Preface

It all began when a DNA test was delivered to the doorstep of the prestigious Harrison family.

In an instant, Clara fell from her throne as the pampered "Jewel of Harbor Bay" to the lowly status of a nanny’s daughter. Losing her identity as the youngest sister, the beautiful porcelain doll found herself suddenly surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves.

Unaware of the lurking danger, Clara could only sob in grievance, "Quentin, is this going to ruin my trip to Paris next month? What about my vacation in Dubai, my custom Hermès Kelly doll, and my butterfly diamond cake?"

Quentin sat on the leather sofa, his broad shoulders casting a shadow as his large, veined hand gently patted her back. "I have a solution," he said.

Clara looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

She met Quentin’s deep, inscrutable gaze. "Marry me."

Clara admitted that she married Quentin in a fit of pique, driven by a sense of revenge and never intending for it to be real.

Later, the Harbor Bay media never got to witness Clara’s downfall. Instead, they saw her coming and going from the Harrison estate as usual.

Elliot took her out to clear her mind, while Leo hosted yacht parties for her.

She was even seen in intimate proximity with the most cold-blooded eldest Harrison son. When the media couldn't help but ask about their relationship, Clara gave a pampered, innocent explanation: "They are just my brothers."

Deep into the night, the tears at the corners of Clara’s eyes were shattered by a forceful rhythm.

Quentin’s long fingers roughly brushed against her reddened eyelids. "Just brothers?" he whispered darkly. "Do those two touch you like this?"

Once their secret marriage was finally exposed, Clara discovered... her three brothers had started a war with each other.

Chapter 1: Feeling Wronged?

[OMG! Did you guys see? Clara isn’t even Harrison’s biological daughter!]

[You’re just finding out, babe? It’s been circulating all day. That precious little princess is a total fraud.]

[I’ve been annoyed with her for ages, flaunting her wealth 24/7. Looks like her luck finally ran out.]

[Exactly. Just the other day at the auction, Clara spent tens of millions to outbid Cynthia for that gold-inlaid hibiscus stone box. If she can’t settle the bill now, that’ll be a show worth watching.]

The phone vibrating incessantly on the kitchen island suddenly went silent.

Clara sat on a high stool, watching the group chat fall still. Her slender, well-proportioned legs were crossed, and she mindlessly swung her foot, her cat-themed slipper dangling from her toes.

Finally, a series of notifications appeared on the screen: [User retracted a message].

Clara’s eyebrows quirked upward as she scooped up the last bite of her sea-salt cheesecake.

Ah, so they finally remembered she was still in the group.

It wasn’t a serious group of friends anyway—just a circle formed at a cocktail party after she returned from her studies last month. A few socialites had rushed over to invite her to Paris for the fashion shows.

Clara couldn't quite recall their faces and hadn't even bothered to save their names; she only remembered how overly affectionate they had been when they first met.

Within two minutes, all the popped-up messages had been retracted.

The chat window was as quiet as if nothing had happened.

It had been a full twenty-four hours since Clara found out she wasn't the biological daughter of the Harrisons.

When the news broke, she had been happily processing her paperwork at the museum with her appointment letter in hand.

Only after finishing did she overhear colleagues whispering phrases like "swapped at birth," "not biological," and "fake socialite."

Clara had even leaned in curiously, ears pricked. "Huh?" "Really?" "Is this a novel or a TV drama?"

But as soon as she stepped outside, she was swamped by a mob of reporters.

The news had exploded online. She was the very last person to know—amidst the blinding flash of a thousand cameras.

By now, her emotions were drained to the point of exhaustion.

Aside from hunger, she felt nothing.

Clara nibbled on the last bite of sea-salt cheesecake with a hint of reluctance.

At first, she had acted out in spite, locking herself in her room and sobbing until she was hoarse. No matter how much her father and mother knocked, she wouldn't open the door, intending to worry them to death.

After all, they were the ones who made such a massive mistake by taking the wrong child; they deserved a little punishment.

