C1

Early one morning at the Flying Hotel in Lindzac, a furious voice shattered the silence.

"Westley Jimenez, you scoundrel! How dare you fool around with another woman? Get up this instant!"

The man on the bed remained motionless until a bucket of ice-cold water was unceremoniously dumped on him.

"Did a flood just hit us?"

Westley was instantly snapped out of his dream, where he had been frolicking on the beach with a bevy of bikini-clad beauties, chasing and laughing in a scene full of life.

The sky was a brilliant blue, the clouds fluffy white, and the waves roared mightily, mirroring the joy in Westley's heart.

He had just wrapped his arms around several stunning women, ready to indulge in his fantasy, when the chilly deluge yanked him back to reality, his dreams dissolving into nothingness.

Rubbing his eyes in irritation, Westley was about to lash out when he caught sight of two women standing before him, their eyes blazing with fury.

The tall beauty on the left, youthful and vibrant, was like a bud on the verge of blooming. Dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans, her attire only accentuated her statuesque figure and long, toned legs. Her physique alone could easily land her on the runway as a supermodel.

Yet her current demeanor was anything but gentle; hands on hips, she glared at him with a ferocity that suggested she might tear him apart.

If the woman on the left was striking, the one on the right was nothing short of celestial.

Her delicate oval face, with its finely arched eyebrows, high nose bridge, and cherry lips, was the epitome of perfection. The fresh and crisp purple business skirt suit she wore seemed tailor-made, hugging her curves in all the right places.

Her shapely legs, encased in black stockings, were the kind that could turn heads and captivate countless admirers.

This stunning woman was truly a masterpiece of creation.

Her beauty was so astounding it could take one's breath away.

However, her mood was far from pleasant. A frosty expression enveloped her face, and a palpable chill emanated from her, as if she were an ageless iceberg.

Her eyes, filled with contempt and rage, bore into Westley.

Upon seeing her, Westley swallowed his retort and quickly plastered on a sycophantic grin. "My dear wife, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Wife?

Any onlooker would be taken aback by this revelation.

The breathtaking beauty standing before him was none other than Olivia Rogers, the renowned heiress of the illustrious Rogers Family of Lindzac.

In Lindzac, Olivia was a household name, an undeniable titan of the business world.

She was a blend of brains and beauty!

Her crowning achievement, the Olivia Group, which she founded, had soared into the ranks of Lindzac's top hundred companies, earning the accolade of a tax-paying star company.

And now, the Olivia Group was on the cusp of a Nasdaq listing in the United States, a move that promised unparalleled prestige.

Olivia had built her empire in just three years, without leaning on her family's resources—a testament to her formidable personal prowess.

Standing by her side was Aimee, the Rogers Family's Second Miss.

Aimee had little interest in the family business, yet her artistic talents shone brightly. In just her sophomore year of college, she had already landed several advertising gigs and starred as the lead in an independent web series.

She had secured a coveted spot at the prestigious Eastman School of Music and inked a deal with the renowned Love and Entertainment agency, a veritable star-maker.

Aimee's future in showbiz was boundless; she was on track to become a rising star.

Their extraordinary talents made the Rogers sisters the most sought-after matches among the elite, attracting a bevy of admirers.

Contrast that with Westley—short, unremarkable, and with a touch of the common about him—yet he dared to call Olivia his "wife" to her face.

The mere thought would send Lindzac's wealthy heirs into a rage.

But when Olivia heard the term, she merely furrowed her brow, her voice tinged with displeasure, "I've warned you not to call me that in public."

In public?

So, he could call her that in private?

In other words, was this man actually her husband?

If her secret admirers caught wind of this, they might just be driven to despair, ready to plunge into the river in sorrow.

Westley grinned sheepishly, "Honey, relax. It's just us and your sister here—no outsiders. It's fine for me to call you that, right?"

"Who says there's no one else here? Westley, are you blind, or do you think we are? Just look at who's on your bed!" Aimee demanded, hands on her hips, fierce as a lioness.

"On my bed? There's nobody..." Westley's puzzled voice faded as he turned, bewildered, to look beside him.

Westley's eyes shot open in shock, his heart leaping into his throat as he caught sight of a woman in his bed. "Why is there a woman in my bed?" he wondered, his mind racing at the scantily clad figure before him.

She was undeniably attractive, with a figure that was hard to overlook, and her face, framed by cascades of brown curly hair, exuded charm. Yet, despite her beauty, she paled slightly in comparison to the Rogers sisters.

"Who are you?" Westley stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Flashing a coy smile, the woman teased, "You had quite the time last night. You mean to tell me you've forgotten me already?"

Westley inhaled sharply, at a loss for words. Without a care for the onlookers, she gracefully slid out from under the covers and began to dress.

Once fully clothed, she grabbed her bag, slipped on her sunglasses with a flourish, and sent Westley a flirtatious air kiss. "You've got some skills, handsome. We should do this again," she said with a wink, leaving him utterly bewildered.

She cast a significant glance at Aimee before sauntering out with effortless poise, leaving Westley fumbling for a response.

"A capable man? Planning another rendezvous? Westley, you'd be squandering your talents if you didn't consider a career as a gigolo," Aimee quipped with a sardonic edge.

"I didn't... Don't make things up," Westley protested.

"Then explain that woman. Are you going to claim she just wandered into your bed? She's no saint, and she's certainly no match for my sister, is she?" Aimee fired off her questions relentlessly.

"I..." Westley's voice trailed off, his plea for help evident as he turned to Olivia.

But Olivia wouldn't even glance his way. Instead, she pulled out a document from her bag and tossed it at his feet, her face an icy mask.

"Sign this," she demanded.

Puzzled, Westley picked up the papers. "What's this?" he asked, scratching his head in confusion.

"It's the divorce agreement."