Halfway through the banquet, Arabella Whitmore suddenly brought up the wedding between Iris Kingsley and Vincent Whitmore.

Iris’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. She glanced down—her group chat had exploded. Everyone was freaking out about one thing: Yasmine Anderson was back in the country.

Vincent’s phone was just as noisy. He flicked through a couple of messages, and his brows slowly knitted together, lips pressed tight. The expression only lasted a few seconds, but Iris still caught it.

Right after that, he looked like someone had unplugged his soul—definitely triggered by some old memory.

Back in high school, Vincent and Yasmine had a crazy intense first love. Like most teenage romances, it ended because both families stepped in.

After Yasmine left the country, Vincent basically turned into a different person. He changed girlfriends like changing outfits, and each one had those long legs and that vibe that faintly echoed Yasmine’s.

Back to the present—Arabella Whitmore had already settled on the wedding date.

“The fortune-teller said July twenty-eighth is perfect.”

There was still a month and a half to go until July twenty-eighth.

The whole table instantly went silent.

“Iris, what do you think of that date?” Arabella asked.

“I’m fine with whatever,” Iris replied.

This marriage had been arranged before she was even born. Their names came from the same poem: “The south wind knows my heart, carrying my dreams to the western isles.” Except her father changed “to” into “follow,” hoping it’d mean a lifetime side by side.

Today’s dinner and Arabella’s announcement were just a formality. No matter how she or Vincent resisted, the ending was already locked in.

All these years, no matter how out of line Vincent behaved, Arabella had only ever said one thing to her: “The daughter‑in‑law I choose is you. The only woman who can marry Vincent is you.”

She’d heard it so many times she almost believed it herself.

Vincent let out a cold laugh. A waiter walked over with a pot of premium tea. Iris was just reaching for it when Vincent suddenly extended his hand. The waiter lost control for a second, and nearly half the steaming tea splashed out.

Iris, sitting at the edge, couldn’t dodge. The scorching liquid hit her chest, sharp pain shooting through her skin as a large patch of her dress soaked through.

Everyone’s eyes snapped toward her. Her cheeks burned. She instinctively covered the wet fabric and hurried toward the door.

“Who told you to serve tea that hot?” Vincent barked at the staff, then quickly followed her out.

At the end of the hallway was the restroom. Iris Kingsley unbuttoned her blouse to check the burn. From her collarbone down to her chest, the skin was flushed and swollen, but thankfully there were no blisters.

Just as she was about to deal with it, a tall figure suddenly barged in. “Is it bad? Did it burn you badly?”

Startled, Iris yanked her clothes up to cover herself and turned aside. “This is the ladies’ room. You can’t just walk in.”

Vincent Whitmore acted like he didn’t hear a word, striding straight toward her. “Let me see if it blistered.”

Thinking of what had happened at the table earlier, Iris felt a wave of hollow disappointment mixed with simmering anger. She kept her face cold. “Have some boundaries.”

Vincent let out a careless laugh. “We used to take baths together when we were kids. And honestly, with that tiny frame of yours, it’s not like there’s anything to get excited about.”

He reached out as if to check the burn, and Iris’s temper snapped. She slapped his hand away with a sharp smack, the sound echoing in the tiled room.

“I said don’t touch me!”

Vincent awkwardly withdrew, rubbing the back of his hand. “You know how it was out there. If I didn’t cut the topic off, it would’ve gotten super awkward. I didn’t know the tea was that hot.”

His voice softened, almost coaxing. “It’s my fault, okay? Don’t be mad.”

Iris looked at his face, her chest tightening with a question she didn’t dare speak aloud. Deep down, it kept looping in her mind like a whisper she couldn’t escape.

What exactly is so wrong with me that you hate the idea of marrying me this much?