They Mocked the Wrong Man

The yellowed sheet of paper clung to the utility pole, its edges already beginning to curl in the evening humidity. The crude print was stark and matter-of-fact: "Wendy Sutton, female, 26 years old, CEO of Sutton Group." "Currently seeking a live-in son-in-law. Compensation: one hundred thousand dollars. Term of marriage: three years." "Divorce after three years, both parties free to remarry. Interested parties please contact..." As dusk settled over the city, Wendy's silhouette appeared beside the telephone pole, smoothing the advertisement against the weathered wood. Her figure was statuesque, the kind that would normally turn heads on any street corner—curves that spoke of both grace and strength, the bearing of someone accustomed to command. Yet her face remained hidden beneath a veil of black gauze that seemed to absorb the fading light. A gust of wind swept down the street, catching the edge of the veil. For just a moment, it revealed a face marked by deep, jagged scars. The damage was extensive, the kind that spoke of violence and trauma, of a beauty irrevocably altered. Wendy quickly adjusted the veil, her movements practiced, automatic. She'd performed this small act of concealment countless times over the past three years. Then, without looking back, she disappeared into the gathering darkness, leaving only the advertisement fluttering in the breeze. The next morning arrived with the usual bustle of city life. Outside Prosperity Department Store, a crowd had already gathered around the utility pole, their voices rising in a cacophony of gossip and speculation. "So it's Wendy Sutton," one middle-aged woman announced, her tone dripping with schadenfreude. "I wouldn't marry her even if she offered me a hundred thousand dollars. Hell, even if she offered a million, I wouldn't take it!" "Exactly right," a man in a business suit chimed in, shaking his head with exaggerated sympathy. "Who would dare marry such a cursed woman? Think about it—three years ago, she was kidn*pped by those criminals. Lost her virtue, they say. Her face got completely destroyed. And now? Now they're saying even her grandfather is dying because of her! That's the kind of bad luck that follows a person around like a shadow." "That's what I heard too," another onlooker added, leaning in conspiratorially. "She's become a complete disaster magnet. They say her face is absolutely hideous—covered in knife scars from ear to ear. What kind of man could even look at something like that, let alone kiss it?" The crowd murmured in agreement, their judgment swift and merciless. In their eyes, Wendy Sutton had become something less than human—a cautionary tale, a repository for all their fears about fate and fortune. "Wendy Sutton?" The name, repeated over and over by the gossiping crowd, finally caught the attention of a man who'd been passing by. He wore simple camouflage fatigues, the kind that had seen real use rather than serving as fashion. His bearing was military—straight-backed, alert, every movement economical and purposeful. This man was Cliff. Without hesitation, Cliff pushed through the gawking crowd and tore the advertisement from the pole in one smooth motion. The paper crinkled in his calloused hands as he studied the phone number listed at the bottom. Around him, the crowd's chatter continued, but he no longer heard it. His entire focus had narrowed to those ten digits. He pulled out a basic cell phone—no smartphone, no apps, just a device for making calls—and dialed without a moment's hesitation. The line rang twice before connecting. "Is this Wendy Sutton?" His voice was steady, certain. There was a pause on the other end, a moment of surprised silence. "I'm willing to marry you," Cliff continued, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll be your husband and bring good fortune to your grandfather." Thirty minutes later, the scene had shifted to the steps of City Hall. The bureaucratic machinery had moved with surprising efficiency. Papers had been signed, stamps had been affixed, and now Wendy Sutton stood beside this stranger who had, in the space of half an hour, become her legal husband. In her hand, she clutched a freshly printed marriage certificate, the ink still slightly damp. Despite the official documentation, despite the legal reality of what had just transpired, Wendy's emotions remained a tangled mess of confusion and disbelief. "Cliff," she began, her voice small and uncertain behind the black veil. "Why would you agree to marry me?" She paused, gathering her courage for the question that had been burning in her mind since his phone call. "I'm a cursed woman. My face is ruined. Don't you... don't you find me disgusting?" The careful, almost fearful tone in her voice struck Cliff like a physical blow. His chest tightened painfully. He was—or had been—one of Draconia's most decorated warriors. A