Married to the Bastard Who Will Save Me

I pushed the heavy steel door open, the rusted hinges whining in the quiet night. Humid, earth-scented air hit my face, chasing away the North District chill.

Rows of thriving, vibrant vines stretched across the greenhouse, bathed in the eerie, purplish-red glow of temperature-controlled lamps.

I walked down the center aisle, my shoes sinking slightly into the perfectly tilled soil. I reached out, brushing my fingertips against a broad, healthy green leaf. A small plastic tag hung from the trellis wire.

Red Heather. Year Three.

My lungs tightened. I dropped the rusted iron key. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.

Three years ago, Rowan stood in the main estate courtyard and loudly called my Red Heather project a total waste of soil. He mocked me in front of Grandfather. Yet here they were. Hundreds of saplings, carefully grafted and nurtured back to life. He had spent three years secretly saving my ruined legacy.

I stared at the thriving leaves, a strange, uncomfortable heat prickling the back of my neck. The bastard hated my family. But he had kept my vines alive.

Forty-eight hours later, the massive double doors of the main estate banquet hall loomed in front of us.

"Stand still," Rowan ordered.

He stepped into my space, his large hands reaching for the diamond clasp at the nape of my neck. He wore an old charcoal suit that pulled too tight across his broad shoulders, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. I wore my signature crimson silk gown, the exact dress Grandfather hated.

Rowan's rough knuckles brushed my skin. I flinched, expecting a vision, but nothing came. He simply twisted the silver chain until the pendant rested flat against my collarbone.

"Don't bait the old man tonight," Rowan said, his voice a low scrape against the faint classical music drifting through the doors. "Get in, smile for the cameras, and get out."

"I know how to handle my own family," I said, stepping away from his touch.

"You know how to get yourself cornered," he corrected, adjusting his cheap tie. "Keep your mouth shut unless spoken to. I'll handle the press."

"I don't need a bodyguard, Rowan."

"You need a miracle," he muttered. He pushed the brass handles down. The doors swung open.

Blinding camera flashes erupted the second we stepped onto the marble floor. The grand hall buzzed with the region's wealthiest socialites, all eager to witness the family's double announcement.

Across the room, Lucas stood by the champagne tower, his arm securely wrapped around Celeste's waist. They looked like a magazine cover.

I ignored them and scanned the crowd. I needed leverage.

My eyes locked on Richard Garrison, the board's Chief Financial Officer. He stood near the ice sculpture, swirling a glass of scotch. If Lucas was making moves on the company, Garrison signed the checks.

I marched straight toward him, leaving Rowan to fend off a swarm of reporters.

"Richard," I said, forcing a bright smile.

Garrison turned, his gray mustache twitching in surprise. "Ivy. I mean, congratulations on your recovery."

"Thank you," I said. I thrust my bare hand forward. "It means a lot to see you here."

Garrison hesitated, then reached out. His clammy palm met mine.

I gripped his fingers hard.

The banquet hall vanished.

Rain beat down on a black umbrella. A polished mahogany casket lowered into the ground.

"If I knew Lucas was going to hollow out the company, I wouldn't have helped him cook the books," Garrison's voice whispered, thick with panic. "The auditors are going to find the offshore accounts. We're all going to prison."

I yanked my hand back.

The string quartet music rushed back into my ears. Garrison blinked, rubbing his knuckles.

"Are you alright, Ivy? You look pale."

"I'm perfectly fine," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Cooked books. Offshore accounts. Lucas wasn't just trying to steal my shares. He was draining the entire empire dry.

I turned on my heel, scanning the room for Rowan. I needed to tell him.

A sharp clinking sound echoed through the hall.

Lucas stood on the main stage, tapping a silver spoon against his crystal flute. The room fell dead silent. Celeste beamed beside him, resting her chin on his tailored shoulder.

"Family and friends," Lucas projected, his voice smooth and commanding. "Tonight, we celebrate two new unions. Celeste and I are thrilled to step up and guide the family business into a new, prosperous era."

Polite applause rippled through the crowd.

Lucas raised his glass higher, his brown eyes locking onto mine.

"And we also wish the very best for my dear cousin, Ivy," Lucas continued, his tone thick with fake pity. "The crash took a terrible toll on her fragile mental state. We all know she isn't thinking clearly. But we support her choice. Even if that choice means settling for a man who is more accustomed to drinking gutter water than fine wine."

A cruel, collective snicker swept through the wealthy guests. Grandfather sat at the front table, swirling his red wine, not offering a single word of defense.

My nails dug into my palms. I opened my mouth to shout back, but a massive shadow stepped past me.

Rowan strode toward the stage. His heavy boots thudded against the pristine marble, drowning out the whispers.

A waiter froze in his path, balancing a silver tray of unopened, vintage champagne.

Rowan didn't slow down. He reached out and snatched a heavy green bottle by the neck.

He stopped exactly two feet from the edge of the stage. Lucas looked down at him, a smug, victorious smirk playing on his lips.

Rowan swung his arm.

The heavy glass bottle smashed against the marble floor right at Lucas's feet.

Foam and sharp shards exploded upward, tearing through the hem of Lucas's custom trousers. Celeste shrieked, jumping back and covering her face.

The entire hall gasped in stunned, terrified silence.

Rowan stared up at the golden boy, his green eyes dead.

"A toast to you."