Blind Box Bride Escaped and He Lost It

The business world's reigning emperor, Ian Wade, was a lunatic.

He locked a hundred women inside a villa and treated them like blind-box prizes. Pulling one at random, he would marry whoever he drew.

Everyone thought getting picked was luck. Only I knew it was a curse.

In my last life, I was the one whose name came up.

After being reborn, I planned to destroy the magnetic strip on the blind box and dodge that twisted fate altogether.

But by some cruel twist of chance, I still ended up being the "lucky" one.

On the wedding day, history repeated itself.

Ian took a phone call, panic flashing across his face as he tore off his boutonniere.

"Jemma doesn't want to marry. She's threatening suicide. I have to go get her," he said.

The man who was supposed to marry Jemma Lane-Leland Riley, the Crownport's golden heir, stormed in, radiating icy fury.

He didn't chase after the runaway bride. Instead, he walked straight up to me and looked me over from head to toe.

"Ian ran off with my wife," Leland said, grabbing my chin.

"His debt becomes yours. You marry me and become Mrs. Riley. Fair enough, right?"

Staring at this man I had never crossed paths with in my previous life, I wiped away the tears I had been ready to fake.

Since Ian had shown no mercy, I saw no reason to play nice.

I smiled and nodded.

"Fair enough. I'll marry you."

Ian would get his wish and marry Jemma.

Whether they lived happily ever after or tore each other apart had nothing to do with me anymore.

The moment I spoke, every guest's gaze snapped toward me.

Leland curled his lips. The chill in his eyes eased, replaced by a hint of amused interest.

He released my chin and instead seized my wrist, his palm burning hot.

"Let's go," he said.

Then he turned and pulled me along.

My wedding gown trailed across the red carpet.

The Wade family's bodyguards tried to stop us.

Leland's men stepped forward, forming a human wall.

"Mr. Riley, this isn't proper-" the Foster family's butler stammered, face drained of color.

Leland didn't even look back. He lifted a hand slightly. In an instant, his men restrained the butler.

The scene spiraled into chaos. Camera flashes went wild. Reporters had probably never witnessed anything this explosive in their lives.

A socialite bride switching grooms on the spot. I could hear Ian's mother shrieking in rage behind me, hear the guests buzzing in disbelief.

"Is she insane? How dare she?"

"That's Leland-the Riley family heir. Their families are sworn rivals."

"This is going to be good."

Those voices faded farther and farther away.

Leland shoved me into a black luxury sedan. The door slammed shut, sealing out the noise.

He leaned over to fasten my seatbelt.

We were so close I could smell him-the faint mix of tobacco and fir.

Unlike Ian's aggressive cologne, this scent was colder, cleaner.

"Scared?" he asked suddenly.

I shook my head. In my last life, I had been afraid of everything.

Afraid of upsetting Ian. Afraid of Jemma. Afraid even of dying a miserable death.

This time, I didn't want to be afraid anymore. Leland studied me, the playful curve of his mouth deepening.

"Heh. Interesting," he scoffed inwardly. "Ian really is blind-she's all claws beneath that calm exterior."

He said nothing else, just floored the gas. The car roared away from the wedding venue that had witnessed the humiliation of both my lives.

The car pulled into the Riley estate-an even grander property than the Wade ancestral home, ablaze with lights.

Leland lifted me straight out of the car. My gown brushed the ground, damp with night dew.

He carried me through a long corridor. The butler and servants all lowered their heads, not daring to breathe.

He kicked open a bedroom door and gently set me down on the plush bed.

"Rest. Someone will bring you clothes in a bit," he said, looking at me, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"Don't worry. If Ian dares to come demanding you back, I'll break his legs."

With that, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

I looked around. The room was black, white, and gray, just like him.

I walked over to the desk, meaning to grab a tissue to wipe the dust from my face, but accidentally knocked over a photo frame lying face down.

I reached out to steady it, then froze when I saw the picture.

It was slightly yellowed, low resolution. Clearly a candid shot.

The background was an alley behind a youth center ten years ago. A girl in a school uniform was crouched on the ground, feeding a stray cat with a broken leg a piece of ham. She wore her hair in a ponytail, her profile still young, her eyes focused and gentle.

That girl was me.

My heart skipped violently.

Ten years ago, before I ever met Ian, before I became the so-called blind-box bride, I was just Margot Norris.

Why did Leland have this photo?

And why was it placed in the most prominent spot on his desk?

So while I had been blindly chasing Ian all those years, there had been someone else, watching me quietly from a corner I never noticed, for a full decade.

The sound of running water from the bathroom stopped.

Panicking, I flipped the frame back down and retreated to the sofa, my heartbeat refusing to calm.

The room fell silent. I lay on the bed, staring up at the crystal chandelier, everything feeling unreal.

Barefoot, I walked to the window and looked out at the unfamiliar estate.

Could this life really be different?

My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket.

I took it out. On the screen flashed a name I hadn't wanted to see ever again-Ian.

My heart clenched.

I didn't want to answer, but the phone kept ringing, relentlessly.

Finally, I slid to accept the call.

"Margot," Ian said, his voice cold.

No accusations, no anger.

"Where are you?"

I gripped the phone, silent.

"Jemma was just throwing a tantrum. I've handled it."

His voice was calm, as if the one who had run away today wasn't me at all, just someone utterly insignificant.

"Come back. Now."

I took a deep breath. "Ian, we're done."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then, I heard a soft laugh, cruel and undisguised.

"Margot, did you forget? Your mother is still lying in the ICU at Ridgewell Hospital."

My heart collapsed inward. He always knew exactly where to hit.

