My husband is incredibly rich, but I don't love him. Back in college, he moved heaven and earth to win over my roommate, Isabelle. Luxury gifts arrived one after another, and he once made a grand spectacle of delivering nine thousand roses to our dorm building. The rest of us in the dorm reaped the benefits, hauling armfuls of roses back to our rooms like we were raiding a botanical garden. But Isabelle remained completely unfazed. She even warned him, Damian Blackwood, to never show his face again. "He's rich, and he's not bad-looking. Are you sure you don't want him?" I finally asked one night, a sheet mask clinging to my face. It was a question that had been bugging me for weeks. She had a face that could launch a thousand ships, yet she spent all her time with some upperclassman who was always working odd jobs. "No way. That type of man is too serious, too boring," Isabelle said with a dismissive scoff. "If you want him, go for it." I rested my chin in my hand, gave it a moment's thought, and then nodded. "Alright," I said. "I will." 1 Isabelle's expression shifted, but she said nothing more. After I finished my mask and washed my face, I headed downstairs. "She has a boyfriend," I said, holding my umbrella out against the drizzle. I couldn't help myself. Damian was standing under the dorm entrance, looking up at our window like a loyal puppy left out in the rain. He flinched, pushing the gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice laced with genuine apology. "I didn't know." Isabelle never even told him? His shoulders slumped as he looked down, about to toss the bouquet of black roses he was holding into a nearby trash can. It seemed like such a waste, watching the rain slick the dark petals. Black roses. My favorite. "Wait. Don't throw them out. Give them to me." He looked at the rain-soaked bouquet and gave a self-deprecating smile before handing them over. "Okay." His white dress shirt was plastered to his torso, the wet fabric clinging to the hard lines of his abs. He was clean-cut, well-mannered, toned, tall, and surprisingly obedient. And most importantly, he was rich. Honestly, he was exactly my type. "Hey," I called out as he turned to leave. He stopped, looking back with a lost expression. "I'm single," I said, stepping closer and tilting the umbrella to cover him. "You should pursue me instead." I wasn't unattractive. I went to bed early, woke up early, and lived a disciplined life. I ran six kilometers every morning, ate healthy, and never missed my skincare routine. Far more guys pursued me than Isabelle, but I'd turned them all down. He took off his glasses, his gaze quiet and intense. Time seemed to stretch on, long enough for his assistant to rush over with an umbrella, long enough for his car to pull up to the curb. "Okay," he finally said. 2 He took my number and left. I turned and went back upstairs. I'd looked into Damian Blackwood. He'd started his own company right after graduation, and it had been expanding ever since. Once he went back to inherit the Blackwood Group, he'd be obscenely wealthy. That's why I could never understand Isabelle. Perhaps it was because my parents' constant arguments about money had ended in divorce, but the most important criterion on my list for a partner was wealth. Money meant no fighting over bills and household expenses. Back in the dorm, Isabelle saw the roses in my hand, and her face soured. "You don't have to worry anymore. He won't be bothering you again," I said, setting the flowers down and toweling my hair dry. I expected her to be relieved, but her expression only darkened. "You're such a bitch," she hissed. ...What? Her voice was low, but it cut through the room, silencing everything. The towel slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a wet smack. I've never been one for violence, but in that moment, I slapped her. Hard. Neither of us was prone to losing control, but that day, her eyes held an emotion so intensely suppressed I couldn't begin to decipher it. I didn't want to. Our other roommates were horrified. Some tried to mediate, some held us back. One said I'd gone too far; another called Isabelle a hypocrite. But I truly didn't understand. She said she didn't want him, that his attention was a nuisance. So how, when I took him off her hands, did it become "stealing"? 3 She moved out of the dorm that day and we barely spoke again. I didn't let it bother me. Some people whispered that I was immoral; others said the same of Isabelle. I still didn't get it. She said his pursuit was a burden. She said no. So why was she angry when I said yes? But angry or not, she had no right to insult me. That, I couldn't tolerate. I'd hear things occasionally—that she and her boyfriend were a perfect match, the campus power couple. People on the college forums were shipping them like crazy. Meanwhile, Damian and I started seeing more of each other. He wasn't emotionally expressive, but he was impeccably polite and reserved, quickly becoming a hot topic on campus. I became a fixture at his side, and the rumors grew like weeds. I didn't care. I knew what I wanted from the very beginning. On our wedding day, Damian was busy until the last minute. He finally arrived, standing before me in a perfectly tailored