Chapter 1
731words
A car accident had stolen twelve years of his life, regressing his mind to when he was nineteen. When he finally opened his eyes, they told him he'd married the woman he hated most—Elara Vance.
In his memory, the name "Vance" meant nothing but treachery. The Vance family had sabotaged the Grayson Group through underhanded tactics, driving his father to a fatal heart attack. And now Elara, his enemy's daughter, was supposedly his wife.
He rebelled with all the fury his nineteen-year-old mind could muster.
Back at the magnificent prison called "Grayson Estate," he immediately moved his belongings to the furthest guest room. In front of the entire staff, he coldly told her: "Miss Vance, I believe we should keep our distance."
At board meetings, he challenged her every decision, his defiance making directors shift uncomfortably in their seats.
But Ella—damn her—always doused his flames with that infuriating ice-cold composure.
"Adrian," she'd slide a document toward him, her voice flat as still water, "Section 3.1.4 of the Trust Agreement requires you to fulfill your basic duties as the Grayson heir. Otherwise, the committee can revoke your entire inheritance."
Like a kitten grabbed by the scruff, his defiance instantly deflated.
That afternoon, Adrian paced the estate restlessly, each familiar fixture only highlighting how foreign everything felt. Then he spotted Ella descending from the upstairs study. She wore a crisp white pantsuit, her long hair pulled into a perfect bun, her entire presence radiating an icy "keep away" aura.
A surge of anger rushed through him. He deliberately stepped into her path.
"Miss Vance," he said with a forced, cruel smile, "how does it feel playing Mrs. Grayson? Satisfying your ambitions?"
Ella stopped, lifting those steel-gray eyes—always glazed with frost—and regarded him with indifference, as if watching a toddler's tantrum.
"If you have excess energy, I suggest the gym rather than wasting my time." Without another word, she stepped around him and headed for the door.
Her dismissal ignited his fury. "Stop right there!" he growled, lunging to grab her arm.
Then it happened.
Ella's stiletto caught on the curled edge of an antique Persian rug. She lost her balance with a startled cry, her body pitching toward a heavy oak cabinet with corners sharp as knives.
"Watch out!"
Before his mind could process what was happening, his body moved on its own.
He moved like a striking cheetah—not grabbing or awkwardly catching her, but executing a perfect sequence of movements. His arm encircled her waist at precisely the right angle, pulling her from danger while his right leg stepped back, executing a nimble spin that used centrifugal force to neutralize their momentum.
When everything stilled, Ella was perfectly secured in his embrace.
Her cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat thundering in her ear. His arms locked around her waist like steel bands, his stance radiating possession and protection.
Adrian froze completely.
He looked down at the woman in his arms. The cool fragrance of her hair filled his senses—unfamiliar yet achingly familiar. Her waist beneath his arm felt impossibly soft, and somehow he knew exactly how much pressure to apply—protective but not painful.
My hand... why is it here?
This position... why does it feel so damn familiar?!
Get away! Let her go!
His mind screamed to push away this enemy. But his body, his arms, seemed to have developed their own will, craving her softness, refusing to release her.
Ella recovered from her shock. She felt his body stiffen, his arm tightening around her waist. She looked up, meeting his gaze—a storm of horror, confusion, and self-loathing.
They both stopped breathing.
Time stretched infinitely between them.
Finally, as if throwing off a contagion, Adrian shoved her away. He staggered backward, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else, his eyes wild with horror.
"You..." he tried to speak, but his throat was too dry to form words.
After a brief moment of shock, Ella composed herself. She steadied her stance, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her clothes, and fixed that cold, mocking smile back on her face.
She looked up at him, her crimson lips parting slightly. Her words came like poisoned needles, thin and vicious, piercing straight to his heart.
"What's wrong, Mr. Grayson?" she said. "Getting too caught up in your act? Ready to throw yourself at me already?"
