Fated love: the unwanted bride

Sylvan Cheney, in a black suit, stood in the open.

His figure was slim, his face frosty, and he emanated a cold, solitary aura.

A man apart.

His sharp eyes were fixed on the second floor of the villa, where the doors and windows were tightly shut.

“Mr. Cheney, I’ll go check if Luka Xadrian is there,” Charles Mcintosh suggested.

Sylvan Cheney raised his hand to stop him: “No need, he’s there.”

Charles Mcintosh squinted his eyes, he didn’t see anyone.

Yet, as soon as he finished speaking, sure enough, a middle-aged man came down from the second floor.

The man wore a simple grey sweater, was unkempt, with a cigar clutched between his fingers.

His hair and beard were long, he looked weather-beaten.

Luka Xadrian was coming down the steps.

The wooden steps creaked with every step he took.

And beneath them, a solitary, forlorn shadow.

Luka Xadrian glanced at Sylvan Cheney, then lowered his head to adjust his sweater cuff.

Neither warm nor cold.

He descended the stairs and went straight to his garden, tending to his plants.

Charles Mcintosh was about to follow, but Sylvan Cheney held him back.

The sun illuminated Sylvan Cheney’s stern and cold profile. His nose high, his lips cool.

He strode towards Luka Xadrian.

“Mr. Xadrian?” Sylvan Cheney started to say, his expression remained steady, undisturbed.

But those sharp eyes of Sylvan Cheney never left Luka Xadrian.

This man sported a full beard, yet…

Sylvan Cheney’s eyes lit up, revealing a hint of sharpness.

Without looking up, Luka Xadrian took a puff on his cigar and went on with his gardening: “Speak your mind, and if there’s nothing, go back.”

Charles Mcintosh scowled and took several steps forward—

Sylvan Cheney raised his hand to stop him.

There was now a pair of scissors in Luka Xadrian’s hand, he was pruning his precious roses.

The middle-aged man’s eyes carried no discernible color, his expression calm, devoid of any passion or desire.

Sylvan Cheney took out a picture and put it in front of Luka Xadrian.

“I’ll get straight to the point.” Sylvan Cheney spoke lightly, “I’m here for this ring.”

Luka Xadrian glanced at the picture and something flickered in his eyes.

Yet a few seconds later, he lowered his eyes again: “This ring doesn’t exist.”

“Is that so?” Sylvan Cheney’s eyes flashed, “How come I heard that this ring is with you?”

Luka Xadrian bending over, very calm.

With a “snap”, a branch was severed.

It fell to the ground.

“You’re not the first to ask about this ring, and you won’t be the last.”

Luka Xadrian’s voice was indifferent, dismissive.

“No.” Sylvan Cheney calmly replied, “I may not be the first to ask about this ring, but I will be the only one to take it.”

His voice carried an irrefutable authority and a determination to succeed.

Charles Mcintosh cornered his lips.

He knew that Mr. Cheney had the confidence.

But this Luka Xadrian was not an easy man to deal with either.

Apparently, the woman who loved this ring presented Mr. Cheney with a great challenge.

The surroundings were very quiet.

Only bird calls and the sound of wind rustling leaves could be heard.

Luka Xadrian, seemingly used to these situations, appeared disdainful.

“I’ve said it doesn’t exist, so it doesn’t. Don’t obstruct me while I’m tending my plants. Be on your way.”

Luka Xadrian was quite impatient.

“What conditions do you want?” Sylvan Cheney looked him straight in the face. “Conditions? If I want to give it, I will. If I don’t… not even throwing it away will I give to you.”

Luka Xadrian shot a glance at Sylvan Cheney.

His gaze was cold and icy.

He hated men like him, arrogant and proud..