Rise After the Arranged Marriage
I kept my head down, watching my worn-out white canvas shoes leave faint marks on the bluestone slabs in front of the Scott family's door.
Old Mr. Scott sat in the study's armchair, fiddling with a walnut in his hand, his sharp eyes sweeping over me.
My foster parents immediately bowed deeply, their voices trembling with flattery: "Old Mr. Scott, just look at Nancy—her features are fair, and her nature is gentle. She'll surely keep the young master entertained."
Old Mr. Scott said nothing, only gestured toward the sofa beside him.
When I sat down, the leather on the sofa made a faint sound, so different from the old wooden chairs I used to sit on.
No one asked if I wanted any of it, just like no one ever asked if I wanted my foster parents to take me from the orphanage, or if I wanted to wake up before dawn every day to work.
Three days later, the Scott family's wedding cars stretched from the end of the street all the way to the other side, black cars decorated with bright red satin ribbons.
The makeup artist applied heavy makeup, and when she put on my lipstick, I stared at the stranger in the mirror and suddenly felt a surge of panic.
The wedding gown was heavy, its train dragging on the floor, making every step cautious and slow.
When the priest asked if I was willing to marry Mike Scott, I glanced at the man standing beside me.
He wore a white suit, his features handsome, but his eyes held no warmth. I parted my lips and finally said, "I do."
Neighbors pressed against the door, whispering, their voices drifting into my ears: "What a lucky break, an unwanted adopted daughter actually marrying into the wealthy Scott family."
"I heard the young master of the Scotts is accomplished and handsome. She really struck gold."
I ran my fingers over the pearls sewn onto the wedding gown, saying nothing.
At the time, I still naively believed that if I behaved and treated him well, he would eventually recognize my worth.
It wasn't until later that I understood—some people are never truly yours, no matter how hard you try to hold on.
During the first month after the wedding, Mike Scott was still somewhat courteous. He'd have the driver take me shopping and the servants prepare my favorite strawberries.
I thought days like that would go on forever.
Until one day, I found a restaurant receipt tucked inside his suit pocket.
Besides his name, the bill had a woman's name on it—Wendy.
My hands started trembling as I held the bill, my heart clenched tight, aching sharply.
I remembered my foster parents telling me before the wedding that Mike Scott had a childhood sweetheart, but for some reason, they had parted ways.
It turned out that girlfriend was Wendy.
That night, when Mike came home, he carried a faint scent of perfume.
I mustered up the courage to ask him, "Where did you go today?"
He hesitated for a moment, then replied casually, "Having dinner with a client."
His eyes avoided mine; he didn't look at me. I watched him, suddenly feeling like a stranger.
From that day on, Mike Scott came home later and later. Sometimes, he didn't come back all night.
I sat on the sofa in the living room, waiting for him to come back. The ticking of the clock echoed through the room, each tick striking my heart like a hammer. I only fell asleep leaning against the sofa as dawn approached.
When I woke, a blanket was draped over me, but Mike Scott was already gone.
I know, deep down he never really cared about me, yet I still didn't want to give up. I thought, maybe if I waited a little longer, he might change his mind.
Six months after the wedding, Mike Scott's name began appearing frequently in River City's gossip columns.
Every morning when I unlocked my phone, there were pictures of him with different women — today, hugging some actress at a hotel entrance; tomorrow, escorting a socialite home.
His assistant sent me screenshots of the news every day, then cautiously asked if I wanted to stop the stories.
Looking at the photos of Mike Scott smiling, my heart ached like it was being stabbed. For the first time, I told the assistant, "No need."
The assistant was silent on the phone for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, Young Madam."
After hanging up, I stood and walked over to the walk-in closet. It was enormous, packed with the jewelry and bags Mike Scott had given me, each piece expensive and sparkling so brightly it hurt my eyes.
I picked up a diamond necklace, the cold stones pressing against my neck, but I didn't feel a bit happy. These things felt like his way of making up for his coldness, for his betrayal.
I remembered when we first got married. Mike took me to the amusement park that day. The weather was beautiful, the sun warm.
He patiently waited with me in line for the carousel, holding my hand tight when I was scared. He said, "Nancy, I'll treat you well from now on."
Back then, I truly believed him. I thought when he said "treat me well," he meant it for a lifetime.
Only now do I realize it was nothing more than a careless word to him.
Once, I went to the company to deliver some documents to Mike Scott. Just as I reached his office door, I heard a woman's laughter from inside—it was Wendy's voice.
I pushed the door open and saw Wendy sitting on Mike Scott's desk, holding a cup of coffee, laughing wildly. Mike was sitting in his chair, looking at her with a tenderness completely unlike the way he looked at me. They both froze when they saw me come in.
Wendy jumped down from the table and walked up to me, a provocative smile on her face: "Mrs. Scott, what are you doing here?"
I looked at her without saying a word. Mike Scott stood up and came over, his tone edged with impatience: "Why didn't you tell me beforehand?"
I looked at him, my heart heavy with disappointment: "I came to deliver some documents."
I placed the documents on the table and turned to leave.
As I reached the door, I heard Wendy say, "Mike, she looks pissed off."
Mike said, "Don't mind her, let's keep talking."
I quickened my pace and stepped out of the company. The wind outside was fierce, making my eyes sting red.
I sat in the car, and finally, the tears I'd been holding back began to fall.
I knew, deep down, I was never the most important to him, but still, I wasn't ready to let go.