"Just now, I cut the power to her ventilator. And I withdrew the surgical fees. The doctor says she has maybe half an hour left," he added, his tone unhurried, as if discussing the weather.

"Be at the villa before dark. Otherwise, you'll deal with the aftermath yourself," he said softly.

I hung up the phone.

Ian always knew exactly what I feared most. My mother was my only weakness.

I couldn't gamble her ashes on Ian's humanity. He had none.

There was a knock on the door. A servant delivered a change of clothes and dinner.

I had no appetite. Mechanically, I shed the heavy wedding gown.

Looking at myself in the mirror, wearing unfamiliar pajamas, I felt a wave of disorientation.

How was I supposed to explain this to Leland?

Tell him I had to go back, to the hell I had just escaped?

I couldn't. I wouldn't drag him into it.

The Wades and the Rileys were evenly matched. If I caused a direct conflict, it would do Leland no good.

I already owed him too much.

At four in the morning, while everyone slept, I quietly slipped out of the Riley estate.

I hailed a ride and gave the driver the address of Ian's private villa.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking with curiosity.

A young woman heading to a remote wealthy district in the dead of night wasn't exactly normal.

The car stopped in front of the villa. The massive iron gates slowly opened.

Lights burned in the living room. Ian sat on the sofa, the ashtray in front of him overflowing with cigarette butts.

He heard the footsteps and lifted his head.

His eyes were bloodshot, sharp and dark.

I stepped toward him, each step measured.

I expected anger, accusations, maybe even violence.

But there was none of that.

He simply stood, walked over, took off his suit jacket, and draped it over me.

"It's cold outside. How come you're dressed like that?" he said, his voice gentle, but a shiver ran down my spine.

He pulled me onto the sofa, then turned and went into the bathroom.

When he returned, he had a dry towel in his hands.

He sat beside me, carefully drying my hair.

"Your hair's wet. You'll catch a cold."

His fingertips brushed my scalp occasionally, carrying a faint, burning warmth.

I froze, sitting rigidly, too cautious to move.

I didn't know what game he was playing this time.

This calm before the storm was more terrifying than a direct hurricane.

"Margot," he suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

"I know why you're angry. I shouldn't have abandoned you at the wedding. I'm sorry."

He held my hand, pressing it to his lips.

"But Jemma... she has depression. I can't ignore her."

The same excuse as before.

In my last life, he had used Jemma's depression to hurt me again and again.

Looking into his falsely tender eyes, I felt nothing but revulsion.

"If you just behave, we can go back to how things were. Okay?" he asked as he pulled a document from under the coffee table and placed it in front of me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"A contract."

A victorious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Jemma's recently taken an interest in design. She wants to break into the field. But she has no foundation. She'll need someone backing her up."

My heart sank bit by bit.

"You have talent, Margot. You'll be her artist. You'll paint all the pieces for her upcoming collection."

He caressed my cheek.

"Once this collection launches, I'll arrange the best team of specialists abroad for your mother's surgery, and you can accompany her in the hospital."

He stroked my face again. "As long as you obey, she'll live a long life."

I couldn't risk my mother's life in the ICU on Ian's humanity. Any chance of survival meant I had to comply.

He wanted me to be Jemma's gun for hire, to use my talent to pave her way to stardom.

And I was supposed to feel grateful for it. Looking at his feigned tenderness, I lowered my eyes, hiding all my hatred.

"Okay," I found myself saying it.

I was locked inside the studio on the third floor of the villa.

This place used to be my favorite. Now, it was my cage.

My phone was confiscated. Ian said it was so I could focus on creating, free from outside distractions.

I knew the truth. He wanted to cut off every possible line between me and Leland.

The studio had its own bathroom and a small resting area. Three meals a day were delivered by servants on schedule.

Aside from not being allowed to leave the room, everything looked the same as before.

But only I knew something had shattered beyond repair.

Jemma became a regular visitor.

She came every day, officially to supervise, in reality to humiliate me.

She would hold a cup of coffee, stroll back and forth in front of my finished designs, then "accidentally", her hand would slip, and the coffee would ruin the entire drawing.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, Margot," she would say, covering her mouth, her eyes glittering with smug delight. "But you draw so fast anyway. You can just do another one, right?"

Expressionless, I would take out a fresh sheet of paper and start again.

When she saw I wasn't angry, she switched tactics.

She would sit across from me, filing her newly done nails, speaking in a syrupy-sweet voice about her blissful moments with Ian.

"Ian took me stargazing last night. He said my eyes are brighter than the stars," she'd gush.

"Oh, and he bought me a new necklace. The same one you stared at in that magazine forever."

The words went in one ear and out the other.

Ian would come by occasionally. He never acknowledged Jemma's behavior. He would simply walk up to me, pick up my drawings, and frown.

"Why are you working so slowly? Jemma is waiting for these."

There was only Jemma in his eyes. Never me. I looked up at the man I had loved for two lifetimes.

Whatever pathetic hope I had left was finally ground down, day after day, until nothing remained.

I stopped resisting. I stopped arguing.

I became a machine that drew.

If Jemma spilled coffee, I would replace the paper. If she said something vicious, I pretended not to hear it.

I worked fast, one sheet after another, until the studio was buried in designs.

Ian was pleased. He thought I had finally learned my lesson, finally been tamed.

He even rewarded me with a new drawing pen.

I took it, watching the expensive barrel catch the light, and felt nothing but irony.

He didn't know that with every stroke I drew, the hatred inside me deepened.

What was inspiration?

Inspiration was the blood I bled. The soul that had already died.