When their eyes met, Arabella curled her lips into a smile, ripples of amusement forming on her face.
The other person wore the standard uniform of the palace guards, a blend of blue and white. Despite the uniform's commonality, he wore it with a sharp, upright appearance. His cold, aloof demeanor exuded a chastened, almost oppressive aura, leaving those around him frozen in silence, like birds wary of the falcon's approach.
His face was like a sculpture, with a high, straight nose and deep-set eyes. The sharp contours of his features gave him a striking, almost chiseled appearance—a man with a mature, compelling allure.
"Please follow me," he said, his tone respectful as he gestured for them to follow. A group of guards had arrived, escorting the guests to safety. However, the newcomer's demeanor exuded an undeniable air of nobility, his every move radiating a sense of power and aggression, much like a lone wolf—fierce, battle-hardened, and impossible to hide.
Arabella raised an eyebrow, but chose not to expose his disguise.
A wolf would never consider a sheep; it only sees and attracts those of its own kind. This was a confidence that flowed from a stronger being, unintentionally revealed amidst the countless mortals.
Bramwell wanted to refuse, but the look Arabella gave him was so clear. Though he was reluctant, he couldn't defy her command at that moment.
However, Arabella had always been indifferent to emotions, and she couldn't sense Bramwell's internal discomfort and pain.
"You take my wife and leave first. It's not safe for both of us as targets," Arabella instructed.
George raised an eyebrow, surprised that the young nobleman actually had some courage. It was rare for someone to think about protecting his wife in such a dangerous situation; it seemed their relationship was quite strong.
Thinking this, a knot formed in George's heart.
He escorted them to safety, following a pre-arranged, secure route.
Before leaving, he gave the order to his fully armed troops hidden in the shadows: to wipe out everyone without leaving a trace.
Take advantage of the chaos to eliminate the so-called wealthy young master, Leonard, and then deal with the woman beside him—
George unconsciously licked his lips. Deep down, he longed to have the one he had been thinking about constantly, yet it was precisely because of his deep yearning that he felt no rush.
He ruled over his country and held the highest power in the land—what was there to fear? She would be his when the time came.
But people, no matter how much they plan, can never outsmart fate.
A coup, a plot that could cost one's head, was of course no small matter. There were only two possible outcomes: success or failure. Naturally, one would risk everything, even their life, to fight for it.
So, it was completely normal for there to be a traitor among George's ranks.
Not long after the car followed the predetermined route, George sensed something was wrong.
If he were alone in the car, he wouldn't be alarmed.
But at this moment, there was someone else in the car, someone he deeply cared about.
As he thought this, he turned his head, only to find the woman in the passenger seat unusually calm. Her deep eyes were steady and indifferent, without a hint of emotion.
So composed?
This was definitely not the reaction of an ordinary woman.
What George admired was the other's steady and composed demeanor, but such an aura could never belong to a young wife confined to the inner chambers.
The name of Arabella flashed across his mind again, but was quickly dismissed.
There was no helping it—the notorious leader of the gang that had shaken the entire world. The rumored methods of this figure were in stark contrast to the composed individual before him.
"Miss, I'm still not familiar with your name." George played with his choice of words, hoping she would notice.
Arabella remained silent, her gaze fixed on the window. Her eyes, hazy as if veiled by a thin layer of gauze, revealed no trace of her emotions.
Suddenly, she struck. The steering wheel spun, and a burst of gunfire rang out, the bullets embedding in the seat surface.
Luckily, it was an armored car with full bulletproof protection, so the bullets couldn't easily penetrate the door.
"Keep your eyes on the road."
George looked up and saw a smiling face. Her thick lashes filtered all emotion, instantly enlarging in his line of sight.
His heart inexplicably stirred. George squinted his eyes, responding naturally, "Hold on tight."
Seeing her quietly sit back in her seat, George felt a strange surge of excitement.
In the face of such a thrilling and dangerous situation, a man's natural desire to perform was ignited.
