Marrying My Ex-Fiancé's Cousin

"Ms. Vancrest, the matter Mr. Bruce is handling is particularly difficult this time. I fear it will take more than a few days," Walter explained. "He may not even return within a fortnight."

Isolde was at a loss for words. Evidently, a face-to-face conversation was out of the question. Online communication felt less polite, but she had no other choice.

Retrieving her phone, she found Bruce on WhatsApp, composed a message, and clicked send.

Isolde: [Are you busy? Can you spare a few minutes? There's something I need to tell you.]

A single gray check mark appeared beside her message. She stared at it, confused, for a full half-minute before understanding dawned.

She let out a knowing smile. 'Of course. Bruce only agreed to marry me to spite Alan. As for me... his feelings are likely unchanged from the past: distant, even disgusted. Why would he need or want to know if I went abroad?'

Silently, she put her phone away and turned back toward her room. She casually twisted off the ring and tossed it onto the bedside table, planning to sell it at a luxury reseller when she had a moment. The proceeds would nicely cover the 280,000-dollar commission Sandra had stolen from her.

"Ms. Vancrest, this is a calming candle to help you sleep," a maid offered, lighting the wick.

A tranquil fragrance soon permeated the room, and before long, Isolde fell into a deep slumber.

…

In the silent night, Isolde's bedroom door eased open from the outside. A tall, upright shadow moved soundlessly to her bedside. His gaze fell upon the ring on the table.

He reached out, his slender fingers closing around the band before curling into a tight fist. His knuckles turned white, as though he meant to crush the offending object. A thin line of blood slowly welled between his fingers and dripped to the floor.

The sharp pain caused the violent obsession churning in his eyes to recede slightly. He let out a self-mocking laugh, flicked his wrist, and threw the blood-stained ring into the trash can.

With deliberate restraint, his bleeding fingers brushed against her sleeping face. In the darkness, his gaze was so intense it was almost tangible.

"Isolde... don't ever think of leaving me again," he whispered.

…

Although Isolde's official start date abroad was a month away, she refused to waste time. She decided to begin organizing data immediately.

The necessary software and files were all stored on her personally purchased laptop, which she had left at the company. As such, she had to retrieve it.

When Isolde arrived at the Princeton Group, news of her presence reached Alan's office instantly.

"Mr. Princeton, Ms. Vancrest has returned to the office."

Alan set down his documents with a faint, expectant smile. "Finally, she's willing to back down."

He withdrew an exquisite velvet jewelry box from his desk drawer.

"Have this delivered to her. It's the pink diamond necklace I just acquired at the auction. And book a candlelight dinner. I'll dine with her tonight." He paused, reconsidering. "No, I'll go personally."

…

The moment Isolde entered the project department, she sensed an unusual atmosphere. Her former assistant, Mia Blake, was desperately trying to catch her eye with meaningful looks.

As expected, when she walked into her old office, she found Sandra occupying her desk. She was lounging leisurely in Isolde's custom-made chair with an openly provocative expression.

"Oh my, Isolde. Weren't you fired? How do you have the nerve to come back? I thought you had more backbone." Her tone dripped with contempt, and she made no move to rise. "But even if you're back, this office is mine. As the director and your direct superior, the best position belongs to me."

She gestured through the glass wall toward the most remote corner, where a workstation was piled with miscellaneous items. "You should sit over there."

The move from a private office to a cluttered desk was a profound humiliation.

Isolde observed Sandra's mean and smug appearance and laughed coldly to herself. This was just an unwanted office in an obsolete department. She didn't care.

"Where is my computer?" she asked coldly.

"Over there." Sandra curled her lip and nodded with ill intent toward a trash can. "It's just a broken computer, and you still want it? How stingy. If you want it, go fish it out yourself."

Isolde looked. Her laptop, along with her other personal belongings, had been dumped in the bin and were now covered in bread crumbs and coffee stains.

Her expression darkened completely.

Sandra supported her bulging belly as she stood and stepped closer. From an angle invisible to others outside, her expression twisted into something vicious. "You already left. Why did you come back?

"My husband is dead. Alan is my child's father now. He's my only support. Why must you haunt me like a ghost and compete with me? Can't you be sensible and just give him to me?"

Isolde was nearly breathless with incredulous anger. The woman's logic was utterly unhinged.

Sandra continued, "Isolde, did you know? I never conceived through IVF. We slept together for so many, many nights. At first, he was still guilty, blindfolding himself while venting his passion on my body, calling your name.

"Later... he could even hold me and pant in front of the mirror. He has been my man for a long time. With me here, there is no place for you in this family!"

As the final word fell, Sandra suddenly grabbed Isolde's hand and slapped herself with it, falling backward with the momentum.

"Ah!" Sandra screamed as she landed on the floor. She covered her cheek, her expression instantly shifting back to that of an innocent, pitiful rabbit.

"Isolde!" An angry roar erupted from the doorway.

Alan strode in and carefully helped Sandra up while shoving Isolde away. "She's pregnant with my child! How could you be so vicious?"

The push was forceful. Isolde was caught off-balance and slammed her lower back into the sharp corner of the desk. An excruciating pain, as if her spine had snapped, shot through her. Her face turned deathly pale, and a cold sweat broke out instantly.

However, Alan had eyes only for Sandra, sternly rebuking Isolde. "Apologize to her right now!"

Sandra's eyes gleamed with triumphant satisfaction as she nestled against Alan's chest. Meanwhile, her tone was a careful blend of wounded grace and feigned generosity. "Alan, don't blame her… I'm not really hurt.

"Isolde has every right to be angry. It's all my fault. If not for the Princeton bloodline, I never would have… Isolde, you can slap me as many times as it takes to feel better."

Watching Sandra's tearful performance of compromise and then comparing it to Isolde's stony silence, Alan felt a surge of hatred for his former lover. His icy gaze brimmed with disgust.

As Isolde watched the two cling to each other, a wave of nausea churned in her stomach. The emotional ache for a moment surpassed the severe pain in her back.

"You said I could slap you as many times as I wanted?" Isolde repeated coldly.

She raised her hand and delivered two sharp, resounding slaps across Sandra's face.

"Fascinating! I have never met someone so eager to be struck. Are two slaps enough? If not, I will gladly give you a few more, free of charge," she said mockingly.