But now, Clara felt like they weren't actually that worried.

She, however, was truly starving to death.

Clara opened the walk-in fridge, took a lap inside, and dejectedly grabbed a bottle of lemon soda.

She hated cooking. Her fridge only contained drinks, snacks, and the rest was filled with face masks and skincare products. Having been locked away all day, that small piece of cake was all she had eaten.

Clara checked her phone.

Even the housekeeper hadn't sent a message to call her for dinner.

It never used to be like this.

Usually, even for a routine meal, someone would ask for her preferences. For over twenty years, she never had to ask for anything; whatever she needed would be brought directly to her.

Clara figured it was because Harrison and Penelope were busy today deciding how to bring their biological daughter back while dodging the media.

The entire Harrison household seemed frantic, preparing a new room to welcome a new master.

Her room was unnervingly quiet, both inside and out.

It was as if they had forgotten she existed.

Clara then thought that if her brothers were here, it certainly wouldn't be this way.

But one of her brothers was currently a guest professor for a short-term entrepreneurship course in the capital, another was at a business summit in the States, and the third was in Europe for an ultramarathon around Mont Blanc.

None of them could be back anytime soon.

Even if they did return, Clara didn't dare to imagine the scene.

What if, after meeting her, they no longer treated her as their sister?

Frustrated, Clara choked down a breath, poured the lemon soda into a glass, and sat back at the island to fill her stomach.

pressed the phone screen back to life, her porcelain-white fingertip tapping the glass as she listlessly swiped through a news app.

The explosive scandal had been fermenting for a day, and there weren't many insults left unsaid, but the hashtag #TheStolenLife was still an eyesore.

Enthusiastic netizens had first dug up the family trust Clara inherited at birth and the hundred-million-dollar blue diamond she wore to her hundred-day banquet. Then, they had helpfully fabricated lists of luxury villas, yachts, and multi-billion-dollar shopping sprees that didn't even belong to her.

Following that trail, they found the victim of this "stolen life" in a scholarship defense notice from the University of Hong Kong. They posted photos of her in simple clothes, working part-time to wash dishes in a small local diner.

With the two lives compared side-by-side, everyone began to champion the cause of the hardworking, brave, and brilliant biological daughter.

They cursed Clara as a thief who had occupied a nest that didn't belong to her.

Clara couldn't understand why so many people were accusing her, and no one understood her feelings. Everyone seemed to think she should be terrified, insecure, or guilty.

Guilty of what?

The love was fake, the home was fake.

The extreme importance and protection her parents had given her for over twenty years could be discounted in an instant because of their own mistake.

She was the one who had been deceived, yet she was the one being blamed.

No one wants to be labeled a thief.

Especially not the proud Clara.

Clara knew she should exit the app to avoid being crushed by the weight of public opinion, but her finger couldn't help but swipe.

She zoomed in on the screen and saw the name—Winona.

She pursed her lips, hesitated for a moment, and then clicked on the photo from the part-time job.

The lights were off in the massive room.

As night fell, the surroundings grew dim, leaving only the cold glow of the phone screen to illuminate Clara’s soft, translucent face, which looked as delicate as fine jade.

On the screen, the girl was dressed in a simple baseball jacket and trousers, sleeves rolled up, her long hair tied back in a clean, sharp ponytail.

The dirty dishes in her hands didn't detract from her superior features; one could faintly see the resemblance to Penelope in her youth, with a hint of Slavic coldness and those enviable deep contours.

Clara felt a sense of melancholy.

She looked so much like the brothers.

Their maternal grandfather was of Slavic descent.

No wonder the whole family had such high-contrast, striking features, while she was the only one with a softer, more delicate look.

Clara flipped through the photos one by one. Under the descriptions of those posts, she was almost ready to feel sorry for her along with the netizens.

But soon, as her stomach began to growl, she started feeling sorry for herself again.

So what if she wasn't biological?