living legend who had led three thousand soldiers of the Celestial Army to guard the Southern Frontier, standing as an impenetrable wall against every enemy that dared threaten the nation's borders. Foreign powers spoke his name in whispers, their military strategists warning against any engagement where he might be present. Yet this woman, this scarred and vulnerable woman standing beside him, had the power to make Cliff willingly set aside all that glory, all that power, to simply stand at her side. Why? Because Wendy Sutton had saved what mattered most to him in the entire world. Three years ago, the nightmare had begun. Cliff had been deployed overseas on a critical mission when the call came. His father—a gambling addict who'd abandoned any pretense of responsibility years ago—had accumulated massive debts with loan sharks. Desperate and vicious, these criminals had decided to collect their payment in the most horrifying way imaginable. They'd kidn*pped Cliff's mother. The plan, as Cliff later discovered, was monstrous in its calculated cruelty. They would sell her to human traffickers operating in international waters. She would be forced into p**********n in some foreign country, worked until she was no longer profitable. And then—and this detail had been delivered with casual brutality—when age had stolen whatever value she possessed, they would harvest her organs for sale on the black market. Every part of her would be commodified, every shred of dignity stripped away. Nothing would be wasted. That's what they'd said. Cliff's mother would have disappeared into that nightmare if not for one person: Wendy Sutton. At the time, Wendy had been passing by the waterfront warehouse district where his mother was being held. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps simple chance, but she'd witnessed the k********g. And rather than looking away, rather than convincing herself it wasn't her problem, she'd intervened. She'd fought back against the criminals, buying precious time until Cliff could race back from his deployment. Her courage, her refusal to abandon a stranger to such a fate, had saved his mother's life. But Wendy had paid a terrible price for her heroism. The criminals, enraged by her interference, had taken their knives to her face. They'd carved their revenge into her flesh, transforming her beauty into a landscape of scar tissue and trauma. The woman who'd saved his mother had been permanently marked by that choice. Cliff had arrived to find his mother alive but Wendy mutilated. In his rage, in his grief, he'd killed every single one of those criminals aboard their boat. Not one had been left alive to face justice. And for that—for choosing vengeance over law—Cliff had served three years in prison. Even now, the memory ignited a volcanic fury in his chest. He'd spent his entire adult life defending Draconia, standing as a guardian against external threats. His mother had sacrificed everything to raise him alone, going without food so he could eat, working herself sick to afford his military academy fees. She'd given him everything, including the values that had shaped him into the soldier he'd become. And while he'd been protecting strangers, his own mother had nearly been sold into living hell. If Wendy Sutton hadn't intervened—if she hadn't risked everything for a woman she'd never met—Cliff would have spent the rest of his life drowning in guilt and rage. There would have been no redemption, no peace, only the endless horror of arriving too late. That's why he'd made a decision, one that had crystallized during his three years of imprisonment: he would devote the rest of his life to repaying this debt. Wendy Sutton had given him back his mother, had prevented the destruction of the only family he'd ever known. How could he possibly do less than offer her everything he had? Cliff turned to look at Wendy, his expression softening. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "What right would I have to find you disgusting?" He gestured at himself with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm the one who just got out of prison, remember? I should be worried about you being disgusted with me." Behind the veil, Wendy released a small, shaky laugh—the sound of someone who'd been holding their breath and finally dared to exhale. It was a sound of relief, of unexpected comfort. That's right, she thought. They were both damaged people, both carrying burdens that made them outcasts in normal society. Perhaps they really were just two broken souls seeking warmth in each other's company, nothing more complicated than that. But then Cliff spoke again, and his next words made Wendy's entire body go rigid with tension. "Wendy... would you take off your veil? I'd like to see your face." Panic flared immediately. Wendy's hands flew up instinctively to clutch at the black gauze, her first