Fate's Gift: The CEO's Reluctant Bride

That evening, Sandra finished grading papers early and hurried home, scheming a little surprise. Philip still hadn't returned. As she tiptoed into her room, the front door creaked open. "You mean Sandra?" Her grin died instantly at Philip's voice—frostbitten and alien—cutting through the living room. "Ten years of designer clothes and gourmet meals. She's primed to perfection now." Perfection? For what? Her hand froze on the doorknob. Pulse hammering in her throat, she listened as his tone turned transactional: "Still pure. They'll pay top dollar for this... I raised her all these years just to deliver her to—" The rest drowned in static. Her mind exploded with a cicada's deafening screech. Then—clarity. Run. The second Philip's footsteps faded upstairs, Sandra wrenched open her door and fled into the darkness like a hunted animal, abandoning everything behind. Somehow, he'd heard her. Before she'd crossed the street, his voice lashed through the night like a whip: "Sandra! Where do you think you're going?" Her bare feet slapped against cold concrete as primal terror screamed in her skull: If he catches me, my life will be shattered beyond recognition! As she dashed across an intersection, headlights swallowed her shadow—Philip's Ferrari roared inches behind her. Consumed by the hunt, he never saw the eighteen-wheeler barreling toward them. CRASH! The deafening collision sent shockwaves through the street. Whirling around, Sandra watched in horror as the truck rammed Philip's car into a roadside tree. The crumpled hood spewed steam, the driver's head lolling against the airbag. Her chest clenched with conflicting instincts. Ten years of shared meals, of his hand brushing hers as he passed teacups... Every tender moment now reeked of deception. Yet when his fingers twitched weakly, her traitorous legs carried her toward the wreck. The door resisted her frantic tugs. Then—through the shattered window—Philip's eyes flew open, the whites stained crimson. With his last strength, those manicured hands she'd once admired locked around her throat... Days later, in a windowless concrete tomb: SPLASH! Icy water shocked Sandra back to consciousness. Gasping, she heard Jackie's lethal whisper: "That night...when my brother...Sandra. Tell me. Why. Did. You. Run?" Jackie's voice was icy, laced with venomous fury. "After the accident, why didn't you call for help? How could you just watch him die?!" The sharp pain from biting her tongue helped clear Sandra's fogged mind. Philip had raised her for ten years. All of Omaha knew the eldest Champion son held dearest only two people—his rebellious brother Jackie who'd left the family, and Sandra herself. Yet days ago, Philip had met his end because of her. "Why couldn't it have been you instead?" Jackie's whisper carried lethal calm. "Second Brother." Sandra's throat burned, her involuntary writhing lending unwitting seductiveness to her plea. Jackie's face twisted into something feral. "You dare call me that?!" Even blindfolded, just hearing that tone made Sandra's chest constrict painfully. His palm seared against her burning-hot flesh. "My brother raised you, and you let him die!" Jackie's laugh was hollow as his fingers dug into her jaw. "Are you really made of stone?!" His eyes burned with soul-scorching hatred. For years away from home, Jackie had respected only Philip in the entire Champion family. He'd kept an eye on this stray they'd taken in because his brother doted on her. Now his eldest brother was dead—because of her. Jackie watched Sandra's face turn purple with strain beneath his grip, her struggles weakening until, when her gasps turned to wheezes, he suddenly let go."You love running so much?" Jackie tore away the blindfold, flooding her vision with light as he pointed to a camera by the bed, enunciating each venom-drenched word: "Tonight, I'll make sure you remember this for life." Each syllable was a verdict carved in blood and tears. From this moment on, she'd forfeit all right to happiness! That camera's red light blinked like a predator's eye—he'd stomp her dignity into the mud beneath his feet. His face, chiseled perfection masking cruel beauty, belonged to a devil straight from hell. In his mind, Philip's death was blood on Sandra's hands. But even if she shouted the truth until hoarse about what she'd overheard that night, would Jackie believe her? Philip had been his idolized older brother—his flesh and blood! And Sandra? All of Omaha now spat her name like rotten meat: that backstabbing ingrate who'd thrown a tantrum, fled the Champion estate, and let the family's golden heir die chasing after her. They whispered how she'd watched, cold-eyed, as her benefactor drowned in his own blood. What fool would trust the word of such a spoiled brat? Hell, she barely believed it herself. A grieving heart needs someone to blame, and Sandra was the perfect scapegoat. Philip had doted on her, and her childish recklessness had gotten him killed! Now Jackie would break her for it. The drugs coursed through her veins like liquid fire—Sandra's nails drew blood from her palms as the haze thickened. Terror ripped through her chest in a raw scream: "Jackie! You're just like Philip—a monster!" His grip tightened like a vise. Outside, thunder swallowed her cries whole. Her skin burned as if scalded, then soothed by ice, the merciless pendulum between extremes dragging her deeper into the abyss. Caught between inferno and ice, her mind shattered. "Bam bam bam!" Frantic pounding shattered the dank cellar's silence all at once, making the heavy door rattle in its frame.