The Billionaire’s Secret Bride

Celia had just showered and changed into a long cardigan. Now, with the fabric slipping off her shoulders, her white camisole and soft gray shorts were exposed.

Camisole and shorts—an outfit that made her look innocent and effortlessly alluring.

Nathaniel had intended to shame her, to make a point—but the moment he saw her like this, his pupils constricted involuntarily.

Her delicate frame glowed against the dim light. Pale, smooth skin like porcelain, flushed with warmth. Despite himself, he was momentarily stunned.

Those long, slender legs pressed together nervously beneath him—straight, unblemished, modest. It caught him off guard. For someone with such a plain face… how could her figure be so tempting?

Celia, cold from head to toe, could feel the humiliation radiating off him. This man—he had no tenderness for her. Everything good in him was saved for Sylvia.

Anger surged in her chest.

Suddenly, she raised her hand and slapped his face with all her strength.

Nathaniel caught her wrist mid-air before the hit could land. No one had ever dared slap him—until now.

"You've got a death wish?" he growled, gripping her wrists and pinning them behind her.

She glared at him, eyes burning with rage. "You started this! You tore my clothes off first. Let go of me!"

He smirked darkly. "You think this is enough punishment?"

Her breath hitched. "What more do you want?!"

"I wasn't wearing a shirt in that photo," he said coldly, his gaze falling to her shoulder where the thin strap of her camisole clung.

Realizing what he meant, Celia's body tensed. "Don't you dare."

Nathaniel reached out slowly, his fingers brushing her shoulder strap.

"Don't you dare, Nathaniel Fu!" she screamed, lunging at him.

And then—she bit him.

Hard.

Nathaniel hissed through gritted teeth. He hadn't expected that.

Her sharp teeth clamped down through the fabric of his pajama top, digging into his skin until the metallic taste of blood hit the air.

"Celia!" he growled, slamming his palm against the wall to steady himself.

She let go and looked up at him, her eyes fierce and wild. "What's this really about, Nathaniel? Are you punishing me—or are you just looking for an excuse to see me undressed?"

His jaw clenched. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on. You know exactly what I mean. Do you do this to every woman who flirts with you? Does your dear wife Sylvia know what you're doing right now?"

She stepped closer, lifting her chin defiantly, her lips stained red from the bite. Her breath grazed his cheek—warm and scented like flowers. "You say you hate me, but look at you—so close I can feel your body heat."

Nathaniel suddenly realized just how near he was. His tall frame was practically flush with hers, trapping her between the wall and his chest. The image in the mirror—him in black silk pajamas, her in thin sleepwear—was far too intimate.

She looked like she could barely be eighteen.

This was wrong. Too much.

He stepped back as if burned and shoved her away, hard enough to break the spell but not to hurt her.

Celia grabbed her cardigan from the floor and wrapped it tightly around herself, shielding her cold skin and fragile dignity.

"Well?" she said, voice sharp. "Still want to humiliate me, Mr. Fu? If not, I'm going upstairs."

Nathaniel stared at her with eyes that had darkened to the color of blood.

But he said nothing.