Substitute Groom
708 Words
The roar of the basketball court cut off in an instant.
Evan Drayke remembered sinking his last three-pointer, his teammates shouting for him to grab a drink.
Then the world went black—like someone had yanked him straight out of reality.
When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the court.
He was sitting in the back of a luxury car.
Leather seats, silver trim, and the faint sting of expensive cologne filled the air.
Across from him, a man in a perfectly tailored suit said smoothly:
"Young master, the wedding is about to begin."
...Wedding?
Evan's breath stuttered. He looked down.
White tuxedo. Gold cufflinks. A bowtie cinched so tight it nearly cut off his air.
"...What the hell?"
The scene was too real, too sharp.
He pinched his thigh hard enough to leave marks.
It hurt. This wasn't a dream.
Before he could speak, that same voice from the dream detonated in his head again.
—The same voice as in the dream.
[System initialization complete.]
[World: The Arranged Marriage.]
[Target: Adrian Blackwell.]
[Affection: 0/5 hearts.]
[Warning: Failure to complete mission will result in permanent entrapment in this world.]
Evan went rigid, breath stuttering in his chest.
"...Shit, so that dream was real?!"
Panic clawed at him.
Instinctively, he lunged for the car door, trying to get out.
CRACK!
A jolt of electricity surged up his arm, nerves screaming.
Evan gasped, hand spasming as he yanked it back.
[Warning. Host may not abandon the main scenario.]
[Further violations will trigger punishment. Severe consequence: death.]
Evan froze in his seat, chest heaving, arm trembling.
Cold sweat trickled down his temple.
He muttered under his breath:
"...Not a dream. Damn it, it's real."
He forced a broken laugh:
"...Alright. Running's a death wish, isn't it?"
[Confirmed.]
He ground his teeth, spat a low curse.
"Fuck."
The car slowed to a stop.
The door swung open.
Outside, chandeliers blazed, cameras flashed.
A mansion loomed with a red carpet stretched across the steps.
Guests clustered in glittering gowns and suits, their expressions sharp and amused.
Whispers carried to his ears like knives:
"That's not the real fiancé, is it?"
"A substitute groom."
"Won't last three days."
A greasy middle-aged man snickered under his breath, leaning to his companion:
"Still, he's got a pretty face. Looks like the kind who's just begging to be ruined."
The group chuckled darkly.
Evan's fingers clenched. His chest tightened.
...Substitute groom.
This plot was even trashier than he'd feared.
And then, silence fell across the hall.
From the end of the red carpet came steady footsteps, each one striking like a heavy drumbeat against the chest.
A man appeared.
Tall and imposing, his black dress shoes echoed against the marble floor.
His frame was lean yet commanding, carrying an aura of absolute dominion.
A sharply tailored black suit traced the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow cut of his waist, fabric stretched just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.
One button at his collar was undone, exposing a s***h of pale collarbone—an ascetic restraint edged with dangerous allure.
His features were cut sharp—strong brows, straight nose, lips pressed into a ruthless line.
But his eyes...dark as an abyss, gleaming with the patience and hunger of a predator, fixed on prey he intended to devour.
The air itself tightened.
Guests dared not meet his gaze, breaths caught in their throats.
The whispers dissolved into a single hushed murmur:
"Adrian Blackwell."
Evan's chest constricted sharply.
[Confirmed target: Adrian Blackwell. Current affection: 0/5 hearts.]
Adrian stopped at the head of the table, his towering figure casting a cutting shadow, pinning Evan where he sat.
His gaze lowered, cold but edged with a predator's invasive scrutiny, as if he might reach out the next second and tear his prey apart.
After a beat of silence, his voice rolled out—low, gravelly, steeped in pressure and the kind of dominance that brooked no defiance:
"A substitute dares to sit here?"
Evan's fingers twitched, a chill racing down his spine.
He forced out a dry, shaky laugh, muttering under his breath:
"...Sure, system. If I can max out five hearts on this ice-block bastard, they'd better crown me World Champion of Love."
- Writer