suit, looking less like a groom and more like a precision instrument that had just been calibrated. The wedding was extravagant. I didn't recognize a third of the names on the guest list. I smiled for the cameras, my posture elegant, my performance flawless. I still don't know how he convinced his parents to approve of me. There was no merger of family fortunes, no matching of social pedigrees. His parents were cultured, gracious people. They showed none of the disdain I'd expected, only offering us their sincere blessing. "We hope you will support each other and build a good life and marriage together." Married life was comfortable. Damian was truly, obscenely rich. How rich? He owned companies all over the world, flew on a private jet, and signed deals worth hundreds of millions. Marrying him was the smartest decision I'd ever made. He didn't understand romance, and he didn't understand me. He never wrote me love letters or called late at night to say he missed me. On Valentine's Day, he'd have his assistant send flowers. He was the quintessential stoic, all-business husband: calm, disciplined, and utterly unromantic. Perhaps he'd spent all his passion on Isabelle. Being with him was like being married to a money-making machine. "Your husband's gone again? What's the point of having all that money if he's never home? You must be so lonely." Lisa and I had been friends since childhood, but we'd drifted apart after I got married. The first thing she did whenever she saw me was complain about how little time Damian spent with me. I just smiled and took her for a ride on the private jet. How could I be lonely? The world was so vast, and I had my husband's relentless work ethic to thank for the opportunity to see it. I could travel anywhere, anytime, and enjoy the absolute pinnacle of luxury. Lonely? Not a chance. 4 My best friend looked unsettled. She just shook her head. "I still think the most important thing for a couple is to be together, no matter what. To face the storms side-by-side." ...I didn't get it. I was genuinely shocked. There were others who thought like Isabelle. But her words did leave a small sting. Was I the strange one in their eyes? "You've changed, Scarlett. You're not the girl I grew up with anymore..." she said, her face flushing under my gaze. She huffed and left in a hurry. She was right. I had changed. At first, I'd take her on trips, cover all her expenses, and give her a supplementary card for spa days and shopping. But she always acted embarrassed, insisting on calculating her share of every cost, refusing to "take advantage" of me. No matter how many times I told her it was fine, no matter that Damian himself told her to spend more time with me and that he'd cover everything, she refused. My assistant would present her with a heavily discounted bill, and Lisa would stare at the price, her face tight with discomfort, then demand to see the original receipts, passive-aggressively suggesting the assistant was trying to scam her. Eventually, I stopped asking. My social circle had completely transformed after marriage. I was incredibly busy. Besides traveling, I enrolled in numerous classes—from floral arrangement and French to financial management. I studied diligently, not out of passion, but to ensure that if "something happened," I wouldn't leave with nothing. I'd heard that Isabelle and her college boyfriend had broken up. She was even working at a subsidiary of Damian's company now. If he ever got nostalgic for his grand, dramatic first love and decided he wanted a divorce, I needed to be prepared. While getting half his assets was unrealistic, I intended to get as much as I possibly could. And once I got it, I'd need to know how to manage it. So yes, I was very busy. 5 I had just gotten back from a trip to Russia when Lisa came over. "Scarlett, your old flame is back! Your first love! And he's super rich now." Her eyes were gleaming. "You married Damian for his money, right? Well, now you can divorce him and marry Leo!" "He hasn't contacted you all these years because he's never gotten over you!" As luck would have it, Damian returned home the same day. He heard every single word. He stood in the entryway, his suit immaculate, his expression placid. There was no ripple of emotion in his eyes. Lisa spun around, her face instantly paling. She shot to her feet, forcing a nervous laugh. "Mr. Blackwood, you're back... I was just joking, of course. Scarlett would never..." "I didn't take it seriously," he said, his voice calm. He walked in, still holding a gift box from his trip. "And I didn't give it a second thought." He lowered his eyes and placed the box on the coffee table in front of me. "You mentioned you wanted to try that mille crêpe cake from Hokkaido. I brought you one." My gaze flickered, but my fingers didn't move. My assistant always sent him my itinerary. He knew I was coming back today; he must have made a special trip. I knew his schedule was packed. Getting away couldn't have been easy. "...Thank you," I murmured. I heard his quiet "Mm," and then he turned and went upstairs. I sat on the sofa, staring at the exquisitely perfect cake, and suddenly, it felt like I was chewing on sawdust.
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