"I'll marry the Harrington heir—the one in a vegetative state." Scarlett Winslow leaned against the ornate doorframe of the Winslow family estate, a slender cigarette between her fingers. The crimson ember flickered in the dimly lit hallway. Mr. Winslow's cigar fell to the floor, burning a black hole into the expensive Persian rug. He shot up from his leather chair, the screech of wood against marble piercing the air. "You're serious? The Harringtons are pushing for the wedding next week. What kind of gown do you want? I'll have Milan rush an order—" "That's it?" Scarlett exhaled a smoke ring, her red lips curling into a mocking smile. "Not even a thank-you for taking the fall for your bastard daughter?" "Watch your mouth!" His face darkened, veins bulging at his temples. "She's your sister!" "My mother only had me." She stubbed out her cigarette in an antique vase. "That lovechild from your affair twenty years ago doesn't count." The air turned to ice. Mr. Winslow clenched his fists, voice trembling. "What do you want?" "Twenty billion." She adjusted her cuffs lazily. "And transfer Vincent Sterling to guard your precious Daisy." "Have you lost your mind?!" He slammed the desk. "Vincent is your most trusted bodyguard! Last time, you nearly cut ties with me over him!" Scarlett turned to leave. "Deal!" Mr. Winslow called after her. "The money and the transfer will be arranged by the wedding day." He exhaled in relief. Originally, this marriage was meant for Daisy. Who knew the Harrington heir would end up comatose? At least there was still his eldest daughter... The click of her heels stopped abruptly. "Why give up Vincent?" Mr. Winslow couldn't resist asking. "I thought you were obsessed with him." Scarlett's back stiffened for a fraction of a second. She didn't answer, slamming the door behind her. The mansion was silent in the dead of night. As Scarlett passed the second-floor hallway, she heard muffled gasps from a room. A sliver of warm light cut across the carpet like a glaring line. Against her better judgment, she paused. Through the crack, she saw Vincent Sterling propped against the headboard, his sculpted chest glistening with sweat. One hand clutched a photo while the other moved frantically beneath the sheets. "Daisy..." His voice was rough with unfamiliar tenderness. "My little princess..." It was a photo from Daisy's birthday last year—the girl in white standing before a cake, her smile painfully pure. Scarlett's nails dug into her palms. Three years ago, she had picked Vincent out of twenty bodyguards at first glance. At 6'2" with broad shoulders and a face like carved marble, he was lethal. But it was his eyes—dark as ink—that undid her. Everyone knew Scarlett Winslow was a temptress. She'd pretend to be drunk and collapse into his arms, only for him to set her upright like a misbehaving kitten. She'd knock on his door in silk pajamas at midnight, and he'd bundle her up in his suit jacket before escorting her back. Once, she even faked drowning in the pool—he saved her without so much as touching her waist. She thought he was simply cold by nature. Until three nights ago, when she saw him pleasuring himself to Daisy's photo and overheard his phone call: "Vincent, how long will you keep playing bodyguard? Just confess to Daisy already." "She's fragile," Vincent had replied, his voice achingly gentle. "I need to take it slow." "And Scarlett? The whole circle knows she's chasing you." A low chuckle. "How could she compare to Daisy?" Her world had shattered then. Now, Vincent's breathing grew ragged. Scarlett shoved the door open, her heels cracking against marble. "M-Miss Winslow?" Vincent yanked the sheets over himself, his usually composed face cracking with panic. She strode to the bed, looking down at him. "Don't stop. Show me how you fantasize about my sister."