After my family declared bankruptcy, I was sent off to marry into the Thorne family to clear our debts. On the very first day of our marriage, my new husband threw a black card onto the table and told me that the only thing he could give me was money. Not only that, he seemed to despise me. He would rather do all the housework himself than let me touch a single thing in the house. After three years of this cold treatment, I wanted a divorce. I walked to his study, divorce papers in hand. But just as I reached the door, I heard the distinct sound of sobbing coming from inside. "Three years! I’ve been waiting on her hand and foot for three years! I transfer a million dollars to her account every month, I cook dinner for her every single night, and she still doesn’t care about me!" Then, his best friend’s angry voice cut through the air. "I told you not to be so dramatic back then! You're a total house-husband, why the hell did you brand yourself as a playboy?" 1 My family went bust. As a result, I was engaged to Sterling Thorne. The Thorne family is old money—deep ties in both politics and business. Their foundation is rock solid. Logically speaking, a family like that shouldn't have looked twice at a bankrupt heiress like me. But, as fate would have it, their second son, Sterling Thorne, was a disaster. He was the city’s most notorious playboy. The number of girlfriends he’d had was uncountable. Because of this, any decent socialite with a bit of family wealth who had the luxury of choice wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole. Sterling’s parents were desperate. When they heard about my family’s financial collapse, they immediately sent a proposal. They told my parents that as long as I married Sterling, they would wipe out our debt. Although we were broke, my background was clean. I graduated from an Ivy League school, I was reasonably attractive, and I had a reputation for being gentle and well-mannered. I was exactly the kind of docile daughter-in-law they wanted. My parents looked at me with guilt. Despite the tempting offer, they knew exactly what kind of man Sterling was. I, however, just nodded. "No problem. I can get married anytime." My reasoning was simple: rather than struggling and potentially ending up with a broke jerk later, I’d rather marry a rich jerk now. 2 I had heard plenty of rumors about Sterling Thorne, but the day we signed the marriage license was the first time I actually met him. He didn’t look like the playboy I had imagined. He was wearing a soft, light blue cotton shirt. The top button was undone, offering a glimpse of his collarbone. He wore gold-rimmed glasses that gave him a scholarly, almost refined air. He looked elegant. Sophisticated. It was hard to believe this man was the wildest player in the city. You really can’t judge a book by its cover. Sterling didn’t seem to like me much. During the signing at City Hall, he kept a poker face and didn’t say a word to me. But when he took the marriage certificate, he paused. The hand holding the document trembled slightly. Maybe even he couldn't believe that a free spirit like him had actually gotten married. We didn’t have a wedding ceremony. After getting the license, I moved directly into Sterling’s villa in the Hamptons. That same day, he handed me a bank card. "I’ll wire a million dollars into this account every month. You can spend it however you like. "I have nothing else to offer you. The only thing I can give you is money." I accepted it calmly. We were a business merger, after all. There were no real feelings involved. He was upfront about it, and he was generous with his money. I had nothing to complain about. I nodded and started dragging my luggage toward the guest bedroom. I’d heard Sterling often brought women home. I figured I should be a considerate roommate. 3 Sterling’s expression stiffened for a second. He called out to me. "Harper, where are you going?" I looked at him, confused. "I heard that... your villa gets a little lively at night. So, I prepared the guest room for myself." Sterling looked like he didn’t understand. "Are you worried about noise? I had the butler install soundproofing in the master suite. You don't need to sleep in the guest room." I decided to be more direct. "No, I mean... I heard you often bring female friends back to the villa. I don’t want to disturb you." Sterling’s face suddenly turned bright red. "No... that’s just..." But seeing my knowing look, he awkwardly nodded. "Right. Yes. I do... sometimes bring female friends home. You know, a guy with my reputation, I have to keep up appearances. "I’ll sleep in the guest room. You take the master bedroom. Don't worry, I won't let them bother you." I raised an eyebrow. Them? Sterling really played the field. While I was still processing this, Sterling grabbed my suitcase, carried it into the master bedroom, and started unpacking for me. He hung my dresses in the closet. He organized my skincare products on the vanity. He even folded my socks into perfect little squares. Watching his practiced movements, I couldn't help but marvel. Is the competition among playboys this fierce nowadays? They have to be domestic gods too? 4 It wasn't until Sterling had organized all my belongings that he seemed to realize what he was doing. He froze. We looked at each other, silence stretching between us. "I didn't expect... you to be so thoughtful," I said. Sterling’s eyes darted around the room. "No... don't misunderstand. I just..." "I get it," I said, nodding understandingly. "You have a lot of relationship experience, so it’s a habit. I won’t read into it." Sterling paused, then nodded firmly. "Right... exactly. That’s it. I’ve had a lot of ex-girlfriends. I got used to serving them. Don't mind me." I waved my hand. "No, I don't mind. Everyone has a past." Sterling suddenly checked his watch, as if remembering something urgent. "I have a meeting at four. Can I come back at five to make you dinner? What do you want to eat?" I couldn't believe my ears. "You're coming back... to cook for me?" Sterling froze again, but he recovered quickly. "Sorry, I was just using my watch to text a friend. I promised her I'd cook this afternoon. You don't mind, do you?" I gave the sensible answer. "Not at all. I understand." However, as he walked away, I stared at the Patek Philippe on his wrist with confusion. Since when can a mechanical watch send text messages?
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