Page 9 of My Ruthless Husband

I worked hard on that drawing, pouring every ounce of my love into it.

When I finished it, I nervously approached his desk, clutching the picture so tightly my fingers ached. My heart pounded as I took small, hesitant steps toward him. But in my nervousness, I accidentally knocked into his desk, and his coffee cup tipped over, spilling across the important papers he’d been reading.

My heart froze as he looked up, his face twisting in fury. His eyes blazed with anger, and before I could even stammer an apology, his hand lashed out. His hand struck my cheek with such force that I blacked out, crumpling to the floor.

I woke up later that night, feverish and weak. My cheek throbbed, and my heart felt even worse. That was the day I learned that love couldn’t be forced, no matter how desperately you wanted it.

But then, the next morning, something happened that I never expected. He came into my room. His face was drawn, his eyes filled with something I had never seen before—regret. He sat at the edge of my bed, silent at first, as though the weight of his guilt made it hard to speak. When he finally apologized, his voice trembled, and I felt my chest ache.

I opened my arms to him, instinctively, and the moment I did, he broke. He pulled me into his arms and held me tightly. He cried quietly against my shoulder, his grief spilling over after years of being buried. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew it was important. It was the first time he had truly let me in.

That was the day he finally accepted me. Not as some painful reminder of the wife he had lost, but as his daughter. I remember feeling so happy I thought I might burst. For the first time, I felt like I truly had a father. And that changed everything.

My world is small, just me and my dad, but it’s mine, and it’s enough.

Making friends has always been a struggle for me. The truth is, I learned at a young age that most people only care aboutwhat they can take from you. The so-called friends I managed to make were more interested in my dad’s wealth than in me. I was just a way to access luxury, a walking invitation to fancy dinners, expensive gifts, and exclusive parties. Once I realized that, I gave up on the idea of friendship altogether.

Instead, I found solace in pottery. It became my escape. It was calming and honest in a way people never were. I spent hours at it, perfecting the craft, preferring the solitude of my art.

Dad, on the other hand, was bothered by this. He saw my isolation as his failure. He blamed himself for my lack of social skills, convinced his years of neglect had made me this way—distant, withdrawn, unwilling to connect with others. I think his guilt ate away at him more than he ever let on.

To ease his worries, I became what he wanted me to be: the perfect daughter. I threw myself into lessons, classes, and etiquette training to mold myself into the ideal socialite heiress. I learned how to mingle with the right people, make polite conversation, and flash a charming smile on cue. I worked hard to keep my grades up, too, because being obedient wasn’t enough—I had to be exceptional.

After all, being the daughter of an influential billionaire comes with responsibilities. Big ones. Even on my birthday, I’m expected to carry myself a certain way, to play the part flawlessly because all eyes are on me.

And I’ve done just that. All evening, I’ve been pretending, mingling, making small talk as though I enjoy every second of it. But it’s exhausting. My face aches from the forced smiles, and my head is pounding from the constant chatter. I just can’t keep it up anymore.

That’s why tonight, I’m doing something different. Something for myself. Earlier, I spotted an uncorked bottle of red wine, and now it’s in my hand. I know, I’m only eighteen, and this isn’t exactly proper behavior for the daughter of Christopher Gibson.But tonight, I don’t care. For once, I want to feel like I’m the one in control.

Gripping the bottle tightly, I head toward the grand double doors leading outside. The soft shimmer of my golden sequined mermaid gown catches the light as I pause under the chandelier. Turning back for a brief moment, I glance at Dad.Sorry, Dad, I whisper under my breath. Then I step through the doors and vanish into the night.

The gardens are alive with soft light, thanks to strings of fairy lights twinkling along the tree branches. The music from the orchestra indoors drifts faintly into the open air, mingling with the murmurs and laughter of the guests outside. To my surprise, the place is packed.

Just how many invites did he send out for my birthday? My eyes widen when I recognize few of my classmates among them. What are those girls doing here? They don’t even like me.

When one of them turns my way, I scurry and hide behind a tree. I lean against the thick trunk and begin pulling the pins from my hair. The stylists would faint if they see me messing their art—my updo—which they spent hours perfecting.

The mass of dark glossy curls falls down like a drape all over me. I weave my fingers into the roots and shake the curls apart and push them over my shoulder. It cascades down my back until it touches the small of my back. Much better.

Next, I lean down to slip off my heels, the bottle of wine balancing precariously in one hand. But as I tug off the first heel, the bottle wobbles in my grip. My eyes widen in panic as it slips through my fingers. “Oh no!” I squeak, lunging forward just in time to catch it. Relief washes over me but in a split second the imbalance of standing on one heel sends me tumbling. I crash down onto the grass with an ungraceful thud, the bottle still clutched tightly in my hands.

A wide grin spreads across my face. “Well, at least you’re safe,” I murmur, holding it up triumphantly.

I place a hand on the ground to push myself up, but the dampness seeps through my fingers. My grin vanishes as realization dawns. My stomach sinks when I look down and see the wet grass clinging to my gown.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, brushing futilely at the ruined dress. This is why I don’t do bold things. Why I don’t take risks. It always ends like this. Awkward. Clumsy. A mess.

I scramble to get up but the gown is skin tight and it’s making every movement difficult. The more I struggle, the more the delicate fabric snags against the wet grass, leaving streaks of green and dark stains in its wake.

“Stop.”

The single word cuts through the night, deep, low and commanding.

I freeze.

A pair of legs, clad in impeccably tailored black trousers, suddenly appears in front of me. My breath hitches as the figure lowers to one knee in front of me.

I lift my gaze slowly, startled, and then the world seems to tilt on its axis. My lungs forgetting their purpose and everything inside me comes to a shuddering halt when my gaze collides with eyes as dark as the night.

---