Chapter 120 She's My Arranged Wife
Ethan parked his car outside a verdant mansion surrounded by security personnel and police tape. Through the windshield, I could see a line of luxury vehicles—Bentleys, Ferraris, and Rolls-Royces—though Ethan's car still managed to look the most impressive among them.
As I stepped out, taking in the scene of armed security guards standing alert around the property, Ethan reached for my hand. I instinctively pulled away, uncomfortable with public displays of affection. It wasn't just the age difference between us that bothered me—though that was certainly part of it. At barely nineteen to his nearly thirty, we looked mismatched. Add our significant height difference, and whenever Ethan held my hand, I felt like a child being led around rather than an equal partner.
Ethan's eyebrow arched sharply. "Not letting me hold your hand?"
"No, it's not that," I hastily explained. "I just thought—"
Before I could finish, a stunning woman emerged from another car. Her elegant figure was draped in designer clothes, her long wavy hair cascading down her back. Everything about her screamed sophistication.
"Ethan," she called to Ethan with a smile. "It's been a while."
I found myself staring, completely captivated by her beauty and poise. My first thought was simple: she's gorgeous.
Ethan acknowledged her with a curt nod.
She smiled graciously. "After you, Ethan."
Ethan's hand found mine again, and this time I didn't resist as he led me inside. As we crossed the high threshold into the spacious courtyard, I whispered, "Is she a friend of yours?"
"No," Ethan replied flatly.
"Oh," I responded, unsure what to say.
"She's my arranged marriage partner."
My brain short-circuited. Arranged marriage partner? The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I froze mid-step, unable to process what he'd just said so casually.
I'd suspected Ethan might have an arranged match somewhere, but hearing him announce it so bluntly, right in front of me—as casually as commenting on the weather—left me speechless.
What made it worse was his expression—completely neutral and unbothered. Meanwhile, my mind raced with questions I couldn't voice. What did this mean for us? For our agreement? For whatever this relationship was?
I remained silent, struggling to regain my composure as we entered the garden. A sea of flowers greeted us—red, white, yellow, and green blooms competed for attention in the meticulously maintained courtyard. Dahlias, roses, and various chrysanthemums created a vibrant tapestry, their fragrances mingling with the earthy scent of well-tended soil.
Between these floral displays stood temperature-controlled cases and easels showcasing art: high-quality reproductions of Van Gogh's "Starry Night," one of Monet's "Water Lilies," Renoir-style prints with soft colors and rounded human forms, and a copy of Picasso's Blue Period work with its haunting cold tones.
Alongside these famous reproductions were limited edition prints and original oils by contemporary European and North American artists—abstract expressionist color splashes and minimalist line drawings depicting cold urban landscapes.
The garden was filled with well-dressed guests, predominantly older collectors of Western paintings and limited-edition items like antique watches and fountain pens. Their attire was understated yet exquisite, small groups engaged in hushed conversations occasionally punctuated by polite laughter.
"Mr. Cross, your oil painting technique has improved remarkably these past few years," commented a man in gold-rimmed glasses. "At this rate, in two years, even those academy-trained painters will consider you a formidable rival."
The gray-haired man called Mr. Cross waved dismissively. "You're too kind. I'm just a retiree dabbling in my home studio. I can't possibly compare to professional artists."
Another guest approached with a wine glass. "Mr. Cross is being too modest. Not only is he incredibly knowledgeable about 19th-century European art history, but his impressionist brushwork is nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. I saw that 'Riverside Countryside' piece at your home recently—had you not told me, I would have thought it was by some notable French artist."
Mr. Cross playfully pointed at them. "You're all flattering me too much. I'll start believing—"
He caught sight of Ethan and immediately dropped his joking demeanor, smiling respectfully. "Mr. Bennett."
Ethan acknowledged him with a slight nod. "Mr. Cross."
The elegant woman who'd greeted Ethan earlier walked in and took Mr. Cross's arm. "Grandfather," she said affectionately.
The old man tapped her forehead lightly. "I suspect you're here to see people, not your grandfather."
She pouted playfully. "Grandfather, don't say that. Mother asked me to accompany you and bring you home after the exhibition."
I discreetly stepped away from Ethan, creating some distance between us. His face immediately darkened, his eyes narrowing with displeasure, like storm clouds gathering.
A middle-aged man in a gray suit emerged from the main hall. "Esteemed experts, please don't stand around in the courtyard. Come inside," he said with a cultured smile.
This was Dominic Knight, the host of this exhibition. He looked to be around fifty.
Dominic walked up to Ethan and patted his shoulder. "Make yourself at home, brother. I won't play host with you. If you like anything, just tell the manager directly."
After speaking, Dominic's gaze lingered on me briefly, and he acknowledged me with a slight nod.
I returned a small smile.
Dominic then led the other guests into the main hall to view the exhibited artifacts.
Ethan took my hand and guided me to a room in the back garden, filled with glass display cases containing artifacts from different dynasties.
I peered through the glass and turned to Ethan. "Are these real or reproductions?"
One corner of Ethan's mouth lifted. "What do you think?"
"I have no idea," I admitted.
Antiquities were completely outside my knowledge base—I couldn't tell authentic from fake.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Would I bring you to see reproductions?"
After touring the room filled with genuine antiquities, Ethan led me to a corridor in the back garden. He sat on a bench and patted his thigh. "Sit."
I didn't sit on his lap, choosing instead the spot across from him.
In the autumn light, Ethan's sharp features seemed softer, less severe than usual.
Our eyes met, and I couldn't hold back my question any longer. "What did you mean earlier?"
Ethan leaned forward, hands on his knees, his intense gaze fixed on me. "Which part?"
I pressed my lips together. "That woman I thought was your friend—you said she's your arranged marriage partner."
Ethan reached out to touch my face. "I meant exactly that. I didn't want to hide it from you."
"So when..." I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "When are you planning to marry her?"
After a moment of silence, the corner of his mouth lifted in a cold smile. "When would you like me to get married?"