The Bride of the Cursed Heir

The moment the red silk blindfold shrouded my eyes, I heard the master of ceremonies declare, "The ceremony is complete." I am Ruby Tillman, and today I married Jeff Harrison. Everyone at this wedding knows full well that I am merely a substitute. The one who should rightfully stand here is my sister, Bella Tillman. Three years ago, Bella Tillman accidentally fell into the sea, and the marriage contract between the Harrison and Tillman families subsequently fell to me. No one wants to marry Jeff Harrison—the man who commands the business world with a flick of his hand, branded by fortune tellers as a "fated loner with a cursed aura who brings misfortune to loved ones," said to have caused the deaths of two ex-girlfriends. My father used the fate of the Tillman Family to force me—I had no choice. The red silk blindfold was torn off roughly; Jeff Harrison's face was right in front of me. There was not a hint of warmth in his eyes. His fingertips gripped my chin with a pressure that seemed intent on crushing bone. "Remember who you are," His voice was as cold as ice. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you can replace Bella." On the wedding night, I was left alone in an empty room. At three in the morning, a servant woke me. Jeff was drinking in the study, ordering me to come and serve him. The study reeked of strong alcohol; a large oil painting hung on the wall, capturing Bella Tillman's smile in full bloom. "Pour me a drink." Jeff Harrison lounged on the sofa, his posture lazy yet radiating an oppressive force. Just as I reached for the bottle, he abruptly raised his hand and knocked it over. The icy liquor ran down the back of my hand, glass shards splattered onto my foot, leaving a shallow cut. "You can't even pour a drink properly," he sneered. "Bella never disappointed me." I crouched down to pick up the shards of glass, my fingertips cut, but I dared not make a sound. This is only the beginning—I know that clearly. Jeff Harrison's villa was as vast as a labyrinth; my room lay in the most remote corner, furnished as simply as a guest room. Every morning, I had to rise at five to prepare breakfast, deliver coffee to Jeff's bedside at six sharp, tidy up his study by seven, and also tend to the oil painting of Bella Tillman hanging on the wall. The slightest mistake would provoke a storm of cold sarcasm. Half a month later, Jeff Harrison brought home a woman. The woman's name was Jinny Quincy, with almond-shaped eyes and dimples strikingly like Bella Tillman's. Jeff placed her in the guest room next to the master bedroom, then turned to me with a command, "From now on, you are responsible for Ms. Quincy's every need." Jinny was brazen; on the very first day, she deliberately spilled coffee on me. "Oh dear, my apologies," she said falsely sweet, eyes shimmering with smug satisfaction, "I thought you were a servant." I gripped the hem of my clothes tightly, hearing Jeff next to me say, "Jinny didn't mean it. Go change your clothes." Not a single word of comfort, not even a glance at my arm, burned raw by the coffee. From that day forward, Jinny grew even more vicious. She would deliberately soil Jeff Harrison's shirts, then accuse me of ruining them in the wash. She would tip over her soup bowl while eating, letting the scalding liquid splash onto my legs. Jeff always took her side—at best making me stand as punishment, at worst forcing me to kneel outside the study door to reflect. I slowly came to understand that in this villa, I was worth less than a dog.