Chloe never expected that on the day of her engagement party, her own mother would drug her and send her to a strange man's bed. When she opened her eyes, she saw a mess everywhere. Her mind went blank for a moment, and fear spread throughout her body. She quickly picked up the scattered clothes on the ground and tried to run out. To her surprise, as soon as she opened the door, she saw her future mother-in-law, Beatrice. Almost instantly, Beatrice shouted, “Oh, oh! Look, everyone!” She pointed at Chloe. "This is our future daughter-in-law. The pride of the Jennings family. It seems she couldn't even wait for her engagement party to end before rushing off to another man's bed!" Everyone turned to look. The remaining whispers ceased. A dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on Chloe's disheveled appearance—her bare feet, her torn dress, and the wild look in her eyes. The whispers erupted into laughter. The air was thick with contempt. Her fiancé, Preston, appeared beside his mother, his face masked with disgust. He looked at her as if she were something dirty scraped off the sole of his shoe. “Preston,” Chloe cried, stumbling toward him. She reached out to grab his arm, desperately hoping he would believe her. “No, it’s not like that. I was drugged. I don’t know anything!” He recoiled as if he had touched poison, jerking his arm back. "Don't touch me," he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "You disgust me." Soon, Chloe's parents, Evelyn and Walter Jennings, appeared, their faces etched with a practiced look of disappointment. "Chloe, how could you do this?" Walter boomed, his voice filled with a false, feigned fatherly pain. Her younger sister, Anneliese, hid behind Preston, gently wiping her dry eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, sister," she sobbed, "how could you do this to Preston? What about our family?" No. No, that's not it. She clearly remembers drinking the beverages they offered her. That's why... Looking at their faces—the cold calculation in her mother's eyes, the smug victory on Anneliese's lips, the look of disgust on Preston's face—all the fragments came together. This is a trap. A meticulously planned and cruel conspiracy. “You,” Chloe said softly, her gaze fixed on Evelyn. “Why?” Evelyn's eyes filled with tears, but they were an actress's tears, not a mother's. "Oh, Chloe. I never imagined you would lie like this to cover up your disgusting behavior." “The Carlisle family will not associate with a woman of such moral depravity,” Beatrice declared, her voice resolute and unwavering. “The marriage is off.” “Of course, I would never marry such a promiscuous woman.” Preston immediately agreed, a look of relief appearing on his face. He looked like someone who had just been pardoned from the death penalty. Chloe stood frozen, the target of hundreds of judging gazes. The world spun around her, the floor beneath her feet seemed to vanish. Her hands were as cold as iron. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating altogether. In the chaos of her collapsing world, her fingers touched something small and hard, clipped to the corset of her tattered dress. It wasn't her own clip. It was a men's cufflink. Cold, delicate, and unfamiliar. She looked down. It was a star chart, meticulously crafted from silver and onyx, depicting the constellation Orion. It felt like a brand, a cold and hard reminder of the man whose face she had never seen, a silent testament to the night her life was destroyed.

"Finally, I've got her sorted out." Preston loosened his tie and plopped down into a leather armchair in the private lounge next to the ballroom. Annelise immediately came to his side, her small hands gently massaging his shoulders. “You’ve suffered so much,” she said softly, her voice full of sympathy, “to have been humiliated like that. She’s so shameless.” Preston leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt nothing for Chloe. No pity, no anger, only a profound sense of relief. He was free. The lounge door flung open, and Arthur Miller, the Carlisle family's security chief, rushed in, pale and sweating profusely. "Mr. Carlisle," he gasped, his voice strained with panic. “What’s wrong, Arthur?” Preston asked, annoyed at being interrupted. "It's Miss Chloe." Annalise's hand froze on Preston's shoulder. Arthur swallowed hard. “Someone saw her leave the women’s restroom with two men. They forced her into a service elevator. We have reason to believe she was taken away.” He lowered his voice. “It was Orion’s men.” The name echoed in the room like a heavy blow. Preston jumped to his feet. Orion. The name was the subject of ghost stories in New York's boardrooms and back alleys. An invisible and untouchable king controls the city's underworld with absolute authority. Even powerful families like the Carlisle know not to provoke him. “What’s going on? What does he want?” Preston asked, his voice trembling slightly. “He sent a message,” Arthur said, glancing at Annalise, who was beginning to tremble. “He wants,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “Miss Chloe Jennings.” Preston stared at him, his face turning deathly pale. For a moment, the room fell silent. He recalled Chloe's disfigured face flashing through his mind, and felt a surge of intense disgust. The hesitation lasted only three seconds. He couldn't possibly offend the king for the sake of a woman. “Do as he says,” Preston said, his voice flat and cold. “Give him what he wants.” “Sir,” Arthur protested, his professional duty clashing with shock, “Miss Chloe is still your fiancée in name only. To just hand her over like this… this scandal…” "The engagement is over!" Preston snapped, his patience completely gone. "She's a shameful, degenerate woman. She's not worth the risk." Meanwhile, Chloe was being escorted out of the hotel by two uniformed security guards. They didn't touch her, but their very presence was a clear, humiliating message. They opened the grand doors, and she stumbled up the cold marble steps like a piece of trash tossed out for recycling. The night air was icy cold, seeping through her thin, tattered dress. Several passersby stared at her, their curiosity quickly turning into judgment. She took out her phone, her fingers trembling from the cold screen. She tried to call her father. Blocked. Her mother. Blocked. Preston. Blocked. A pure, unreserved cry of despair escaped her lips. She slumped onto the steps, hugging her knees, trying to shrink herself down. The aftereffects of the medication still churned in her stomach, and a chill ran deep into her bones. Three black Cadillac Escalades were parked on the side of the road, their engines unusually quiet. The doors opened simultaneously, and