Wrong Marriage and Sweet Love

Rohomes.

Joyce felt groggy, unable to fully awaken. Her eyelids were heavy, and she struggled vainly to open her eyes. At times, she felt cold, at other times, unusually hot. Sometimes her body felt unbearably heavy, then oddly weightless. She knew she had to wake up. Finally, with a strong exertion of will, she forced her eyes open.Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

For a moment, everything seemed blurred as if covered by a layer of fog, slowly clearing. The first thing she saw was the ceiling’s pure solid wood mortise and tenon structure, aged and tinged with a sense of history. The brown beams were partly painted in red, elaborately carved with various animals and flowers, and chrysanthemums appeared frequently, as if they were symbols, totems, or perhaps a clan emblem?

As Joyce’s gaze drifted downward, she noted the fine wooden lattice windows and the frosted glass, complemented by black curtains embroidered with golden chrysanthemum threads.

In an instant, Joyce felt as though she had traveled through time.

She seemed to be in an ancient building filled with exotic charm. Had she died? She shook her head vigorously. No, she couldn’t be dead!

Attempting to sit up, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck, forcing her to lie back down. Turning her head, she realized she was lying on a deep blue straw mat. Rather, the entire room was covered in blue mats, her spot slightly elevated like a tatami platform. At the bedside, a low table held a miniature bonsai, vibrant green bamboo shoots next to it, and a daruma doll dressed in a black kimono matched the surroundings.

The quilt covering her was soft silk, embroidered with chrysanthemums.

Such decorations? This setting? Could it be?

Joyce turned on her side, supporting herself with her arm, and slowly sat up. She pinched herself; it hurt. She was alive and certainly not dreaming.

When she surveyed her surroundings, she confirmed she was abroad, the decor reminiscent of Rohomes.

Struggling to the window, she pushed it open forcefully, letting in the cold winter air.

Outside, the view further convinced her.

She was in a palace, ancient trees towering around, red walls and golden roofs under which lay a glistening sea of golden ginkgo leaves scattered on the ground, reflecting off the golden tiles in the sunlight.

Turning back, the palace’s interior was richly luxurious, each piece a work of ancient art.

Where was she exactly?

She stepped down from the tatami, only now noticing she was wearing a kimono robe down to her ankles, embroidered with chrysanthemums in gold thread, some bloomed, others just buds, seemingly understated yet incredibly lavish for just a nightgown, likely worth millions.

The entire hall was floored with mats, no need for shoes, only bare feet.

Clearly, where she was now was merely a room.

Joyce cautiously moved forward, reaching a sliding door.

She tried it; it wasn’t locked. Pushing the door aside, she found herself facing an even more spacious main hall where the warm sunlight failed to penetrate, making it feel both majestic and eerily cold.

“Hello?! Is anyone there?” Joyce called out.

But there was no answer, just echoes reverberating through the hall.

She grew more bewildered. Who had brought her here? And how?

She was certain she was at South Island when this happened. How had she suddenly crossed oceans to Rohomes?

Her head throbbed. Joyce massaged her temples vigorously.

She recalled the night of the wedding, barbecuing on the beach with Luther, Anderson, Aaron, Kane, and others. She had gone back to the villa alone to fetch spices. Halfway there, she noticed shadows flickering past her.

Alert, she followed them. Just as she was about to contact security, a sharp pain hit her neck.

She knew she had been attacked.

Before passing out, she wasn’t overly worried. South Island was secure, any assailant would be quickly caught, and no one could leave the island unnoticed under Luther’s watch.

She never imagined waking up in a foreign land. How was it possible? What had they done?

Her heart raced, Luther must be frantic by now.

And Anderson, Iris… if they knew she was missing, how worried they must be.

Wilson and Cullen too; she was concerned for her baby still in swaddling clothes.

Walking around the hall, Joyce spotted a calendar on a long desk. It was the third day after her wedding; she had been unconscious for two days and nights.

She couldn’t imagine what had happened.

Despite all precautions, she was still caught off guard.

Then, a deep, slightly hoarse male voice came from behind her.

“You’re awake?”

Joyce, facing away from the speaker, felt her heart pound violently. Whocould this person be? The answer seemed imminent.

She turned around sharply.

When she saw who it was, her suspicions were confirmed.

“Grayson, is it you?!” Shock rippled through Joyce’s eyes. Although she had guessed it, seeing Grayson still stunned her.

Grayson stood before her, his complexion pale, still slightly ill-looking. His dark eyes, sharp and intense, contrasted with his scholarly and cool demeanor. He wore a wide dark blue kimono, a belt embroidered with chrysanthemums around his waist, black and gold, his attire both noble and luxurious, making it hard for Joyce to reconcile him with the man she remembered.

In her memory, Grayson was frail and gentle, but now he seemed transformed. His presence exuded an effortless grace and nobility, his overly cold eyes making him seem almost aloof.

Behind him, a man dressed like a samurai followed respectably and asked, “Your Highness, what do you need me to do?”

Hearing the address of ‘Your Highness’, Joyce froze.

Grayson? A prince?

She vaguely remembered that the prince of Rohomes was named Clint.

Grayson… Clint!

She had never imagined that Grayson was Clint!