Marrying My Ex-Fiancé's Cousin

Inside the private hospital's VIP ward, Sandra leaned weakly against the bed, sipping the warm water Alan had poured for her.

"Alan, I heard from the maid that Isolde came home this morning in a Rolls-Royce," she said softly. "She didn't come back last night… Do you think she might have stayed out because she was upset and did something foolish?"

"No." Alan didn't even look up. His long, elegant fingers moved awkwardly over an apple as he tried to peel it.

"Isolde would never do something that betrays me. Besides, she told me she wanted to get married today." His tone was calm but absolute.

"You're getting married?" Sandra's eyes widened, jealousy flaring like wildfire.

Her husband was dead. Alan was now the father of her child. Why did Isolde always have to compete with her? Couldn't she let Alan go just once?

The phone on the bedside table rang sharply, and Alan picked it up.

Ruth's irritated voice burst through the receiver. "Alan! What's wrong with that Isolde? She just left the house with a suitcase! She's gone, so who's going to take care of everything now? Who's going to cook for Sandra?"

"She left?" The knife in Alan's hand froze midair. His pupils narrowed in disbelief. She had hinted at the marriage certificate today. What was she playing at now?

"Why is she so bad-tempered? You've already agreed to marry her. What more could she want? Any woman would be lucky to have a man who spoils her like you do… Unlike me, my husband's gone…" Ruth finished.

Meanwhile, Sandra lowered her gaze, tears dripping quietly onto the white bedsheet. "You should go talk to her, Alan. Don't worry about me. If I don't feel well, I can always call a nurse. They're busy, but… I'll manage somehow."

Alan looked at Sandra, who was frail, gentle, and trying her best to stay strong. Then he thought of Isolde, always stirring trouble. Frustration flared through him.

'My mother is right. Isolde really has been spoiled,' he thought. 'Sandra is pregnant, yet Isolde shows no empathy, no sense of decency. She's jealous, irrational—and now she storms out of the house? Completely absurd.'

His expression hardened as he called his assistant. "Freeze all of Isolde's cards immediately. Once she runs out of money, she'll have no choice but to come home."

...

After five IV drips, Isolde finally felt as if she had crawled back from the edge of death.

The caregiver, May Reeva, approached hesitantly, holding out a card. "Ms. Vancrest, I just went to pay your medical fees, but the card was declined. It seems your account has been suspended."

"Suspended?" Isolde's foggy mind cleared in an instant, like ice water had been poured over her.

After their engagement, she had turned down a top-tier job offer to work at Alan's company, the Princeton Group, as the so-called "CEO's fiancée." She managed projects, oversaw operations, and practically ran his empire beside him. Because of that, she had never been on the official payroll.

Alan had handed her control of the company's finances and given her an unlimited black card for expenses. What had once been a gesture of trust and affection had now become a weapon turned against her.

How ironic. He could lift her to the heavens when he adored her and crush her the moment he didn't.

May fidgeted as she whispered, "Ms. Vancrest, you'll have to settle the bill before you can be discharged… and there's my caregiver fee too. Should I call your parents?"

Her parents were in Northbridge, both in poor health. If they learned she couldn't even afford her hospital bills, it would break their hearts. Alan knew she'd never want to worry them. However, what he didn't know was that she wouldn't throw a tantrum or wait for him to come begging this time.

She truly didn't want him anymore. Even if it meant dying on the street, she would never return.

Isolde slipped the dazzling diamond ring from her finger and said steadily, "May, please take this to a nearby luxury resale store and sell it."

She hadn't realized she was still wearing it when she packed her things in a hurry. Perhaps it was fitting. It could buy her a way out. Love that had already died might as well serve one last purpose.

She picked up her phone and called someone.

"Mr. Davis, please help me file for labor arbitration. Yes, against Alan Princeton. He never gave me a contract and withheld my salary for three years." Her tone was cool and resolute.

...

