Part 2He Forgot Me, But His Heart Remembers

I nodded vigorously, like my life depended on it.

The System was stunned into silence, clearly not expecting me to agree so eagerly. "Do you not feel any regret? You are literally about to get married."

Regret? Absolutely not.

It had no idea that Declan would never have agreed to this arranged marriage in his right mind. I had followed Grandfather Sinclair's ruthless instructions, slipped sleeping pills into Declan's drink, and staged a series of highly compromising, half-naked photos of us tangled in the sheets.

It was pure blackmail. He was forced to marry me.

He hated me with a burning, venomous passion.

The System’s intervention meant Declan got his freedom, and I finally got to breathe. What was there to regret? It was a miraculous pardon for two miserable enemies.

Right after finalizing the deal with the System, my phone buzzed. It was the wedding planner, brightly asking if I preferred a garden ceremony or a private island getaway.

"Either is fine," I brushed her off.

Soon, Declan would forget my face. Grandfather Sinclair would let me off the hook. I would fade into the background, a ghost of a supporting character in this sprawling world. Nobody would remember me. Nobody would speak my name.

The planner sounded slightly awkward. "Mr. Sinclair explicitly said to follow your preference. The aesthetics for those two options are drastically different."

She was highly tactful. Declan would never utter those words. She clearly couldn't reach him and was forced to consult me instead.

I sighed. "The island, then."

Hanging up, I stepped out of the guest room and nearly collided with Declan in the hallway. He had just stepped out of the shower. A single white towel hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, revealing sharp, handsome features and an aura of cold detachment. He radiated the oppressive authority of a man born to rule.

I gripped my phone and shrank back against the wall, trying to make myself invisible.

Declan let out a dark chuckle. He raised a brow. "What? Do you need to report my shower schedule to the old man too?"

He took a step closer, towering over me, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Want to take a picture right now?"

His sculpted chest and abs were right in my line of sight. A pale, jagged scar rested just above his hip, moving as he breathed. The owner of that scar was glaring down at me with pure hostility.

Financial magazines always painted the Sinclair heir as a paragon of gentle, refined elegance. The city's most eligible bachelor. Why was he such a menace around me?

Right. Because he hated me.

"No," I muttered softly. "I don't report this."

Declan shot me a lethal glare. "You better not."

He walked away with a slow, measured predatory grace. The shifting muscles in his back looked like a masterclass in Renaissance sculpting.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out.

He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly. "What did you just say?"

Then realization dawned on him, followed by a scoff. "Camellia, don't you think it's a little too late for apologies?"

It really was. I had missed countless chances to apologize. I could have apologized for invading his childhood, for intentionally falling into that mud puddle, for the drugged photos, for the constant surveillance.

So now, I just looked at him. "I'm sorry, Declan. And you are going to be free."

My voice was barely a whisper. I wasn't even sure if he caught it.

His jaw clenched. He stared intensely at my face, lips parting as if he wanted to argue. But then his eyes flicked to a hidden security camera tucked in the crown molding. He snapped his mouth shut and walked away without another word.