Chapter 2: The Minute He Proposed to Me
Stafford Raymond stepped back into the room where Frances sat with his sister. He paused by the door, his voice quieter than usual.
"Take care of her well, sis."
Paris turned sharply, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Wait, what did you just say? You, asking me to take care of someone?"
He cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze. "You heard me. She's injured. Just make sure she eats and rests."
Paris folded her arms, a teasing smile forming on her lips. "Of course, brother. But that sounded very unlike you. Should I be expecting a sister in law soon?"
His eyes turned cold instantly. "Don't start, Paris."
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Paris chuckled softly. "Alright, I'll do as you said, Mr. Husband."
Frances sat quietly, unsure whether to laugh or feel unsettled. The mansion felt overwhelming, too grand, too silent, too unfamiliar.
Later, the sound of his footsteps faded into the distance. He had gone to his study, leaving behind an atmosphere that felt heavy with unspoken thoughts. Frances could not understand him, but something about his gaze lingered in her mind. It was not just cold, it was layered with something deeper.
Far away from that mansion, Marcus and Charlotte were likely enjoying the life they had stolen from her.
"Finally, we've gotten rid of the devil, haven't we?" Charlotte would say with a satisfied smile.
"Yes, baby," Marcus would reply smoothly. "Let's forget about her."
Forget about her.
Even in her sleep, Frances's fists clenched. The pain remained fresh, the memories refusing to fade.
Morning light streamed gently into the room when she finally woke. Her head felt clearer, though her body still ached.
Her gaze shifted to the wardrobe.
Her bags were there.
She rushed to them immediately, opening each one with trembling hands. Her parents' photographs, her mother's necklace, and the letter her father had written before his death were all intact.
A shaky breath escaped her lips. "I thought I lost them."
She moved to the bathroom, splashing water on her face before looking into the mirror.
The reflection staring back at her felt unfamiliar. Pale skin, dry lips, swollen eyes.
That woman was no longer the Frances she used to be.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Are you awake, sleeping beauty?"
Frances opened the door slightly, revealing Paris standing there with a warm smile.
"I'm Paris," she said gently. "My brother brought you here last night. You're safe now. You can relax."
"Thank you, ma," Frances replied softly.
Paris laughed. "No need to be formal. Just call me Paris. And you know, this is the first time my brother has ever brought a woman home. You're the first."
Her tone carried light teasing, but her eyes held sincerity. Still, Frances remained cautious. She had learned that kindness could easily turn into betrayal.
"Get dressed and come down for breakfast," Paris said. "We'll be waiting."
Frances nodded. "Thank you."
When she entered the dining room, the butler greeted her with a respectful bow.
"Good morning, ma."
"Good morning," she replied.
Then she saw him.
Stafford Raymond.
The man who had saved her, now sitting at the table, his presence filling the room with quiet authority.
He glanced at her briefly. "Morning."
That single word felt distant, almost detached.
Paris smiled, trying to ease the tension. "You can try some vegetables, Frances. There are French fries too. You'll love them."
"Thank you," Frances said.
Still, she could feel his gaze on her.
Sharp, observant, unreadable.
His eyes drifted to her wrist, noticing the bruises she had tried to hide.
"Wait," he said suddenly. "Let my sister take care of that wound."
Frances froze, surprised by the subtle concern in his tone.
Paris stood up immediately. "Come with me," she said softly. "He has been worried since yesterday. He even wanted to call a doctor, but I told him to let you rest first."
Worried.
The word echoed in Frances's mind, though she refused to let it soften her.
No kindness could erase what she had been through.
Somewhere else, Charlotte was likely enjoying a life of luxury, walking through expensive stores with a proud smile.
"I want the most expensive gown here. My husband will pay."
The thought tightened Frances's chest.
Husband.
That word should have been hers.
By afternoon, the mansion had grown quiet. Paris had stepped out, leaving Frances alone with Stafford for the first time.
She stood outside his study, hesitating before knocking.
"Can I come in?"
"Come in," his voice replied.
The room carried the scent of smoke and power.
Frances stepped in slowly. "I wanted to thank you. For everything. For saving me."
He did not look up. "Okay. Is that all?"
She hesitated before speaking again. "I also wanted to tell you that I will be leaving today."
His fingers paused over the keyboard. The air shifted.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Frances Lin."
"Alright. You can leave."
The simplicity of his response stung more than she expected.
She swallowed and gathered her courage. "Actually, I wanted to ask if you could lend me some money. I will pay you back with interest."
He looked up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers.
"And that is all I get in return?"
"Yes. You have already done enough."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I do not need you to pay me back."
She frowned. "Then what do you want?"
"Marry me."
Her breath caught.
"Sir, I said I need money, not a man."
"I will give you hundreds of millions if you marry me," he said calmly, as though discussing business.
She scoffed. "You can go on blind dates or hire a matchmaker if you want a wife."
"I do not want anyone else," he replied. "Go to your room and think about it."
His certainty unsettled her more than anything else.
Frances left the study, her legs unsteady.
Back in her room, she sat on the bed, her thoughts spiraling.
Marriage.
To a man like him.
Impossible.
But then reality crept in.
She had nothing left.
No home. No job. No one.
Tears filled her eyes.
"I will do it," she whispered. "I will marry him. Take the money. And when I am done, I will leave."
Her revenge depended on it.
She stood and walked back to his study.
"Let's get married," she said firmly. "As you want."
A slow smile spread across his lips, one that carried no warmth, only power.
Before she could understand it, her vision blurred.
"What is happening?" she gasped.
Her body gave in, collapsing onto the sofa. She could not move.
The last thing she saw was Stafford standing over her, his shadow towering, his expression unreadable.
And that same smile.
In that moment, a single thought echoed in her fading mind.
Had she just saved herself, or sold herself again?