The wrong door on the wedding night: Tear off the mask

Dark clouds swallowed the night sky as gusts of wind hurled fine rain against Evelyn Harper's face. Clad in an ill-fitting white wedding dress, she trailed behind the housekeeper Lydia, stepping into the ancient Westwood Manor one heavy footfall at a time. Her emotions were a tangled mess, and each step felt like she was dragging a ton of bricks. Tonight, she was to marry the Westwood family's young master—a man she had never met, Henry Westwood, rumored to be a cripple with a bizarre temperament. No wedding bells chimed, no friends or family offered blessings, not even a marriage certificate was allowed. All because her family desperately needed this fortune to save themselves, and she was merely a pawn pushed onto the chessboard in this transaction. The old stone sculptures surrounding the manor loomed cold and indifferent in the darkness, sending a shiver down her spine. "Hey, Evelyn, keep up!" Lydia's voice rang out ahead, not caring one bit about the trouble Evelyn had managing her dress while trying to keep pace. Lydia marched on, her steps firm and unyielding, completely ignoring the struggling Evelyn behind her. Suddenly, she stopped and turned, her eyes cold as ice. "Evelyn, Mrs. Westwood has a message for you. Listen carefully." Evelyn looked up at her, a sense of unease tightening in her chest. "You know about Master Henry's situation. Even though he's got his... issues, the Westwood family is still way out of your league, a girl from a background like yours. You're only standing here because of your family's so-called 'twin genes.' But don't go thinking you're truly part of the Westwood clan. Only when you successfully bear an heir will you have the right to officially marry him." Listening to this relentless humiliation, Evelyn felt her cheeks burn, but she could only remain silent, her gaze fixed on the cobblestone path beneath her feet. "Tonight, you'd better be on your best behavior," Lydia warned coldly, her gaze sweeping over Evelyn. "Whether you rise like a phoenix or not depends on whether you can deliver the goods." As they reached the grand hall, Evelyn noticed a steaming cup of coffee placed on the table. Lydia shot her a mocking glance. "This is specially prepared for you by Mrs. Westwood. Drink up." Evelyn hesitated, taking a step back. "I... I'd rather not." "You don't get to say no," Lydia snapped, shoving her forward. Stumbling, Evelyn grabbed onto the edge of the table to steady herself. Before she could straighten up, Lydia seized a handful of her hair, yanking her head back sharply. Evelyn winced in pain, tears welling up in her eyes. "Cut the innocent act!" Lydia sneered, grabbing the cup and forcing the hot liquid into her mouth. The coffee scalded her tongue, its bitter taste making her want to gag. But she had no choice; she was forced to swallow every drop. As soon as she choked down the last sip, Lydia released her grip on Evelyn's hair. With a swift motion, she reached behind her, and with a ripping sound, the zipper of the ill-fitting wedding dress was yanked open. The gown slipped off Evelyn's shoulders, cascading to the floor and leaving her upper body exposed. Instantly, Evelyn's hands flew to cover herself, her face flushed with humiliation. "What are you doing?!" Lydia laughed disdainfully. "The Westwood family paid good money for you. Your sole purpose here is to give Master Henry an heir. That dress was coming off sooner or later, so why the fuss?" With a shove, she sent Evelyn sprawling onto the cold marble floor, her knees scraping painfully against the hard surface. Clad now only in her underwear, Evelyn felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. "You're... this is too much..." Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling as she fought to hold back tears. Summoning what little dignity she had left, Evelyn struggled to her feet, ignoring the sting in her knees. She picked up the discarded wedding dress but didn't bother putting it back on. She knew it was pointless. Clenching her teeth, she silently made her way toward the staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last, but she knew there was no turning back. The Harper family was drowning in debt; her parents desperately needed this alliance to save their company, and her aunt required expensive medical treatment. She had no choice but to press on. At the top of the staircase, the long corridor stretched before her, silent except for the echo of her footsteps. Evelyn glanced at the two doors on either side. Through a slight gap, she saw a faint light spilling from the room on the left; the right was cloaked in darkness. Her heart sank—clearly, the lit room was Henry Westwood's bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she summoned the courage to walk toward the door, gently pushing it open. A strong scent of whiskey hit her immediately, nearly making her cough. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly, and empty bottles littered the floor. The room's décor was minimalist and cold, the monochromatic tones giving it a sterile, unwelcoming vibe. Her eyes finally settled on the bed. A tall man lay sprawled across it, seemingly passed out from too much booze. Clad only in a pair of boxer briefs, his face was partially obscured by his arm. The chiseled lines of his muscular physique were highlighted by the dim light. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat; this strong figure didn't match the rumors of a crippled, eccentric man. Cautiously, she approached the bed, intending to get a better look at his face. Just as she leaned in, the man suddenly shifted, rolling from his side onto his back. Startled, Evelyn stepped back abruptly, only to trip over an empty bottle. Losing her balance, she tumbled forward uncontrollably. "Whoa!" She gasped as she fell, landing squarely against the man's solid chest, her cheek pressed against his warm skin. Before she could react, a strong hand gripped her wrist tightly. Shocked, Evelyn looked up to meet a pair of sharp, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul, sending a chill down her spine.