Chapter 1

The Whitmore and Lancaster families have been allies for generations, holding a grand gala every year where marriage matches are decided through a "blind selection."

For seven years straight, every slip my childhood sweetheart Asher Whitmore and I drew was blank.

Because I was deeply in love with Asher, for the eighth gala's selection, I pulled every string I could to ensure the box contained only his name.

Until I overheard his mother's frustrated question.

"Asher, you've always said you'd marry no one but her. Why have you spent seven years replacing the slips in the selection box with blanks?"

"Watching her cry in disappointment every year—doesn't it hurt you?"

The man laughed softly.

"Of course it hurts."

"But Bianca just came back from abroad. Her mental state is fragile. I promised to help her through seven years of recovery."

"Besides, that fool won't marry anyone but me."

"Next year, I'll give her a grand proposal."

With that, he fed the slips bearing his name into the paper shredder.

And in that instant, I was set free.

After all, Grandfather had said it himself.

The family alliance only gave me eight chances.

Since you don't want to marry me,

I'll simply marry someone else.

……

"The sound of that shredder really is more pleasant than your crying."

Asher adjusted his cuffs and pushed open the door to the lounge without a care.

Outside, the hall was ablaze with chandeliers and filled with designer gowns.

This year, it was my family's turn to host the selection gala.

Also my last chance.

He didn't even spare a glance at me standing in the corner, face unreadable.

He walked straight toward Bianca, who was surrounded by a swarm of socialites.

"Asher!" Bianca's eyes reddened as she threw herself into his arms like a startled doe.

"They're saying I don't belong here, that I'm the other woman trying to break you and Serena up..."

Asher's brows furrowed, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room and landing on the gossiping women.

"Who dares say she doesn't belong? My word is law in this circle."

"Bianca is my honored guest. Anyone who makes her uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable."

The room fell dead silent.

The women turned pale, looking desperately toward me as I stepped out from the lounge.

After all, for the past seven years, I had been Asher's girlfriend—the only woman he allowed by his side.

He gave me everything I asked for.

But year after year, the selection failed, and I never became his fiancée.

Everyone expected me to march over and slap Bianca across the face, or break down in tears like I had for the past seven years, demanding to know why he was protecting another woman.

But this time, I simply smoothed the folds of my dress, picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, and took a sip.

The cold liquid slid down my throat, drowning the last flicker of affection I had for my childhood sweetheart.

"Serena, aren't you going to do something?" someone whispered hesitantly.

I smiled.

"Mr. Asher playing hero? Why would I get in the way? Besides—" I swirled my glass, eyes glinting with amusement, "—I'm curious to see what we'll draw from the selection box tonight."

Asher froze, turning his head instinctively to look at me, as if he hadn't expected this reaction at all.

In the past, by now I would've been sobbing and making a scene, demanding Bianca leave.

But tonight, I was as calm as a bystander.

A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes as he let go of Bianca and strode toward me.

"Serena, what kind of tantrum are you throwing now? Bianca just got back from overseas. She's fragile. She can't handle being frightened."

"You're the daughter of one of the most powerful families in New York. Can't you be a little more gracious?"

Gracious?

I looked at the man I'd loved for over a decade and suddenly, he felt like a stranger.

Seven years. Over two thousand nights.

I had molded myself to fit his tastes, softened my edges, learned to cook his favorite meals.

And what did I get? My sincerity, shredded to pieces in that machine.

"Asher." I set down my glass, the crystal clinking sharply against the marble table.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum. I just think you're right—Miss Bianca is so delicate. She really does need someone to take care of her during her recovery."

Asher froze, staring into my eyes, searching for jealousy or resentment.

But there was nothing. Only a calm, lifeless stillness.

That loss of control unsettled him.

He reached for my wrist. "Good. You understand. After tonight, next year—"

"There won't be a next year." I stepped aside, avoiding his touch, my tone as detached as if I were discussing the weather.

"Grandfather said it himself. Nothing lasts beyond eight tries. Tonight is the eighth."

"If we draw blanks again, then we're done."

"Let's part on good terms."