I thought maybe, if I tried a little harder, he'd finally see my worth.
Then one day, I saw a familiar face on the headlines. In the photo, Mike Scott held Wendy close, their touch intimate.
They stood at the airport exit, surrounded by reporters snapping photos. Mike's eyes were full of tenderness—a tenderness I had never seen before. My hand holding the phone trembled, my chest aching like I could hardly breathe.
Just then, my belly started to ache. I remembered the prenatal checkup at the hospital yesterday— the doctor had said the baby was perfectly healthy.
I was bursting to tell Mike Scott, but then I saw that kind of news. I bit back the pain and called him. The phone rang for ages before he finally answered.
"What?" Mike Scott's voice was sharp and impatient.
"I... my belly hurts a little. Could you come back and see me?" My voice cracked with tears.
"If your belly's hurting, go to the hospital. What do you want me for?" He finished speaking and then hung up the phone.
I stared at the phone screen as tears fell harder and harder.
I forced myself to stay strong, drove to the hospital, and the doctor told me the baby couldn't be saved.
I lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind a complete blank. I lost my child, and the baby's father was with another woman.
That night, when Mike Scott came home, he carried the scent of a stranger's perfume. He glanced at me and said, "Get some rest."
Then he went to the guest room, and from that moment on, the distance between us only grew. He stopped speaking to me entirely, not a single word, nor did he even look at me.
My phone suddenly vibrated—a video from an unknown number popped up.
I opened the video and saw Mike Scott sitting in a bar with a few friends. Wendy was leaning against him, holding a glass of red wine, smiling happily.
"Mike, when are you planning to divorce that woman?" A man joked, his voice dripping with mockery.
Mike took a sip of his drink and said casually, "When Wendy comes back, she'll naturally take her place."
"Marrying her was just the family’s decision."
"She's just an adopted daughter—does she really think she can firmly secure Mrs. Scott's spot?"
Wendy smiled softly, reaching up to wrap her arms around Mike's neck: "Mike, you can't lie to me."
At the end of the video, suggestive laughter echoed.
I threw my phone onto the sofa, my belly twisting in turmoil.
I rushed into the bathroom and bent over the toilet, vomiting.
After vomiting, I stared at myself in the mirror—pale face, swollen red eyes, completely drained of energy.
It turned out that, in his eyes, I was always just a stand-in—a replacement married off because of the patriarch's orders. Suddenly, it all felt absurd; my hopes and efforts over the past six months were nothing but a cruel joke to him.
The next morning, the servant brought in breakfast, followed by the delivery person. "Young Madam, the Young Master sent this jewelry for you."
The servant set down an exquisite jewelry box on the table. I stared at it, feeling a sharp sting of irony—so this is his way of making it up to me? Using these cold, lifeless things to mask his betrayal.
I opened the jewelry box. Inside lay a diamond bracelet, sparkling brilliantly.
I remembered when we first got married, I told Mike Scott that I liked bracelets. He said he'd buy me one when he had time. Now, he finally has—but I don't feel happy at all.
I closed the jewelry box and placed it in the corner of the table.
I don't want to see these things anymore; they only remind me how miserable I am.
In the afternoon, Mike Scott came home, with Wendy following him, wearing a pink dress.
That dress was the one Mike took me shopping for last time.
I liked it but thought it was too expensive, so I didn't let him buy it. Now, that dress was on Wendy.
Wendy walked up to me, wearing a fake smile: "Mrs. Scott, long time no see."
I stepped back to avoid her touch. "We're not close," I said coldly.
My voice was cold.
Wendy's face froze for a moment, then she looked at Mike with a hurt expression. "Mike, am I bothering you two? Maybe I should just leave."
Mike grabbed her hand, shielding her behind him. "As long as I'm here, no one's letting you go."
His gaze toward me was a cold warning: "Behave yourself. Don't cause any trouble."
Looking at the two of them, I suddenly felt this marriage had lost all meaning. I turned and walked back to my room, packing a few simple things. I thought, it's time to leave. This place will never feel warm to me again.
Before leaving the Scott family, I messaged my biological father, Tim Luke.
Half a month ago, he found me. He wore a neat suit and looked very gentle and refined. He told me I was the Luke family's long-lost daughter. Years ago, because of family strife, I was kidnapped by enemies and eventually taken in by my foster parents. He said that if I was willing, I could come back to the Luke family anytime.
At the time, I still clung to a faint hope that Mike Scott might change his mind.
Now, I see just how naive I was.
I messaged Tim Luke, telling him I was willing to return to the Luke family.
He replied soon after, saying the apartment was all set and I could go straight there.
Just as I stepped out of the Scott family's gate, Mike stopped me.
He reeked of alcohol, his eyes bloodshot. "Where are you going?"
He grabbed my wrist with a surprising strength. "Are you trying to throw a tantrum again?"
I wrenched my hand free, my voice cold: "Mike Scott, let's get a divorce."
He froze for a moment, then laughed. "Divorce? You think if you leave the Scott family, you have anywhere else to go?"
"Who would want you, an adopted daughter with no background?" His words stabbed into my heart like a knife, but I didn't care anymore.
"You don't have to trouble yourself with that."
I turned and walked away without looking back. I knew I'd never return to that place again.
I went to the apartment arranged by the Luke family. It was spacious and luxuriously decorated. From the balcony, I could see the boats on the river.
I took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift off my chest. Just as I stepped inside, my phone rang—it was my lawyer.
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