The Perfect Heiress

Too Proud And Not Cute

Chuck's POV

I had escaped to California, hoping for a little peace before being dragged into a contract marriage with the Sinclair.

Standing on the deck of my private yacht as it cruised across the vast ocean, I took in the breathtaking view—the deep blue coastline of California blending seamlessly with the dazzling orange-pink hues of the setting sun.

Yet, instead of calming me, the scenery only fueled my irritation. I had been restless even before leaving New York, and the change of scenery did nothing to soothe my thoughts.

A commotion from the deck below caught my attention. I had invited a few friends and some other wealthy heirs to join this trip, and now they were all gathered, having a laugh and partying.

Meanwhile, I—the host of this trip—stood apart, lost in thought, questioning whether I had completely lost my mind by agreeing to marry into the Sinclair family.

I had heard of Vivienne Sinclair and her cheesy actor ex-boyfriend. In my usual arrogance, I would have never even agreed to a dinner with Vivienne, let alone an engagement. Yet, despite myself, something about her intrigued me.

I should be enjoying myself, right? I was on my $400 million yacht, for god’s sake.

Then, my phone vibrated. An email.

Vivienne Sinclair: "Hello, Cora. I’m free on Saturday night. Please tell Mr. Knight that I don’t like carrots. And pass my thanks to him for his dinner invitation. I will be there on time."

She doesn’t like carrots?

"Prepare me a carrot juice," I said to one of the staff, then reclined on the sofa.

"Mr. Knight, your carrot juice." A waitress in a floral dress and straw hat appeared within minutes, presenting an exquisitely prepared drink filled with ice. Its warm orange hue complemented the sunset perfectly.

I sat up and thanked her politely. She boldly threw me a flirtatious wink before leaving.

Luca Moretti, an old friend who had just arrived to greet me, noticed the drink and smirked. "Isn’t this what little bunnies love to eat—carrots?"

Another rich heir that followed Luca chuckled. "I think Chuck here specializes more in eating little bunnies instead of carrots, right?"

I ignored them, picking up the carrot juice and taking a sip. It wasn’t bad—natural, fresh, healthy.

Why would anyone dislike it?

Setting the glass down, I signaled for it to be taken away and replaced with a whiskey.

Luca, sensing my unusual silence, returned with a drink. "What’s on your mind? You look like your soul’s somewhere else."

He had known me long enough to see through me better than most.

"Nothing." I didn’t answer Luca.

"A luxurious yacht, nearly twenty exotic beauties on board, and my friend—you’re up here all by yourself, drinking carrot juice?" Luca shot me a sideways glance. "And where’s the muscle? You can’t be seriously dressed so properly on a yacht. What are these ladies supposed to look at?"

"Right, ladies—do you want Chuck to join you?" Luca called out to the girls below.

Almost instantly, a girl rushed up the stairs, winking and smiling at me. "Mr. Knight, are you joining us? My friend really wants to meet you, but she’s too shy to say it herself." She gestured toward a brunette downstairs, clad in nothing but a bikini.

I downed the burning whiskey and said, "Sorry, but I’m heading back to New York soon. You guys enjoy yourselves—everything’s on my tab."

Luca raised a brow. "Why are you rushing back?"

He probably thought I was crazy—I had been the one to suggest this getaway, and now I was the one cutting it short.

"Family matters," I said dismissively.

Luca pondered for a moment before smirking. Lowering his voice, he added, "A marriage disaster, am I right? I heard your mother arranged for you to marry Alexander Sinclair’s younger sister. Alexander isn’t someone to mess with—he’s fiercely protective of his own. You better watch your back."

I let out a slow, lazy smirk. "If he’s not to be trifled with, then what about you? If you were to marry your sister to me, that would be a real disaster."

"The f***k did you just say?!"

"Alexander Sinclair’s sister?" A young heir nearby, whose name I didn’t know, overheard part of the conversation and immediately became interested.

"You mean Vivienne Sinclair? Didn't she just had a break up? All these rich girls are just obsessed with male celebrities, chasing after pretty boys like fools, throwing money at them without a shred of dignity. Word is, even Gregory Sinclair himself is searching for a suitable fiancé for his daughter."

The man scoffed, his voice laced with resentment. "Girls like her are clearly second-hand goods. If it weren’t for her family background, who would—"

Before he could finish, I threw my glass of vodka directly in his face.

He let out a strangled cry, clutching his burning eyes.

Silence fell over the deck.

Calmly, I set down my empty glass and stepped forward. Gripping his face with one hand, I pressed my fingers into his skin, my strength making him wince.

Years of sailing and rock climbing had built my physique—not with artificial gym workouts, but with raw physical exertion. I could easily crush this fragile little heir if I wanted to.

Yet this level of aggression was unusual for me. It wasn’t my usual polished, refined demeanor.

I studied him, my voice calm, almost lazy. "How many women have played with you, huh? Watch your mouth. Show some respect."

I let go, leaving deep red imprints on his face. His humiliation was evident, his flushed expression almost comical.

No one dared to step in. These spoiled heirs understood the weight of the name Knight better than anyone.

I grabbed a towel, wiped my hands, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Luca turned to the guy and sneered. "Punk, next time you run your mouth, we’ll nail your lips shut with coffin nails." Then, he followed me back inside.

Water gushed from the faucet, filling the sink. I pressed down on the soap dispenser, thoroughly lathering my hands, scrubbing between every finger.

I was obsessive about cleanliness—I hated people touching me, and I despised touching others even more.

"That was one hell of an overreaction. Not like you," Luca commented, leaning against the ripple-glass wall, lighting a cigarette.

Still washing my hands, I asked, "And what exactly would be like me?"

"You’d have your bodyguards tie him up and toss him overboard for a swim. Doing it yourself? That’s new."

He exhaled a stream of smoke, then smirked. "You seriously into Vivienne Sinclair?"

I replied quickly, "No."

"Then why the big reaction? Vivienne doesn’t seem like your type."

He wasn’t wrong. I had always gone for softer, sweeter, more obedient girls—the "little bunny" type. At least, that’s what everyone thought. That’s what I had thought, too.

Luca's smirk deepened as he took a slow drag from his cigarette, studying me with that knowing gleam in his eyes. "I think she’s getting under your skin, Chuck."

I turned off the faucet, reaching for a towel to dry my hands. "Don’t be ridiculous. It’s business, nothing more."

"Business, huh?" He scoffed. "You don’t usually react this way over business deals. You’ve let a lot worse slide without so much as a blink."

I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned toward the panoramic window of the yacht’s cabin, watching as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon.

My irritation had sharpened into something more dangerous—something I didn’t want to name.

I stared into my own reflection on the window, unreadable and indifferent as ever, "For real, just business. I don’t like her type. Too serious. Too proud. Not cute."