several tall men in dark suits stepped out. The man in the lead was tall and imposing, his face seemingly sculpted from granite. “Miss Jennings,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion, “my employer wants to speak with you.” His name was Rhys Knight, though she wouldn’t know that for a long time. Chloe scrambled backward on all fours, crawling up the steps like a crab. "Who are you? Don't touch me!" Just then, the hotel doors opened again. Preston and Arthur Miller walked up to her. “Preston!” Chloe cried, a desperate hope welling up inside her. He was her fiancé. He had loved her. He wouldn't let this happen. “Preston, save me! These people—” Preston's gaze met hers for a fleeting moment, then quickly averted. He couldn't bear to look at her. He spoke to the sidewalk, his voice cold and distant. "Chloe, this is your trouble. You need to sort it out yourself." The hope in her heart turned to ice. "What...what are you saying?" He finally looked at her, his expression hard and cruel—a performance for the men in black suits. "You were too reckless. You messed with the wrong people. Now they're here to collect." He took a step back, creating distance between them. "You brought this on yourself." These words weren't just hurtful. They utterly destroyed her. They burned away all their memories of the past years, every shared laugh, every whispered promise. Rhys Knight's men didn't say another word. They stepped forward and grabbed Chloe's arms with an iron grip. She screamed, kicked, and fought back with a wild and desperate force. "Preston, no! Please!" Her struggles were futile. They dragged her toward the open door of the middle Cadillac Escalade. Annalise gave her a smug look, then threw herself into Preston's outstretched arms as if she were startled by the sight. He hugged her tightly, stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort. He held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. And he never looked back at Chloe. The heavy car door slammed shut, plunging her into darkness and silence. Her will to resist vanished. She slumped against the leather seat, powerless and empty. Love, hope, and her belief that she was important to everyone in the world—all of it had vanished in that one, final, cruel moment.

The warehouse reeked of rust, damp concrete, and decay. It was a vast, dark space on the edge of the Hudson River, illuminated only by a faint, watery moonlight filtering through the dirty, high windows. From the deepest shadows at the back of the warehouse came a low, guttural laugh. The voice carried no warmth, only coldness and absolute power. A man sat there, his figure almost completely obscured, languidly leaning back in a huge, throne-like chair. The only visible feature was a kingly silhouette and the rhythmic "tap, tap, tap" of his long fingers tapping on the leather armrests. Chloe felt as if a heavy stone was pressing on her chest. The two men were named Orion and Rhys. Orion made a barely perceptible gesture. His initial plan was simple: confirm the woman in the hotel, assuring her she was a pawn in his game, and then let her go. It was about sending a message to the Carlisles and Jennings families that their daughter was not insignificant. Rhys approached Chloe, ready to release her. But as he drew near, her composure crumbled. The adrenaline that had sustained her vanished, and the full effects of the medication washed over her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and the concrete seemed to surge upwards towards her. Her vision blurred, and her legs gave way. She fell forward. In the last second before losing consciousness, her hand shot out, her fingers desperately grasping at the only solid object within reach. She grabbed the fine wool on the man's trousers and the cold, hard bones of his ankles below. Orion froze. He had stepped out of the shadows, wanting to take one last look at her, and now she had touched him. He had an instinctive, intense aversion to unnecessary physical contact, especially from women. He instinctively wanted to kick her away and cut off the contact. But as his gaze shifted downwards, something caught his attention. The fall had caused the hem of her tattered dress to slide up to above her calves. There, just behind her ear, visible in the sliver of moonlight, was a birthmark. It was small, a unique, delicate cluster of pigment, like a miniature constellation. He held his breath. It was the same mark. The exact same mark he had noticed on the woman in the hotel room during his brief moments of lucidity. His entire aura changed. The indifferent amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. He crouched down, the movement fluid and silent. He lifted her chin with two fingers, raising her face towards the light. Her skin was cold and damp, her lips chapped and pale, but the bone structure, even the shape of her eyes when they were closed—it was her. “So it was you,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. His plans changed. Completely changed. He stood up and looked at Rhys. The command was soft, but unquestionable. "Take her back to the penthouse." Rhys raised an eyebrow in surprise, but quickly concealed it. "Sir?" You heard me right. The command was executed without a doubt. In her fading consciousness, Chloe felt herself being lifted up. Strong arms slid down her back and under her knees, effortlessly carrying her. That scent flooded her senses again—whiskey and tobacco, a cold, refreshing aroma now inextricably linked to fear. It was the same person. The man in the hotel. The man in the shadows. She succumbed to the darkness. When she awoke, she was enveloped in the unfamiliar softness of high-thread-count sheets and the gentle afternoon light of a bedroom more luxurious than any she had ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking panoramic views of the Manhattan skyline. The furniture was minimalist and shockingly expensive. Her wrists and ankles were free. But when she struggled to crawl to the door, she found it locked. The window, after a frantic search, was made of thick, seamless bulletproof glass. It's a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage. She pounded on the heavy wooden door, her fists striking the hard surface until her knuckles turned red. "Let me out! Is anyone home? Is anyone home?" There was no response. Only silence. She stepped back from the doorway, and a new, deeper fear began to take root. The memory of her hand clutching her cold ankle, and the memory of an invisible pair of eyes scrutinizing her in the darkness, resurfaced with chilling clarity. This mysterious man, Orion, didn't just use her as a pawn in the game. He didn't let her go. He kept her there. And she had no idea why.