The sensation of the cars closing in from both sides made his blood boil, his pulse quickening.
He didn't draw his gun. The car was armored, so he didn't make the unnecessary move of rolling down the window and increasing the danger.
The woman sitting beside him was the one he cared about, and protecting her was the key.
Surrounded by flickering flames, he fought his way through the siege with unyielding courage. Adrenaline surged through his veins, as though he were a warrior battling for love.
That was the first time he truly felt alive.
But of course, the enemy was well-prepared. As the rocket launcher clamped onto the rear of their car, ready to fire, George couldn't help but curse under his breath. He slammed his foot on the gas, intent on using the winding backstreets to dodge the missile's blast.
"Roll down the windows!"
The woman beside him finally spoke. Her smiling face contrasted with the cold, almost indifferent tone of her voice. Her words were firm, leaving an inexplicable sense of reliability.
George raised an eyebrow and swiftly rolled down all the windows.
Arabella drew her gun and fired in a seamless motion, as if everything flowed into one continuous, almost imperceptible line. In the blink of an eye, she had completed the entire sequence of actions, so fast it seemed as though the world had simply missed a beat.
George prided himself on his military background, having come through many gunfights and battles.
But the speed at which she shot was so astonishingly fast that it left him dumbfounded.
After holstering her gun, she was calm and composed, as if the fiery chaos she had caused behind her, with bodies and overturned vehicles, was nothing more than a natural outcome.
This was probably the aura that naturally emanated after reaching a level of strength so immense.
George couldn't help but whistle, in awe.
With Arabella around, this level of pursuit seemed like a minor skirmish.
She had only fired three shots, and yet she turned the encirclement into an unimpeded escape.
George had many secret bases. One of them had been betrayed, but he naturally had other places to retreat to.
As the car slowly entered the heavily guarded military base, George deliberately turned his head to glance at the woman beside him.
Her profile wasn't one with a high nose bridge or graceful lines, but he knew well that it was nothing but a false face. Still, he wasn't curious about her true appearance.
A beauty would only be an added bonus. Her looks, whether beautiful or not, would not sway his feelings.
He had already put his mask back on, then, with utmost gentlemanly grace, extended his hand. With a mix of respect and unspoken dominance, he took hers and led her into the base.
The weapons gleamed coldly, radiating a lethal aura. The soldiers, iron-willed and full of masculinity, filled the vast space, the atmosphere thick with the scent of raw power. The crowd surged, all eyes fixed on the one they deeply revered— the general, who had surprisingly brought a woman with such seemingly fragile and unremarkable appearance.
Only George knew that the woman beside him walked with such ease, as if she had always been above the chaos, looking down upon all beneath her.
Entering the empty general's command center, George knelt on one knee, one hand pressed to his forehead, swearing the holiest and most sincere of vows in Doma—a vow that no other man would dare make, a lifelong promise to the woman he loved.
Because of the solemnity of the vow, most men, even when they marry, would not easily make such a promise again. A single vow for a lifetime, a treasure that no one else could claim.
"Let me reintroduce myself. My name is George Cardew, the general of this country and the true power behind the throne."
"Do you know who I am?"
"I don't care who you are, whether a wife or a disguised identity. I just follow my heart and want to tell you how I feel."
Arabella's lips curled upward, still exuding an air of gentle modesty. Yet, in the moment she lowered her gaze to smooth her hair, a cold, untamed ferocity flickered in her eyes, devoid of warmth.
It was the first time she encountered such a situation, with a man boldly confessing his feelings for her, so passionately, so devotedly.
But—does he really not know who she is? Or rather, does he not know now, but once he finds out, will he still have the courage to profess his love to her?
When George caught sight of the other's smile, her heart raced with excitement, its rhythm erratically quickening. Before she could even attempt to soar upwards, a single, simple remark from the other sent her plummeting into the depths.
"I am Arabella Montfort!" Arabella's eyes held a hidden murderous intent as she whispered meaningfully in George's ear, "Are you sure you want to love me?"