When she left the hospital, Isolde took a cab straight to Crestmont Estate.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, she looked up at the vast property that stretched across the hillside like a sleeping beast. It was familiar and suffocating all at once.

The memories she had fought to bury surged back in waves. If she weren't desperate, she would never have returned. But Alan was powerful and vindictive. He wouldn't let her go easily, and her parents could become collateral damage if she resisted.

If she wanted to sever ties completely and walk away unscathed, she needed someone stronger—someone even Alan feared. That person was Bruce Princeton, Alan's cousin and the true heir of the Princeton family.

He was brilliant, ruthless, and dangerously capable. In the family's internal power struggle, Bruce was the one everyone expected to win. Even Alan had to lower his head and treat him respectfully. No one in Southbridge dared challenge Alan when it came to women, except Bruce.

Isolde took a long breath, then another, until her pulse steadied. She clutched her small suitcase and stepped forward, determination hardening her gaze. She would face him, whatever it took.

The butler, Walter Williams, a man in his fifties dressed in a crisp suit, hurried forward with a polite smile. "Ms. Vancrest, welcome home. Mr. Bruce had to leave on urgent business overseas. He won't be home for a few days."

'He's not home? Perfect!' The tightness in her chest eased.

Walter caught the flicker of relief on her face and smiled knowingly as he led her into the main villa. "This is your room, Ms. Vancrest. Everything has been prepared—clothes, jewelry, daily necessities. If anything doesn't suit you, it will be replaced immediately."

He gestured toward a table. "Here is your allowance: an unlimited black card, 1 million in cash, and a 15-million-dollar check for your personal use. These are the household staff assigned to serve you—108 people in total, rotating in three shifts. You'll be cared for around the clock."

Isolde froze, staring at the rows of maids and attendants. "That's… far too many."

It was more than ten times the luxury she'd had with Alan.

Walter smiled modestly, as if it were ordinary. "Ms. Vancrest, your husband is Bruce Princeton. Compared to him, Mr. Alan's household is, shall we say, provincial. What Mr. Alan couldn't give you—what he didn't deserve to give you—Mr. Bruce considers the bare minimum.

"From now on, everything you wear, use, or touch will be of the highest standard. Mr. Bruce instructed that you live in complete comfort. You need not concern yourself with anything else."

Isolde was speechless. The extravagance was dizzying.

Bruce's face, his deep, commanding gaze, and the low rasp of his breath when he was close flashed across her mind. She even remembered the small mole beneath his collarbone, glistening with sweat.

She crushed the thought quickly, steadied herself, and said quietly, "Walter, please let me know before Bruce returns."

"Of course, Ms. Vancrest. Also, your wedding ceremony is scheduled for the 28th of this month. A top-tier team will handle the arrangements, but the style, venue, and gown selection must be approved by you. When would you like to discuss the details?"

"You can decide," she said too quickly.

"Oh, Ms. Vancrest, that won't do. It's your wedding. Your happiness comes first. Mr. Bruce gave strict instructions that everything must reflect your taste."

'My taste…' The words stung.

When she and Alan held their engagement party, it was a small, joyless affair controlled entirely by Ruth. No one had asked what she wanted.

Alan had promised that someday he would make it up to her with a grand wedding ceremony. Three years later, that promise had turned to dust. And now Bruce was the one to fulfill it instead.

It was truly ironic.

Isolde wondered what Alan would think when he saw her walk down the aisle. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "I'm free these days."

"Very well, Ms. Vancrest. Please rest for now. If you need anything, there's a call button by your bed that connects directly to my office." With that, Walter bowed and closed the door behind him.

As the door clicked shut, a pair of dark, unreadable eyes lingered from the end of the dim hallway. A tall figure stood half-hidden in shadow, his presence heavy and suffocating.

He didn't move. He simply stared at the closed door, his gaze sharp and unnervingly intent, as if it could burn through the wood and reach the woman inside.