the Neville family on his behalf, but I rejected him.

I only learned after my death that he was actually from the Clifford family—Beauchamp's sworn enemies—and held an extremely high position in that family, a 'junior uncle' who was practically an elder.

Rumors said he was getting on in years, his health wasn't great, he spent most of his time abroad, and he rarely appeared in public.

To me back then, he was just an older man with somewhat inappropriate interest in younger people.

That was my entire impression of him at the time.

Actually, Frederick had also expressed his feelings for me back in school, but he was too young—three years younger than me.

Though I was pampered by my family, I knew such a young boy would never be a suitable match.

What I needed to do next was too complicated. This mysterious and powerful uncle of Frederick's was the best choice.

Frederick was unexpectedly reliable this time—he actually managed to set up a meeting with his uncle for me.

The meeting place was at the coffee shop outside City Hall.

What surprised me was that Frederick's uncle turned out to be the very person who'd saved me from the kidnappers and rushed me to the hospital.

What surprised me even more was his face—clean-cut features, a high-bridged nose, and when his lashes lowered, they cast dark shadows. The way he casually sat in that chair, he looked like he belonged in some summery fashion spread.

He was nothing like the old, slovenly figure rumors described.

I instinctively recalled that when I was barely conscious, consumed by pain, I hadn't really looked at that 'good Samaritan' properly. Now taking a closer look—

He was tall—at least 6'3" by my estimate. The black bespoke suit he wore was precisely tailored, showcasing his broad shoulders and trim waistline.

I'd spent years in social circles and had developed an eye for these things. I could tell at a glance that his physique wasn't created by the suit—it was the kind of build where you could see defined muscle even without the jacket.

I'd heard Frederick's uncle was pushing forty, had a difficult temperament, and avoided women.

Yet the man before me radiated mature masculine energy, with a face alone that could drive any woman wild.

"Mr. Clifford?"

I ventured tentatively.

"Has Ms. Neville had a change of heart?"

The man's deep, magnetic voice emerged slowly, carrying a trace of lazy huskiness.

Just that simple sentence made my ears flush hot.

I steadied myself.

"Yes. If you dare marry me, I dare marry you."

Those unfathomable eyes seemed surprised by my words. He studied me intently for a long moment.

Long enough that I was starting to squirm when he suddenly introduced himself. "Sebastian Clifford."

He gave his name. "Did you bring your ID?"

I pulled my ID from my bag.

He handed over a document envelope containing his ID.

Sebastian Clifford.

I searched my memory for this name.

I'd never heard this name in my past life.

Was it because Frederick's uncle was so mysterious that everyone only respectfully called him 'Mr. Clifford'? Otherwise, with his bearing and presence, he couldn't possibly go unnoticed in any social circle—he'd definitely attract considerable attention.

Seeing me standing there dazed, he frowned slightly and urged me on.

"Let's go."

I followed him numbly.

The whole process was incredibly fast.

Forms, vows, stamps.

In less than fifteen minutes, our marriage certificate was in our hands.

The sunlight was somewhat blinding as we stepped out of City Hall.

In a daze, I thought—had I really just married a man I'd only met once and exchanged fewer than ten sentences with?

Sebastian's assistant was a man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He respectfully handed me a thick folder.

"Mrs. Clifford, these are all of Mr. Clifford's real estate holdings, overseas funds, and his complete shareholdings in the Clifford Group. Please sign here."

I opened the file. The string of astronomical figures made even someone like me—a socialite born into wealth—catch my breath.

These assets combined could buy hundreds of Jennings Groups.

The document was crystal clear: if Sebastian died unexpectedly, all these obscenely vast assets would be inherited by me.

I was startled. I didn't understand why Sebastian would go to such lengths to prepare this contract for me when our marriage was supposed to be mutually beneficial.

I looked at Sebastian somewhat helplessly. His expression remained calm, with no apparent intention of explaining.

"What does this mean, Mr. Clifford?"

Sebastian lowered his gaze to look at me, his eyes holding an inscrutable depth I couldn't decipher.

"Sophia, my marriage ends only in widowhood, never divorce."