Rise After the Arranged Marriage

That day, my foster parents grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the Scott family. Their rough palms rubbed my skin raw. They kept urging me, saying this was the best chance I'd ever get and that I absolutely couldn't screw it up. I kept my head down, watching my worn-out white canvas shoes leave faint marks on the bluestone slabs in front of the Scott family's door. Old Mr. Scott sat in the study's armchair, fiddling with a walnut in his hand, his sharp eyes sweeping over me. My foster parents immediately bowed deeply, their voices trembling with flattery: "Old Mr. Scott, just look at Nancy—her features are fair, and her nature is gentle. She'll surely keep the young master entertained." Old Mr. Scott said nothing, only gestured toward the sofa beside him. When I sat down, the leather on the sofa made a faint sound, so different from the old wooden chairs I used to sit on. No one asked if I wanted any of it, just like no one ever asked if I wanted my foster parents to take me from the orphanage, or if I wanted to wake up before dawn every day to work. Three days later, the Scott family's wedding cars stretched from the end of the street all the way to the other side, black cars decorated with bright red satin ribbons. The makeup artist applied heavy makeup, and when she put on my lipstick, I stared at the stranger in the mirror and suddenly felt a surge of panic. The wedding gown was heavy, its train dragging on the floor, making every step cautious and slow. When the priest asked if I was willing to marry Mike Scott, I glanced at the man standing beside me. He wore a white suit, his features handsome, but his eyes held no warmth. I parted my lips and finally said, "I do." Neighbors pressed against the door, whispering, their voices drifting into my ears: "What a lucky break, an unwanted adopted daughter actually marrying into the wealthy Scott family." "I heard the young master of the Scotts is accomplished and handsome. She really struck gold." I ran my fingers over the pearls sewn onto the wedding gown, saying nothing. At the time, I still naively believed that if I behaved and treated him well, he would eventually recognize my worth. It wasn't until later that I understood—some people are never truly yours, no matter how hard you try to hold on. During the first month after the wedding, Mike Scott was still somewhat courteous. He'd have the driver take me shopping and the servants prepare my favorite strawberries. I thought days like that would go on forever. Until one day, I found a restaurant receipt tucked inside his suit pocket. Besides his name, the bill had a woman's name on it—Wendy. My hands started trembling as I held the bill, my heart clenched tight, aching sharply. I remembered my foster parents telling me before the wedding that Mike Scott had a childhood sweetheart, but for some reason, they had parted ways. It turned out that girlfriend was Wendy. That night, when Mike came home, he carried a faint scent of perfume. I mustered up the courage to ask him, "Where did you go today?" He hesitated for a moment, then replied casually, "Having dinner with a client." His eyes avoided mine; he didn't look at me. I watched him, suddenly feeling like a stranger. From that day on, Mike Scott came home later and later. Sometimes, he didn't come back all night. I sat on the sofa in the living room, waiting for him to come back. The ticking of the clock echoed through the room, each tick striking my heart like a hammer. I only fell asleep leaning against the sofa as dawn approached. When I woke, a blanket was draped over me, but Mike Scott was already gone. I know, deep down he never really cared about me, yet I still didn't want to give up. I thought, maybe if I waited a little longer, he might change his mind. Six months after the wedding, Mike Scott's name began appearing frequently in River City's gossip columns. Every morning when I unlocked my phone, there were pictures of him with different women — today, hugging some actress at a hotel entrance; tomorrow, escorting a socialite home. His assistant sent me screenshots of the news every day, then cautiously asked if I wanted to stop the stories. Looking at the photos of Mike Scott smiling, my heart ached like it was being stabbed. For the first time, I told the assistant, "No need." The assistant was silent on the phone for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, Young Madam."