dow, her fingers gently tracing the cold glass. Last night's dream still haunted her, like an old film reel playing on repeat in

e corners of corridors, and the frequent glances of servants towards the grand gate. Clara didn't need anyone to tell her; something important was about to hap

severe face seemed carved from iron, showing no outward emotion, but

r stones, "Mr. Jonathan Goldsmith will be arriving

in Clara's mind. The mysterious man, the master of the Goldsmiths family, the fated husband

re but enough to conceal the turbulenc

r servants, who quickly dispersed like obedient ghosts, preparing for the master's return. The dining room was rearranged, the crystal chandeliers'

g woman in her twenties, but in the depths of her eyes was the maturity and resilience of someone who had tasted enough of life's tragedies. She didn't try to apply e

rer and clearer. It wasn't just noise; it was like drums announcing the arrival of a powerful force. The car stopped. A sud

heir cold eyes sweeping rapidly around the are

ut. Jonathan

perfectly tailored dark suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean waist. His walk was steady, each step seemingly treading

tings and antique furniture. The dazzling crystal chandeliers shone down on the long dining table, reflecting brilliant

n, he w

an Gol

e of a magnate. On the contrary, he was captivatingly handsome, with sharp features sculpted as if from marble, deep eyes like bottomless black lake

ancient tune, utterly devoid of coldness or cruelty

ed her even more. Was this Jonathan Goldsmiths? The man she had to kill to escape? The man rumored to be cold-blooded,

ping it from trembling or sounding too distant. Her eyes didn't leave him, scrutinizing h

ne. He approached, pulling out her chair for her with gallantry. This action only increased he

to feel the invisible pressure radiating from him. Despite his calm exterior, he w

sation about the most ordinary things: the weather, the mansion's architecture, the quietness of the place. He spoke vagu

an interesting friend, not the debt-bound bride who had just arrived. This treatment, instead of making Clara comfortable, mad

im incessantly, trying to read those deep eyes, to understand what truly lay hidden within this man. Occasionally, she caught his gaze on her, an

he subtle change in the servants' reactions. They bowed deeper, answered faster, and the tension in their eyes was more evident. The

have some urgent work to attend to," he said, his voice stil

ime, Clara felt the smile was more than just polite. It seemed to hold a

night,

nto the darkness at the end of the corridor. Butler Reid a

er felt warm. Jonathan Goldsmith's appearance hadn't resolved the mystery; it had only deepened it. He wasn't th

ss and handsome appearance were a screen and also a weapon. Clara knew she couldn't act recklessly. She had to

ious architecture. Beneath the golden shell, the Goldsmiths' mansion was still a