Treat Me Like A Dog, My Bride Will Never Be Her

As if kissing him once wasn’t enough, Giselle clung to Davis’s waist and pulled him into another deep kiss, shamelessly ignoring the people around her.

When they finally parted, Davis shot me a smug glance, feigning embarrassment.

“Giselle, everyone’s watching… Let’s save the rest for when we get home.”

The sales clerks, clearly well-trained, averted their eyes and kept their heads down.

I said nothing, only pressing my lips together—partly from disgust, partly from a wave of physiological revulsion.

Giselle misread my silence, her eyes glinting with triumph. She lifted her chin and sneered.

“So you do know you’re in the wrong. Then come over here and kowtow to Davis. Apologize.”

Before I could respond, Davis let out a delighted gasp.

“Giselle! This watch is amazing—I love it! Quick, let me try it on.”

But the sales clerk shook her head with a polite smile.

“I’m sorry, sir. This watch was custom-made for Young Master Orson. It’s a limited-edition piece—one of a kind. I’m afraid it’s not available for you to try on.”

With practiced hands, she lifted the watch from its tray and carefully secured it around my wrist.

Davis’s eyes locked onto the piece with undisguised envy. His expression darkened, greedy and resentful.

His cheeks flushed with humiliation.

“Young Master Orson, you know full well that Giselle and I are getting married next week. Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me with this custom-made watch?”

Getting married in a week?

But Giselle knows exactly what’s happening in a week—my birthday banquet. The one where my father will personally officiate my wedding.

It was supposed to be with her.

The wedding of the son of the richest man in the North Capital—a spectacle everyone would watch.

I turned to Giselle. Her eyes flickered away as she offered a lame explanation.

“When the time comes, just say you’re sick. Let Davis stand in for you. Once it’s over, I’ll stay with you for a couple more days. Isn’t that enough for you?”

She said it like she was offering me a gift.

I stared at her, stunned by the absurdity of it all—and then laughed, full of disbelief.

I had never in my life met someone so shameless.

She wanted the son of a nanny to steal my identity, take my place at the altar, enjoy the glory of my wedding—while I, the real groom, faked an illness and disappeared?

And she had the audacity to think I’d agree to it?

Thank God I pulled the plug in time and changed the bride.

Giselle, seeing I wasn’t speaking, grew bolder. Her tone turned commanding.

“That watch looks ugly on you anyway. Take it off and give it to Davis.”

“No.” I scoffed, voice cold. “Giselle, where on earth did you get the idea that I’d definitely marry you?”

She froze for half a second, then burst out laughing like I’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Are you serious? Besides me, who else would ever marry a shameless, pathetic lapdog like you?”

Before I could answer, she reached out and yanked the watch off my wrist and forced it onto Davis.

But it didn’t fit. The watch had been designed to my exact specifications. Davis struggled to fasten it, digging the strap into his wrist until the skin turned red.

Finally, he gave up, his voice trembling with grievance.

“Young Master Orson, if you didn’t want to give it to me, you could’ve just said so. Why humiliate me like this?”

Furious, Giselle snatched the watch back, stormed into the restroom and with a loud splash, flushed it down the toilet—five times.

Then she walked out, holding Davis like a wounded puppy. As they passed me, she threw me a final glare.

“Davis can’t wear it and trash like you doesn’t deserve to either!”

The watch was gone.

I had no idea how I was going to explain this to Sophia.

Before I could even think of a solution, she called me herself—calm and reassuring.

“Don’t worry about it. I already had a second one made overseas. It’ll be delivered in time for your birthday banquet.”

I finally breathed easy.

Later, I stopped by the studio, planning to retrieve the wedding dress my mother had designed for me. A legacy.

But just as I walked through the doors, the receptionist looked up with a bright smile and said, “Mr. Adam, Miss Giselle is upstairs right now.”

I paused.

Over the last five years, almost everyone in my life had come to believe I was hopelessly obsessed with Giselle.

So obsessed, they thought, that even in my most sacred space—my work—she could come and go as she pleased.