"What a coincidence, Amelie."
Four words, cold as ice.
Amelie's blood seemed to freeze in an instant. Every muscle in her body stiffened, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. Her heart thudded violently in her chest, but her body refused to obey, trapped in a paralyzing, frozen panic.
The voice wasn't loud, yet it cut through the whistling night wind with surgical precision, piercing her eardrums and embedding itself deep into her mind.
Inside the car, Christopher Hayden said nothing further. He didn't hurry her, didn't urge her to move. He simply watched, with the patience and focus of a predator studying its prey, taking in every flicker of tension and hesitation in her rigid form.
Each passing second of silence was a deliberate torture, a slow, meticulous assault on her nerves.
Amelie dared not run. She knew the car's engine was capable of catching her in a matter of seconds. She dared not speak; it was as if an invisible hand had clamped down on her throat, holding every word hostage.
After a moment, the rear passenger door of the Maybach slid open without a sound.
A sliver of dim light spilled into the night.
It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.
Amelie closed her eyes, letting her curled lashes filter the harsh glare of the streetlamp. When she reopened them, all she could see was a resigned, hollow acceptance. She lifted her stiff legs, each step painstaking, bending forward to slide into the car.
The door closed silently behind her.
The million-dollar luxury vehicle sealed her off from the world. Once inside, the outside noise vanished completely, leaving only the heavy quiet and the faint hum of the engine.
Immediately, Christopher's presence enveloped her. The sharp, almost intoxicating scent of cedar clung to her senses, filling every corner of the small interior, leaving no escape for her awareness.
He didn't look at her.
His gaze was fixed outside, on a solitary streetlamp flickering in the distance. The shadows cast across his angular face made him seem even colder, more untouchable. His left wrist rested casually on his knee, while his right thumb idly twisted the black agarwood prayer beads wrapped around it, each movement precise and deliberate.
Amelie curled into the corner of the car seat, wishing she could melt into the leather, disappear entirely.
She didn't speak. She only heard the frantic rhythm of her own heartbeat and the subtle, almost imperceptible tap-tap of the beads knocking against each other.
The drive was silent.
The Maybach glided smoothly through K City's streets, slipping into the private driveway of the Hayden estate. Finally, it came to a gentle, exact stop at the white marble steps leading to the main hall.
The driver moved swiftly, his steps quiet but efficient, opening the door on Christopher's side with perfect deference.
Christopher adjusted his cuffs and rose with the elegance of a man born to command. Without a backward glance, he strode up the steps, his long frame disappearing through the grand doorway in a matter of seconds.
Amelie remained in the car for several long moments.
It wasn't until the driver's quiet voice broke the silence—"Miss Amelie… we're home"—that her body shivered violently. She pushed the door open and fled, almost running into the house that glowed warmly with light yet felt suffocating, oppressive, inescapable.
Inside the grand dining hall, the Hayden family was mostly assembled.
A massive round table made of pearwood, capable of seating twenty, held over a dozen people that night. The Hayden family, one of K City's most prestigious dynasties, was ruled by strict etiquette, where hierarchy and respect were evident in every seat and posture.
Christopher Hayden, as the current head of the family, naturally occupied the main seat.
He wore a deep navy suit with delicate gold-threaded buttons. His gold-rimmed glasses rested precisely on the bridge of his nose, exuding calm authority.
As Amelie entered, every eye at the table fell on her.
"Amelie is back! Come, come sit here," called out the matriarch, Christopher's mother, waving her forward.
A seat had been saved beside her.
Amelie lowered her head as she walked over, voice barely above a whisper: "Grandmother… uncles and aunts."
She sat quietly, gaze fixed on the exquisite bone china in front of her, trying to disappear into her own composure.
The servants began bringing out dishes in a seamless, unhurried flow—cold appetizers, steaming soups, and then the main courses.
In the Hayden household, the rule was to eat in silence. Yet tonight, the atmosphere was different—thicker, charged with murmurs and subtle inquiries.
The aunt sitting beside Amelie nudged her gently with an elbow, smiling as she said, "Amelie is twenty this year. She's grown into such a graceful young woman. Grandmother, don't you think it's time we considered her marriage?"
The matriarch set down her cutlery, her gaze soft and affectionate. "Yes, indeed. Just the other day, I visited the Channing family for tea. Their eldest grandson, David, is well-educated, graduated from a prestigious university, accomplished, and now runs his own company. He's about her age."
Another woman interjected: "What about the Sterling family? I hear their son's prospects are even better."
The elders began to debate in earnest, discussing which young gentleman was worthy of the Hayden family's adopted daughter.
Every word pierced Amelie's ears like a needle. Her scalp tingled; her hands, holding a fork and a knife, began to sweat.
She stole a glance at the main seat.
Christopher sat there, a glass of wine in hand, swirling it slowly. He paid no attention to the chatter, his expression unreadable, utterly still.
The matriarch finally concluded, "I think Mayer is a fine choice. We should arrange a meeting for you two soon, yes, Amelie?"
All eyes returned to her, expectant.
Her lips trembled. A single word hovered on the tip of her tongue—Yes. If she agreed, perhaps she could escape the household, perhaps even Christopher Hayden.
Then, she heard it: the faintest clink of crystal against the table.
Christopher had set down his glass.
He lifted his gaze to his mother, calm, almost casual, his voice devoid of emotion:
"Mother, the Sterling family is nouveau riche, and the Channing family's reputation isn't as spotless as the rumors suggest."
He paused, picking up the serving chopsticks to place a piece of food into his mother's bowl, lips curling in the faintest, almost imperceptible smile:
"Our daughter isn't someone we can marry off so easily."
Heads nodded around the table.
"Christopher is right. We were thinking without foresight."
"Amelie's marriage should be guided by the second master," another elder murmured, reaffirming his authority.