In my past life, I was the one he chose, becoming the most humiliated bride at the wedding. Everyone thought I’d struck gold, that my luck was beyond belief. Only I knew it was a complete and utter nightmare. The night before the wedding, his ‘white moonlight’ had drunk herself to death, overwhelmed by grief. The next day, his eyes blazing red, he accused me of “killing her” and personally dragged me to hell. In the bridal suite, he whipped my back, lash after lash, screaming another woman’s name. “You stole her place, now you’ll feel her pain.” He publicly tore my dress, then locked me in a dog cage for three days and three nights, all because I wore the wedding gown she loved before she died. He even turned her ashes into perfume, forcing me to wear it daily, claiming it was so she could watch me atone. Finally, I died on the jagged rocks by the ocean, still wearing that blood-stained wedding dress. He said I owed her a funeral. This time, I swapped the selection number in advance. But then, he came at me, eyes red, gripping me like a madman: “Chloe, this time, I only want you.”
Late at night, in the Sterling family’s Heirloom Selection Chamber. I walked in, mop in hand, pretending to clean. In reality, my fingers were already clutching a tiny, folded number card. Number 47, Chloe Sterling. I squeezed it tight, tucking it under the mop head. With a swift, practiced movement, I pulled out another card and slipped it into the numbered slot. That card read – Vivian Thorne. The day of the selection ceremony, the Sterling family’s main mansion glittered with gold. Nine hundred and ninety-nine women arrived, dressed to the nines. Each one was like a peacock in full display, desperate to show off every ounce of their refined elegance to Alexander Sterling. “I heard the hot pick this year is Chloe Sterling?” “That cold face of hers? Does she even *deserve* to be a Sterling wife?” “Are you blind? Doesn’t she look *exactly* like… *her*?” I stood in the furthest corner, lowering my head, slowly tearing the number card from my collar into tiny pieces. When the host called out the number, the entire hall fell silent. “Number 47, Vivian Thorne.” The next second, applause erupted. Alexander Sterling stormed down the stage, his eyes bloodshot, looking utterly insane. He yanked Vivian into his arms, holding her so tightly it looked like he wanted to embed her into his very bones. “Vivian.” His voice trembled. “This time… it’s finally you.” The entire hall gasped. Alexander lowered his head to look at Vivian, his gaze tender to the point of madness, a smile uncontrollably spreading across his lips. “You’re back. You finally came back.” Vivian leaned against him gently, her cheek pressed to his chest, as if confirming his heartbeat. But her eyes, subtly, swept across the crowd and settled squarely on me. I gave a small, knowing smile, as if seeing through her, and through this entire charade. Alexander Sterling finally looked up at me. He had surely anticipated my breakdown, my tears, my angry questions. He’d probably even prepared a speech, ready to comfort me, to offer a sliver of false pity. Too bad. I didn’t give him the chance. In my previous life, when “Number 47, Chloe Sterling” was called, my eyes had welled up with tears of激动. I stood beneath the crystal chandeliers, my face flushed, my voice trembling as I called his name. But Alexander Sterling, seated below the stage, looked terrifyingly cold. He stared at the shadow at his feet, as if my selection was a personal insult to him. I raised my hand, calmly applauding them. *Clap. Clap. Clap.* The sharp sound echoed, and the entire hall fell silent again. His expression froze. His throat moved, but no words came out. I smiled and nodded, my eyes devoid of emotion. “Lord Sterling, you’re truly fortunate.” “I wish you both a happy ever after.” His brow furrowed fiercely, his eyes so dark they seemed to bleed. “Chloe Sterling, what do you mean?” “I mean nothing.” I smiled, turning to walk away. “You two are perfectly matched.”