impulse pure refusal. For three years, she'd hidden behind this veil, using it as a shield against the world's horror and disgust. The thought of revealing what lay beneath—of watching Cliff's expression transform from kindness to revulsion—was almost unbearable. But something in his voice stopped her automatic rejection. There was no prurient curiosity there, no morbid interest. Just a quiet, gentle request. Almost against her will, Wendy found her trembling hands reaching up. Slowly, with movements that felt divorced from her conscious mind, she lifted the edge of the veil. The scars were revealed in the morning sunlight. They were extensive, brutal—deep grooves and puckered tissue that spoke of multiple wounds inflicted with deliberate cruelty. What had once been a beautiful face had been transformed into something that frightened children and made adults look away in discomfort. Cliff went absolutely silent. His heart felt as though someone had taken a blade to it, carving out pieces with each passing second. Because he understood—truly understood—that every single one of those scars existed because of him. Because of his family. Because of debts his worthless father had incurred. Wendy Sutton had reached out her hand to help a stranger, and she'd been punished for that kindness in the most visible, permanent way possible. If she'd simply walked past, if she'd convinced herself it wasn't her concern, her face would still be unmarked. Her life would have continued on its normal trajectory. Instead, she'd chosen compassion. And this was her reward. The emotions that crashed through Cliff's chest were almost overwhelming—guilt, rage, sorrow, and a fierce, protective determination all tangled together. His usually stoic face twisted with obvious pain, though he struggled to find words adequate to express what he felt. The silence stretched on. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. With each passing moment, the light in Wendy's eyes dimmed further. She'd seen this reaction before—the shock, the struggle to maintain composure, the inevitable retreat. She'd thought maybe Cliff would be different, but apparently she'd been foolish to hope. Who could blame him, really? What man could look at such horrifying disfigurement and feel anything but revulsion? Summoning every ounce of dignity she still possessed, Wendy forced her voice to remain steady. "If you want to back out now, you probably still can. The paperwork takes a few days to fully process..." Before she could finish, Cliff's hand shot out and grasped her right hand firmly. He shook his head, and when he looked at her, his eyes were filled with a tenderness that made her breath catch. "The only thing I'll never regret in this lifetime," he said, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a battlefield vow, "is meeting you." The words hit Wendy like a thunderclap. Her mind went blank, the world narrowing to just this moment, just this man standing before her. In her entire life, no one had ever spoken to her with such fierce, protective devotion. For a heartbeat, the entire universe seemed to contain only Cliff's tall, solid presence. "And I promise you," he continued, "I will heal your face. This damage won't be permanent." Wendy managed a small smile, though she assumed he was simply trying to comfort her. Over the past three years, she'd consulted with the best plastic surgeons, the most renowned specialists. All of them had delivered the same verdict: the scarring was too deep, too extensive. Nothing could be done. She'd long since made peace with her disfigurement. The fact that Cliff didn't recoil from her, that he could look at her scars and still speak with such warmth—that alone was more than she'd dared to hope for. Gently extracting her hand from his grip, Wendy's voice had lost its earlier anxiety. "I have two requirements for this arrangement," she said, her tone becoming businesslike. "First, during these three years, you must remain faithful. No affairs, no visiting prostitutes, nothing that would damage the Sutton Family's reputation." She paused, then continued with obvious discomfort. "Second, without my explicit permission, you are not to touch me inappropriately. And certain... marital activities... are absolutely forbidden." A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped her. "Though I suppose looking at a ugly woman like me, you wouldn't have those kinds of desires anyway." Cliff frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Wendy's phone began to ring. She answered, and Cliff watched as her expression shifted—eyebrows drawing together, lips pressing into a tight line. After nearly a minute of listening, she released a long, weary sigh. "Grandfather's condition has worsened again," she said, her voice heavy with worry. "I need to go to the hospital right away. Let's meet there tomorrow." "Alright," Cliff agreed.