Sebastian's response was clipped, final, and entirely dismissive of my surprise. "You don't have to know anything about that," he stated, his eyes hard and unyielding. "You just need to know that we're getting married now, and we'll be getting a divorce five years later. So sign on it."
My mind still churned with questions. I desperately wanted to understand his logic: why the sudden need for a wife, if the arrangement was temporary? Why the specific duration?
But observing him, I quickly realized he was the type of person who would not offer an explanation if he didn't want to, no matter how much I might press him. Pushing him further would be pointless and likely counterproductive.
I surrendered to the inevitable. I took the pen, signed my name on the marriage contract, and handed the file back to him.
He collected the agreement expressionlessly, dropped it onto the seat beside him, and another moment of awkward silence settled over us.
It was a suffocating, heavy quiet that persisted until the car finally pulled to a smooth stop.
I looked around, surprised to see we were parked in front of a popular, high-end retail establishment. It was a boutique specializing in luxury goods, the kind of place one only ever sees in glossy magazines.
To avoid naming specific brands, I categorized it instantly as a store on par with those renowned for opulence and exclusivity, designer brand . What on earth were we doing here?
I looked at Sebastian, my confusion evident. He didn't offer a single explanation.
"Get down from the car," he merely instructed, before opening his door and stepping out.
I followed him out of the vehicle. He led me directly to the store's entrance, and we walked inside.
One of the store attendants, a woman with immaculate makeup and an air of practiced refinement, spotted Sebastian and her face instantly transformed. She smiled so brightly that it felt like a spotlight was shining on us.
She spoke with a breathless eagerness, as if seeing a long lost idol.
"What do you need, Mr. Dalton? I'll be sure to assist you to the best of my abilities."
Sebastian offered the assistant an indifferent nod. He didn't acknowledge her effusive welcome. Instead, he simply pointed a finger at me.
"Make her pretty," he ordered.
The words were a direct hit. I felt a surge of offense so sharp it made my blood heat. Make her pretty? Was he insinuating that I wasn't pretty before?
My clothes might have been old and worn from years of overuse and excessive washing, but I kept them impeccably clean.
And while I never wore makeup, I looked in the mirror every day. I knew I was beautiful—truly beautiful. Our neighbors had often joked that I was too pretty to be the daughter of my parents, not because my parents were unattractive, but because my looks were of a distinct, elevated breed.
I had never been called ugly in my life. This was the first time, and my already low opinion of Sebastian plummeted further.
I had to actively restrain myself from snapping at him. Maybe he's just blind, I reasoned, struggling to regain control.
Maybe he simply doesn't know how to appreciate natural beauty. This thought, vain though it was, was the only thing that managed to settle my anger.
The store assistant then turned her attention to me. She looked at my face first, and I saw a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes.
The vain part of me thought, Yes, that's morelike it. That's the reaction I usually get. I felt a momentary satisfaction. I was simply that pretty.
Then the assistant's gaze dropped to my clothes. Her lips curled into a subtle, undeniable sneer of disdain.
I felt speechless. One person had openly disdained my face, while the other had silently disdained my clothing. The contrast was humiliating.
The assistant immediately pasted her bright smile back onto her face for Sebastian. "Mr. Dalton, I will try my best to make her as pretty as possible."
She then spun toward me, the bright smile vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold, businesslike expression. "Follow me," she commanded.
I followed her, marveling inwardly at her skill.
Her ability to change her facial expression within seconds was a theatrical talent.
Though the assistant was snobbish, I had to admit she knew her job. When she was finally finished with me, even I was astonished by the transformation.
I had changed out of my old clothes and into a thigh-length black gown that was so exquisite, I instantly fell in love with it.
My hair had been thoroughly washed and styled. It shone beautifully and was swept up into a chic, messy, yet elegant hairdo.
I was wearing ten-centimeter heels that were incredibly delicate and pretty. I was grateful that, in my mother's absence, I used to practice walking in her shoes, despite the difference in size.
Without that secret practice, I was sure I would be disgracing myself by stumbling in these expensive shoes now. A light amount of makeup highlighted my features, bringing out a stunning contrast.
I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. I could see that I wasn't the only one who thought I looked beautiful; the jealousy and envy were clear on the store assistant's face.
Finally tearing myself away from the reflection, I addressed the assistant politely. "Are we done here? Can I leave?"
The assistant snapped out of her own trance. "Yes, we're done. I will take you back to Mr. Dalton now."
We returned to where Sebastian was waiting. He looked me up and down, his face utterly expressionless, and then offered his assessment.
"That's more like it," he commented.
I fought the urge to reach out and scratch his tongue out. If he didn't know how to offer a proper compliment, he should have just shut up.
Was "that's more like it" supposed to be praise? Though I was fuming internally, I kept a placid smile plastered on my face.
"Then, please, is there a reason why I'm dressed up like this?" I asked.
Sebastian turned to walk toward the exit after paying the massive bill, and I hurried to follow him. I needed answers.
"Please answer me," I pressed, following him out onto the sidewalk. "Where are we going from here? Because I don't believe I just got dressed up like this merely for the sake of dressing up."
I saw Sebastian frown, as if the mere sound of my voice was irritating him. He opened the car door and got in, and I quickly followed. Once settled beside him, he finally spoke.
"I didn't know dressing like this is considered 'dressing up' to you," he said, his tone still dismissive. "But I don't care what you think, because from now on, you must be dressing like this. I hate seeing people around me dressed so poorly and looking all tattered."
I wanted to immediately argue that I had never looked tattered, but he didn't give me the chance. He continued talking, effectively silencing me.
"As you have guessed, we still have somewhere else to be."
I waited, expecting him to offer more information—where we were going, what the purpose was.But He said nothing more.
He was definitely finished talking. I couldn't help but mutter my frustration under my breath.
"If you don't like talking that much, why don't you pray to God to make you mute then?"
The car was quiet for a beat. Then, Sebastian spoke, his voice dangerously low, sending a sharp chill down my spine.
"Are you talking about me?"
My self-preservation instinct instantly took over. I quickly denied it. "No, I wasn't talking about you," I stammered, wondering what incredible hearing he possessed to catch such a softly muttered comment.
"I thought so," he said, the danger receding but not entirely gone.
The car fell silent once more, and this time, I didn't dare break it. We continued driving into the unknown.