The late afternoon sun slanted across the marble floor, casting a melancholic golden hue on everything. Clara sat by the tall window, her fingers gently tracing the cold glass. Last night's dream still haunted her, like an old film reel playing on repeat in her mind. Anna's tragedy, the helplessness, the pain of poverty... all of it had forged the resilient and cautious Clara of today.
That afternoon, the atmosphere within the mansion suddenly grew taut as a wire. The usual stillness was broken by more hurried footsteps, hushed whispers in the corners of corridors, and the frequent glances of servants towards the grand gate. Clara didn't need anyone to tell her; something important was about to happen. A sense of anticipation mixed with trepidation enveloped the entire Goldsmiths family estate. The only one who could cause such a stir here was one person.
Butler Reid appeared before Clara as twilight descended. Her usually severe face seemed carved from iron, showing no outward emotion, but those sharp eyes held a flicker of alertness and a touch of... urgency?
"Madam," her voice was even, like water flowing over stones, "Mr. Jonathan Goldsmith will be arriving shortly. He requests that Madam join him for dinner."
Mr. Jonathan Goldsmith. The name left the butler's lips lightly, but landed like a boulder in Clara's mind. The mysterious man, the master of the Goldsmiths family, the fated husband whom the system had tasked her with eliminating. He, at last, was making his presence known.
Clara gave a slight nod, a small gesture but enough to conceal the turbulence churning in her chest. "I understand."
Butler Reid bowed formally and turned away, her posture still rigid and professional. Clara saw her giving silent instructions with her eyes to other servants, who quickly dispersed like obedient ghosts, preparing for the master's return. The dining room was rearranged, the crystal chandeliers' brightness adjusted, everything had to be perfect, not a speck of dust, not a single wrinkle. This meticulous preparation only added to her tension.
Returning to her room, Clara chose a light blue silk dress, simple but elegant. She looked at herself in the mirror. Clara's face held the delicate features of a young woman in her twenties, but in the depths of her eyes was the maturity and resilience of someone who had tasted enough of life's tragedies. She didn't try to apply elaborate makeup or disguise anything, just kept her appearance as authentic as possible. This meeting wasn't about gaining favor; it was about observing, about probing.
Then, the sound of an engine gradually echoed, penetrating the layers of the mansion's solid walls. Closer and closer, clearer and clearer. It wasn't just noise; it was like drums announcing the arrival of a powerful force. The car stopped. A sudden, heavy silence fell, thick as lead. Clara stood by the window, her heart pounding as if it wanted to leap from her chest.
Bodyguards in black suits stepped out first, their cold eyes sweeping rapidly around the area, like hunting hawks. Then, a car door opened.
He stepped out. Jonathan Goldsmiths.
Even seeing only his back from a distance, Clara felt an intense aura radiating from the man. He was tall and straight, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean waist. His walk was steady, each step seemingly treading on power. He didn't glance around, simply walked casually into the mansion, as if the entire place was merely an extension of himself.
Clara descended to the dining room as guided by Butler Reid. The room was like an art museum, filled with precious paintings and antique furniture. The dazzling crystal chandeliers shone down on the long dining table, reflecting brilliantly off the silver and crystalware. Only two place settings were arranged, facing each other at either end of the table.
And then, he walked in.
Jonathan Goldsmiths.
When he turned, Clara's eyes met his. Every image she had conjured of a brutal, terrifying monster collapsed. He did not possess the rough appearance of a magnate. On the contrary, he was captivatingly handsome, with sharp features sculpted as if from marble, deep eyes like bottomless black lakes, and a faint smile playing on his lips. This elegant, noble appearance was a complete contrast to his reputation and the chilling stories about him.
"Clara," his voice was deep and melodious, like an ancient tune, utterly devoid of coldness or cruelty. " I apologize for my absence these past few days."
It took Clara a few seconds to collect herself. His appearance was shocking enough, but this voice and attitude confused her even more. Was this Jonathan Goldsmiths? The man she had to kill to escape? The man rumored to be cold-blooded, ruthless, treating human lives like dirt? He was standing here, greeting her with the politeness of a true gentleman?
"It's my pleasure to greet you... Jonathan," she replied, trying to steady her voice, keeping it from trembling or sounding too distant. Her eyes didn't leave him, scrutinizing his every small movement, searching for a sign of artifice, a crack in this perfect facade.
Jonathan Goldsmith smiled faintly, that subtle smile causing his eyes to curve in a refined line. He approached, pulling out her chair for her with gallantry. This action only increased her bewilderment. He wasn't overly eager or possessive, simply performing a polite social gesture.
He sat down opposite her, at a distance formal enough, yet close enough for Clara to feel the invisible pressure radiating from him. Despite his calm exterior, he was like a giant magnet, drawing all attention and making the air around him tense.
Dinner began in initial silence, broken only by the gentle clinking of silverware. Then Jonathan spoke, starting a conversation about the most ordinary things: the weather, the mansion's architecture, the quietness of the place. He spoke vaguely about recent business trips, without delving into details. His tone was always calm, slow, as if savoring a fine tea.
He didn't ask about her family, didn't mention the debt or this marriage. He treated her as though she were an important guest, an interesting friend, not the debt-bound bride who had just arrived. This treatment, instead of making Clara comfortable, made her even more cautious. It was too perfect, too different from what she knew of him, making her unable to shake off suspicion.
Clara answered him cautiously, not revealing too much about herself. She maintained a calm, polite exterior, like a shy new bride. She observed him incessantly, trying to read those deep eyes, to understand what truly lay hidden within this man. Occasionally, she caught his gaze on her, an unreadable look, both observant and contemplative, and sometimes, a fleeting, sharp, cold glint would flash through them, then quickly disappear.
When Jonathan Goldsmith turned the conversation towards Butler Reid and the staff, his attitude remained polite, but Clara noticed the subtle change in the servants' reactions. They bowed deeper, answered faster, and the tension in their eyes was more evident. They feared him. That fear didn't come from shouted words or immediate rough actions, but from his mere presence and absolute authority.
The meal ended. Jonathan Goldsmith placed his napkin down. "I have some urgent work to attend to," he said, his voice still calm. "Please make yourself at home. We have plenty of time."
He stood up, the faint smile appearing again as he looked at her. This time, Clara felt the smile was more than just polite. It seemed to hold a small secret, an understanding or a subtle mockery she couldn't decipher.
"Good night, Clara."
Then he turned and walked away, his tall figure blending into the darkness at the end of the corridor. Butler Reid and his retinue immediately followed, like obedient shadows.
Clara remained seated alone in the silent dining room. The crystal chandeliers were still brilliant, but no longer felt warm. Jonathan Goldsmith's appearance hadn't resolved the mystery; it had only deepened it. He wasn't the savage monster she had anticipated. He was a dangerous man hidden beneath a perfect facade, a charming old fox.
Assassinating a man like that... it was much harder. He revealed no weakness. He left no opening. His politeness and handsome appearance were a screen and also a weapon. Clara knew she couldn't act recklessly. She had to be doubly cautious, she had to understand Jonathan Goldsmith thoroughly before even thinking about ending him.
Clara looked out the window. Night had fallen, enveloping the massive and mysterious architecture. Beneath the golden shell, the Goldsmiths' mansion was still a bottomless abyss, and at its center was Jonathan Goldsmith – her husband in name.