She couldn't just starve to death.

Nothing was more important than eating.

But Clara didn't want to go downstairs and see those people welcoming a different master.

She stared toward the walk-in closet for a while, conflicted, before finally standing up and walking over.

The main Harrison residence at Cloud Bay had five floors. Clara and Quentin’s rooms were adjacent, splitting the third floor in half.

However, the partition wasn't strictly sealed; there was a passage through her closet that led to the next room without having to go into the hallway.

No one knew about this hidden connection except for Clara and Quentin.

Even though her eldest brother was away, Clara knew he usually cooked, so his fridge would be well-stocked.

Clara stepped into the closet, and the strips of warm light flickered on layer by layer, illuminating haute couture gowns and jewelry on either side.

A snow-white cat, Cookie, was curled up asleep on a light-blue brocade train. Hearing the door open, it woke up and looked toward the entrance.

Seeing it was her, the cat stood up and meowed urgently.

Cookie was a stray male cat Quentin had brought home a few years ago. Last night, when she was arguing with her parents in her room, she had occasionally heard Cookie calling for her from the closet.

She hadn't expected him to stay there the whole time.

Clara picked him up. "You’re still here."

"I'm going to your daddy's room to find something to eat."

Clara walked to the end of the closet and saw that the rotating cabinet door had been nudged open a crack by Cookie.

Pushing the cabinet door open brought her into Quentin’s room.

Though separated only by a wall, Quentin’s room was styled completely differently from hers.

It was just like the man himself.

Clara walked in holding Cookie and was immediately enveloped by the crisp, cold tones of black and grey.

She couldn't help but hold her breath. Perhaps because Quentin had been gone for so long, the room felt cold and indifferent, devoid of human warmth, which made the atmosphere feel even more oppressive and detached.

Her brother had been away on business in the capital for nearly a month, starting right when she graduated and returned home.

A few days after her return, Quentin had received the appointment to be a guest professor, tasked with leading university-enterprise cooperation and expanding the group's reach in the capital.

She didn't know when he would be back.

Then again, she wasn't in any rush for him to return.

As long as he didn't come back while she was stealing his food.

Clara walked into the small kitchenette of Quentin’s bedroom suite, set Cookie down nearby, and carefully selected a box of instant pasta from his fridge. She happily rolled up her sleeves to boil the noodles and heat the sauce packet.

At that moment, a black Phantom drove into Cloud Bay without warning and stopped at the front door of the main house.

The assistant stepped out from the passenger seat and respectfully opened the car door.

The servants in the yard were surprised to see this car with dual plates for both Harbor Bay and the mainland; they all rushed forward to line up on either side.

Custom leather shoes hit the ground, followed by the sharp lines of tailored trousers, bringing with them a gust of crisp, cool air.

The head butler was absent, and the servants were leaderless. They pushed forward Aunt Zhang, who had some standing with the family, to tell the newly arrived Quentin that his father and mother hadn't brought "the person" back yet.

They meant they had found the biological daughter.

They were all somewhat afraid of this eldest Harrison grandson.

Among the Harrison grandchildren, he was the one whose temperament most resembled the old patriarch.

And he didn't share the old man's gentle appearance; his Slavic heritage was prominent in his bone structure—deep-set eyes, a high bridge of the nose, and cold black pupils. His aura of absolute authority was unmistakable.

Quentin seemed to have known all of this long ago. He walked inside and headed upstairs, asking simply, "Have the media been checked?"

"Huh?" Aunt Zhang didn't understand such things and stammered, "The master... should be looking into the media outlets involved."

"Tell him not to bother," Quentin said plainly. "I’ve already caught them."

"Tell him to find me when he gets back."

Aunt Zhang gave a vague affirmative.

the metallic mirror of the elevator reflected Quentin’s impeccably textured suit jacket.

The elevator gave a sharp "ding."

Aunt Zhang looked up at the floor display and felt a sudden chill down her spine.

