"Master, you're hurting me."

Dante’s expression darkened. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and struck her.

The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the room, fueled by his fury.

The frail woman staggered backward under the force of the blow, her body crashing against the edge of a marble tea table.

A vivid handprint bloomed across her once-pale face, her skin swelling instantly. A thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her lips, adding to her battered appearance.

"Where is Violet Sinclair?"

Dante's voice was as cold and sharp as a blade, his gaze hard with scrutiny.

The audacity of the Sinclair family.

Today was meant to be his wedding day with Violet, yet instead of his bride, a complete stranger sat before him.

The young woman struggled to stand, but her weakened body failed her. She collapsed once more, her hand landing on shattered glass. A sharp sting shot through her fingers, pain radiating up her arm.

Blood dripped onto the floor, yet Dante remained unmoved, watching in silent indifference.

Biting down against the pain, she clenched her trembling fingers. Her body was fragile, but in that moment, she revealed a quiet, unyielding strength.

With sheer determination, she pushed herself upright once more.

She turned to face Dante's frosty expression and finally understood his cruelty.

By the large bed stood two street vagrants, their sleazy grins stretched wide. Their bodies were filthy, their clothes unwashed for months, exuding an overwhelming stench.

So this was his plan. He wanted them to violate and humiliate her. What a cruel and ruthless man.

It was clear he harbored deep hatred for Violet; otherwise, his actions wouldn’t have been this brutal.

But what he didn’t know was that Violet had already fled.

Instead, she had been sent here as a replacement—delivered by her so-called father.

She was Silas Sinclair’s illegitimate daughter, Helena, the child of the mistress he had kept outside his home.

Silas had never truly acknowledged her. He provided for her and her mother, but barely spared them a glance.

Three years ago, when her mother fell ill and began to age, Silas quickly grew tired of her. Not only did he refuse to pay for her treatment, but he also cut off their living expenses altogether.

Helena had long known the truth—Dante’s marriage to Violet was nothing more than an act of revenge. Violet had unintentionally pushed Dante’s fiancée off a cliff, causing him to lose the woman he loved.

Terrified, Violet had refused to marry him. And so, their selfish, cruel father had sent Helena in her place.

Before coming here, she had already steeled herself.

Because she knew—Dante’s intention in marrying Violet had never been love.

It was vengeance.

Helena hadn’t expected Dante to be this cold and ruthless—to humiliate her on the very first night of their so-called marriage.

Clearly, Silas had known exactly what kind of fate awaited his daughter here. That cunning, despicable man cared too much for Violet to send her into Dante’s hands, so he had offered up Helena instead.

But she was not Violet.

And she would not let Dante trample over her so easily.

After all, she couldn’t just let herself be broken on the first night of her marriage, could she?

A cold laugh escaped her lips, sharp with anger.

"Truly, a newlywed night to remember for a lifetime. Master Holt, your cruelty is unmatched—I’ll be sure to keep this in mind."

Blood trickled from her fingertip, staining the floor in vivid streaks.

She wiped her injured hand against the hem of her dress, smearing red across the pale fabric. Then, with a calmness that did not belong to a helpless victim, she met Dante’s gaze and smiled.

"Shall we continue, or have you had your fun?"