The moment I left the ballroom, my step-mom dragged me into a side room and slapped me across the face. “Chloe Sterling, who are you trying to fool, playing all high and mighty?!” “This opportunity, I spent months begging Uncle Arthur for!” “And what do you do? You just hand it over to someone else?! Do you want me dead?!” I sneered. “The Sterling family gives me ten million a year, and I give you seven million for your retirement. And you spent it all on plastic surgery!” “What did Uncle Arthur even see in that worn-out face of yours?!” Her face darkened. She gnashed her teeth and hissed, “If you don’t marry Alexander, the Sterling family will cut you off! What about your sister?!” I straightened my collar. “Didn’t you insist on shoving me into the Sterling family? Fine. Let’s try a different direction.” “Have Uncle Arthur arrange the next selection for me. Throw my name into the hat for Julian Sterling.” Her face changed. “Are you insane?! You’d dare mess with *that* man?” “A Sterling is a Sterling. He throws around just as much cash as Alexander does.” I didn’t bother to explain further. She looked stunned. Julian Sterling, a distant cousin of the Sterling family, nicknamed “The Wild Card.” Rumors said he was quite the player, dabbling in both circles, with whispers of past affairs with rising stars and influential figures across the city’s elite. But I knew better. The year my sister was sick, he’d visited her in the hospital once, bringing her a soft bunny toy – a small, quiet act of kindness that stood out. He wasn’t inherently bad. I stopped at my room door, pausing for a few seconds. The lock had been changed, and a new plaque was affixed to the door— [Ms. Vivian Thorne’s Private Quarters] This room was designed by Alexander Sterling himself, just for me. He’d said, “With you sleeping here, I feel at peace.” Now, he was peaceful enough to give it to someone else. Just as I turned to leave, a maid hurried after me, whispering, “Miss Chloe, Lord Sterling wishes you to move to the West Wing. He says it’s quieter there.” The West Wing was an old guesthouse, damp and isolated, without even hot water. I murmured “Mm-hm,” saying nothing else. I picked up my bag and quietly went to pack my things. At dinner, the moment I entered the dining hall, I saw Vivian. Vivian was seated to Alexander’s left, her entire being nestled against his side. She said, “My appetite hasn’t been good lately. I can only eat porridge.” He immediately rose, personally serving her a bowl, his voice gentle: “The kitchen changed the rice. It’s the texture you used to like.” I stared down at the plate in front of me, my stomach clenching. I hesitated, then quietly signaled to a maid nearby. “Could I have a bowl of porridge too?” My stomach had always been sensitive. It started when he was in a car accident years ago, and I stayed up for half a month, nursing him sleeplessly. He knew that. Before the maid could move, a cold voice spoke from nearby: “Miss Chloe, that porridge is exclusively for Miss Thorne.” My spoon paused in mid-air. A second later, I heard his icy voice: “If you want to drink it, drink it. Then get out of here. Don’t be an eyesore.” I looked up at him. His eyes lingered on me for half a second. Something flickered in their depths. But it quickly turned cold again. I smiled, put down my spoon, and wiped my fingers. “On second thought, I’ll pass.” I stood up and walked towards the drinks bar, casually picking up a glass of red wine. Just as I raised it to my lips, Vivian walked over, smiling. Her voice was soft. “Oh, sister, drinking alone? How pathetic.” I couldn’t be bothered with her. I replied coolly, “Whether I drink or not, how is that any of your business?” She suddenly swayed, directly bumping into me. The red wine instantly splashed all over me, and the glass shattered into pieces on the floor. I took a step back, my dress soaked. But she dramatically stumbled to the ground, her arms and wrists reddening in splotches, a dense rash breaking out. “Ah, it’s so itchy… Did I have an alcohol allergy again…?” Before I could even react, Alexander Sterling had rushed over, immediately scooping her into his arms. Then, he glared at me, his voice a low, furious growl: “Are you insane? You know she has an alcohol allergy, and you still threw wine on her?” I opened my mouth, but before I could explain, he already issued an order: “Someone, hold her down!” “Make her kneel on these glass shards for half an hour, then have her clean the floor!”
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