The 3rd floor. That wasn't just Quentin’s room; it was also Clara’s.

They had been so busy cleaning a room for Winona all day that they had completely forgotten Clara was still in the house.

However, Clara hadn't made a scene today; she had just kept herself locked away.

Aunt Zhang quickly found an excuse to clear herself. "The young lady is very upset. She locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out no matter how we called. She hasn't eaten or touched a drop of water all day. We've been so worried."

Quentin gripped his door handle, his dark, ink-like eyes lifting slightly.

The noise from the kitchen was loud enough that Clara completely failed to hear the faint "beep-beep-beep" of the fingerprint lock on the outer door.

Cookie heard it, though.

He poked his head out and ran toward the door, then ran back with his tail standing straight up.

Clara was focused on the kitchen, her cat-themed slippers padding around as she dug out a pile of snacks and laid them across the table, intending to take them back with her. She then scurried back to plate the boiled pasta, twirling a few strands to take a test bite.

Cookie jumped up beside her and nudged her arm.

Clara misunderstood and immediately pulled away. "This is human food, kitty can't eat it."

Clara, protective of her food, turned around with the fork still in her mouth. To her shock, the bedroom door swung open without warning.

She was suddenly face-to-face with the man!

The person who was supposed to be thousands of miles away was standing right in front of her. Clara froze, a wave of guilt and confusion sending goosebumps across her skin.

Quentin looked at the "young lady who hasn't eaten or touched water," currently occupying his kitchen and raiding his fridge.

Quentin’s eyebrow quirked up.

Then, with a "click," he locked the door from the inside.

Clara’s heart jumped at the sound of the lock.

Looking at the man who had suddenly returned, she almost thought she was hallucinating.

The room was now saturated with the scent of Quentin’s agarwood and cedarwood fragrance, a dominant presence that made Clara feel as if she were being marked by the scent herself.

Her luck was truly terrible.

The very first time she sneaked in to eat his food, she was caught red-handed.

Clara bit down on her fork, her eyebrows knitting together.

Quentin walked toward her slowly, the sound of his leather shoes on the marble floor feeling heavy, as if he were stepping directly on Clara’s heart.

He walked up to her and reached out, his long fingers gripping the base of the fork she was biting.

His voice was low and calm. "Open up."

With a slight application of pressure, Clara felt the force on the fork pry her teeth apart.

She had no choice but to let go.

The fork slid past her lips and was taken by Quentin. His gaze flickered over the rosy tip of Clara’s tongue before he looked away. "You shouldn't bite the fork like that."

"I know," Clara said, her voice trailing off as she tried to take it back.

Quentin raised his hand, making her grab at thin air.

He glanced at her, took the plate of pasta from her hand, and set it back in the kitchen.

Clara scrambled to make up an excuse for her thievery. "Cookie was hungry. He ran to my room, so I just accompanied him here to find something to eat."

Cookie: "?"

Quentin briefly tidied the kitchen counter. "The cat food isn't in the fridge."

"I didn't know that."

"He probably can't eat pasta, either."

Clara never expected her clumsy excuses to be convincing; it was simply that no matter what she said, her brother would always accept her nonsense.

In the past, she would have just brushed it off, but today, Clara suddenly cared deeply about it.

She lowered her eyes. "How am I supposed to know what he eats and what he doesn't?"

"If you know him so well, why were you gone for so long?" Clara stroked Cookie’s fur, her voice getting lower and lower. "The people outside are all so two-faced. You weren't here to look after him, and you wouldn't know if he was being bullied. He came to me, but I..."

Clara stopped halfway, her throat dry and raspy, unable to continue.

A moment later, a large, well-defined hand entered her field of vision. He gently rubbed the jaw of the cat in her arms.

The white fur brushed against the veins on the back of his hand. Cookie clearly enjoyed the attention, squinting his eyes and purring loudly.

The man’s unusually deep, magnetic voice drifted down from above her head.

"Did you feel wronged?"