5

"WHAT?" Amalia screamed from the other end of the phone.

I tightened my grip on my cell phone, resisting the urge to throw it on the floor.

"You're getting married to Marco Felix? That's incredible," she said, and I could practically hear the excitement in her voice.

Just because he's a billionaire doesn't mean she needs to create such a fuss. I was never interested in marriage, and now I'm marrying one of the most influential men in the country. She should be more concerned about me instead of acting so happy about it.

"I don't want to marry him, Amalia," I whispered loud enough for her to hear me.

"Then why did you agree to marry him? And don't give me that excuse that your father is forcing you into it. I know you, babe. Nobody in the world can force you to do something. You're Amanda Ray, after all, the most fearless girl I know," she said in a confident tone.

I sighed. I'm not that strong, Amalia. I have my vulnerabilities buried deep within me. No matter how hard I try to hide them, they're always there.

I'm marrying him only for my mother, nothing else.

Without saying anything more, I ended the call and tossed my phone aside. I glanced at my bandaged hands, dried blood visible, and felt the sharp pain. I needed to find a way to manage my anger issues, or I'd end up hurting myself seriously.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. It's okay. Everything will be fine. Soon, I'll get to meet my mother. What more could I ask for in life?

I took a chocolate bar from my nightstand and was about to unwrap it when I heard a knock on my door. It was unusual for anyone to come to my room. My dad and stepmother never bothered.

"Come in," I said reluctantly, and as the door swung open, I was taken aback.

"Marco Felix?" I mouthed his name, furrowing my eyebrows, trying to make my displeasure known through my expression.

He walked into my room without acknowledging my disapproval. Who did he think he was? Acting like he owned the world. Well, he might be a billionaire, but to me, he was just a strange man who didn't know how to react.

"What are you doing in my room?" I asked, clenching my jaw, irritated by his presence.

But he didn't say a word, which only further aggravated my temper.

Seriously? Right after walking into my room, he's ignoring me.

"You freaking asshole..." I mumbled under my breath.

Without uttering a single word, he sat on the corner of my bed. That's when I noticed the first aid box in his hand. He held my wrist, briefly examining my palms before removing the blood-soaked cotton napkin.

I didn't know how to react to his sudden action. His grip on my wrist was gentle and warm. No one in my family had ever shown me this level of care. No one had ever cared about my suffering.

Damn, I felt sorry for him. I shouldn't have humiAmaliated him like that.

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling the need to express my gratitude.

I bit my lip and stared at my bandaged hand for a moment before turning my gaze to his black suit, which still had remnants of the noodles I'd thrown at him.

Jesus! I'm such a brat. Why did I do that?

"Take off your blazer," I said.

His face remained unchanging. Not a single sign of emotion. He removed his blazer and set it aside, just as I'd instructed.

I moved closer to him, starting to unbutton his shirt. When I did so, my heart shattered into pieces. His chest was bruised and burnt. It was my doing, the red marks were a painful reminder of what I'd inflicted.

What's wrong with me? Why do I always act rashly without thinking about the consequences?

"I-I'm so sorry," I apologized and swiftly applied a cooling gel to his burn.

"It's okay," he said, and his voice made me glance up at him. Our proximity was unnerving, his warm breath brushing against my face. I couldn't help but notice his beautiful features—his strong jawline, perfectly cropped black hair, clean-shaven face, black eyes, and soft lips.

Wow!

He looked back at me with a blank expression. He might not be interested in me, but he had shown care. That's what was attractive about him.

I blinked, breaking eye contact and maintained a comfortable distance.

"You have a high pain tolerance," I observed, trying to start a conversation.

His chuckle was dry, revealing his dimples—ethereal and captivating. It made me feel sorry for him all over again.

"You have no idea how sensitive I am," he said.

Was he kidding? This man didn't react when I scalded him with hot noodles. If that's not a high pain tolerance, I don't know what is.

"I'm sorry for the mess I created—It wasn't about you... It's just..." I trailed off.

"You don't need to explain yourself. I don't care," he said matter-of-factly.

I nodded. "There's something I'd like to tell you."

"Sure."

"I will divorce you a month after our marriage. Honestly, I don't want to get married. You seem like a nice man, so please don't get your hopes up for our marriage," I confessed in one breath.

"Get ready by eight; I'm taking you out on a date," he replied, ignoring my words, and then he left the room.

What the hell?

That bastard! What made him think I would go on a date with him? I clenched my teeth, feeling humiAmaliated.

I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling in frustration. I had never been on a date before. What was I supposed to do?