My Versatile Wife

Chapter 6---Finally Married

He massaged his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.

Finally, he sighed softly, his voice gentle. "Let go. I'll take you upstairs to rest."

"No."

She clung to his neck, burying her face in his chest—like a drowning woman grasping the last floating plank.

For six years, Henry Thompson had never touched her. Once, she had foolishly believed it was out of respect and care.

Now she knew the truth—he found her stiff and dull. In his eyes, she was no different from a man, valuable only for her appearance.

The thought pierced her pride like a blade.

As if to prove something, she pulled his lips to hers again.

This time, not a fleeting brush. She captured his lower lip, sucking gently, nibbling, licking—her long, ink-dark lashes trembling like fan blades, brushing his skin with a faint, ticklish warmth.

Timothy Hart froze.

One by one, the taut wires in his mind snapped.

After an internal battle, he surrendered. His fingers closed around her chin, his breath low. "Aurora! Do you know what you're doing?"

She released his lips, whimpering as pain shot through her jaw. Her eyes, wide and glistening, accused him—like a wounded deer.

She said, unapologetically, "I know. I'm sleeping with you."

Timothy Hart let out a dry, exasperated laugh.

His gaze darkened. His voice dropped to a dangerous hush.

"Are you sure?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Fine. Then I'll give you exactly what you want."

On the second floor of the Hart Villa.

The bedroom door crashed open. He laid her on the bed, his kisses trailing down her body, clothes scattering like fallen leaves.

A soft moan escaped her. Her body burned, her mind fogged—dream and reality blurred.

A man's voice, thick with desire, whispered in her ear: "One last chance. Still want to sleep with me?"

Dazed, she nodded.

Timothy Hart opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a document.

"Then sign this first."

Aurora squinted at it, bleary-eyed. "What is it?"

"Being certified is the least a man can do for a woman he truly wants."

She stared, confused—but the alcohol pulled her under. Dazed, she signed.

Seeing the two neat, elegant characters—Aurora Wright—Timothy Hart finally let a faint smile curl his lips. He tucked the paper away and kissed her again, deeply, fiercely.

The room melted into heat.

...

Aurora woke to pain the next morning.

Her body ached—like it had been crushed by trucks. Every inch screamed.

She struggled upright, throat parched.

A glass of water sat on the nightstand. She grabbed it, drank it down.

Warmth soothed her. Hazy memories began to surface.

She rubbed her temples. She remembered getting into a car with a man. After two calls from Henry Thompson and Emily Wright—had she done something unforgivable?

Her heart lurched. She yanked the blanket off.

She'd braced herself. Yet the sight of the dark, scattered hickeys across her skin made her want to scream.

Ah—! How?

Frustrated, she tugged at her hair. Then—*click*.

She froze. Pulled the blanket over herself.

"Who?"

The door opened. A tall man stepped in, steady, composed.

Aurora's pupils contracted.

Even with her memory blurred, she remembered the man she'd been with.

Timothy Hart wore a black suit, a crisp white shirt buttoned to the top. Sharp brows, cold eyes—his presence radiated a forbidding chill.

In his hand: a set of women's clothes. Seeing she was awake, his expression didn't change.

He placed them on the nightstand. "Get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs."

Aurora gasped. "Wait—"

"Last night?"

He stood with his back to her. A faint smile tugged his lips—unseen. His voice, however, remained cool.

"Downstairs."

Then he left, closing the door with quiet courtesy.

Aurora lay still. Then flopped back, pulled a pillow over her face, and screamed silently.

Her memory was hazy—but not gone. Fragments pieced together. She knew what she'd done.

Ah—! So humiliating!

Regret changed nothing. After a moment, she dragged herself up, grabbed the clothes, and shuffled into the bathroom.

In the shower, seeing the bruises again—she blushed fiercely.

Finally dressed, she came downstairs. He was already on the sofa.

The living room was vast—black and white, modern minimalist. Floor-to-ceiling windows open to the breeze.

He turned at her footsteps. When his eyes met her—dressed in the black shirt-dress, neckline open, tied with a black ribbon, tall and elegant—his gaze deepened.

Without a word, he stood and walked to the dining room.

She followed, catching up just as they entered.

"Mr. Hart, I'm sorry about last night. I was drunk."

He pulled out her chair, then sat across. "It's fine."

A pause. Then: "It was my duty, after all."

"Huh?"

Before she could react, a man entered.

He handed Timothy Hart two red booklets. "President, the documents are ready."

Timothy Hart nodded, flipped through, then passed one to Aurora.

"Take a look."

Aurora blinked. That red booklet—familiar. Too familiar.

Her heart pounded. She snatched it.

There—her name. His name. The red passport photo.

Her eyes widened. "W-what is this?"

Timothy Hart glanced at her.

Calm. Unfazed. He set his own marriage certificate aside. "You signed it yourself. Already forgotten?"

Aurora stared. "I signed what?"

A soft chuckle. As if expecting it, he tapped the table. Owen stepped forward, handing her a form.

She read the bold header: Marriage Registration Form.