Chapter 2

London, the Cohen Estate.

Rector stood at the entrance of the estate, his gaze calm as he looked at the magnificent building before him.

Vines twisted around the wrought iron gate, the fountain deep in the courtyard had dried up, and fallen leaves covered the path.

The estate still looked grand, but there was an indescribable sense of desolation about it.

Behind him, Kieran and his parents, Bruce and Valerie, stood by the car, their faces cold and indifferent.

Kieran crossed his arms, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, a hint of smugness flashing in his eyes.

The pleasure of watching someone walk step by step toward the abyss was almost impossible to hide.

He already saw Rector being consumed by the curse, almost as if he were celebrating it in advance.

Bruce looked impatient, one foot tapping the ground repeatedly, eager for this unpleasant transaction to be over so he could leave this unlucky place.

He could not even be bothered to look at Rector, as if standing there was not his son, but a piece of goods about to be sold off cheaply.

Valerie stood to the side, glancing at Rector coldly, her eyes devoid of any warmth.

That look was like viewing a tool already used up—no longer needed, ready to be discarded.

“Remember, Rector,” Bruce finally spoke, his voice cold as a knife, “when you meet Mr. Cohen later, don’t talk nonsense. You just need to nod, smile, and accept this marriage. Understand?”

Rector did not answer.

His gaze passed through the iron gate, across the driveway covered in dead leaves, and landed on the windows of the main building in the distance.

The curtains on the second floor were tightly drawn, not a single trace of light seeping through.

Isabella Cohen.

Rector had heard the name before.

Three years ago, she had suddenly fallen into a coma, rumored to be infected by a curse.

Since then, she had never appeared in public again.

Some said she was already dead. Some said she had turned into a monster. Others said she was no longer human.

Rector lowered his eyes, a faint, bitter smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

Now he was going to marry her.

What an ironic ending.

A cursed man marrying a cursed woman.

Two “monsters,” locked in the same cage—displayed for others, used by others.

“Let’s go.” Kieran pushed him from behind, his tone carrying both urgency and satisfaction. “Don’t keep Mr. Cohen waiting.”

Rector withdrew his gaze, took a deep breath, and stepped into the estate.

His back remained straight, his steps steady, as if he were walking toward a battlefield rather than a marriage arrangement.

The living room of the Cohen Estate was even more luxurious than the Thorne Manor.

A massive crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, casting dim, cold reflections across the room.

Expensive oil paintings lined the walls, their subjects frozen in melancholy silence, as if mourning the decline of the mansion itself.

A thick handmade Persian carpet covered the floor, soft enough to swallow every sound.

Yet the entire space still carried an invisible pressure.

The air smelled faintly of medicine—bitter and heavy, like a haze that refused to disperse.

Evan Cohen sat on the sofa, hands resting on his knees.

He was in his fifties, with graying hair, a tired face, and sunken eye sockets, but his eyes were sharp and unsettling.

When the Thorne family entered, he stood slowly, his gaze sweeping over each of them without missing a single detail.

“Bruce.” Evan nodded.

“Evan.” Bruce forced a smile that barely held together. “We’re here.”

Evan’s gaze finally settled on Rector, scanning him from head to toe.

Slow. Measured. Like evaluating a delivered object—or a sacrifice.

“This is your son?”

“Yes,” Bruce replied, his tone carrying a faint, careless detachment. “Rector. My second son.”

The brief pause hung in the air like a thin needle.

Evan frowned slightly.

Bruce suddenly straightened, a proud smile appearing as he spoke with forced enthusiasm, “Mr. Cohen, this marriage is only the beginning for the Thorne family. We’ve successfully connected with Mr. Hunter. He is very impressed with our business. Next month, he will marry his daughter into our family—Kieran. The Thorne family will soon enter the true upper-class circle.”

As he spoke, he glanced at Rector, contempt and relief mixing in his eyes, as if finally getting rid of this “problem” son.

Kieran’s smile deepened.

Evan did not respond. After a brief silence, he simply said, “Follow me.”

His back looked slightly bent, as if burdened by something that had been there for a long time.

The staircase was long.

Each step creaked softly underfoot.

Rector followed Evan upward.

With every step, the oppressive atmosphere grew heavier.

Finally, they reached a room at the end of the corridor on the second floor.

The door was dark brown, its paint peeling in places. A faded ribbon hung from the handle.

Evan stopped. His hand hovered over the door for a moment, hesitating.

Then he exhaled slowly.

“The Thorne family sent you here for a marriage alliance,” he said in a low voice. “I will allow you to see her once. Remember—do not touch her. That is my only condition.”

He pushed the door open.

Dim yellow light spilled out.

Illuminating the bed inside.

He did not step in, only stood at the doorway, looking at Rector.

“Go in. I’ll wait downstairs. Five minutes. If you disobey me, you know the consequences.”

Evan turned and left, his heavy footsteps fading down the corridor.

The door closed softly.

Now only Rector remained.

And Isabella.

The room was dark.

The curtains were drawn tight. Only a small bedside lamp cast a weak, trembling glow.

That light fell across the bed in the center of the room.

A woman lay there.

No—too young.

A girl.

Isabella.

Rector stood at the doorway, his pupils tightening slightly.

She was beautiful.

Even pale as paper, thin enough that faint veins showed beneath her skin, lips cracked and colorless—she was still striking in a fragile, heartbreaking way.

Golden hair spilled across the white pillow. Her features were delicate, almost unreal, as if carved with impossible precision.

Her eyes were closed. Her eyelashes trembled faintly. Her breathing was shallow, barely lifting her chest, as if she might stop breathing at any moment and become a perfect, lifeless sculpture.

But what drew Rector’s attention was not her appearance.

It was the aura around her.

Faint. Extremely faint.

Invisible to ordinary people.

But to him, it burned like a signal in the dark.

He was not ordinary.

He had survived countless life-and-death missions as a soldier king of the Assad Organization, his instincts honed into something almost inhuman.

That sensation was unmistakable.

A vampire’s curse.

Rector’s fingers twitched.

He knew it too well—because it flowed in his own veins.

Three years ago, on a storm-split night, he had been infected.

Lightning had torn through the sky, and he had seen something he should not have seen.

After that, his body changed.

Stronger. Faster. Sharper.

But also hungrier.

Craving blood. Rejecting sunlight. Waking in the dead of night, feeling something in him drift further and further away from being human.

And now, that same presence lay here.

On this bed.

Rector slowly clenched his fist, nails pressing into his palm.

A strange, cold amusement rose in him.

So this so-called “curse” everyone feared…

The same curse, the same fate, the same abyss.

Rector slowly clenched his hand hanging beside him, his nails sinking into his palm.

He suddenly felt a bit ridiculous - the legendary 'curse' was lying on this soft bed, quiet and powerless to resist.

She is even more pitiful than him.

At least he's still alive.

And she didn't even have the strength to open her eyes.