Love is like a dream

"Sorry, I'm late."

Stepping onto the cruise ship with poised confidence, Christina Marshall arrived fashionably late, her hand lightly resting on the assistant Alan Blake's as all eyes turned to her.

The gentle breeze of a March evening brushed against her as she walked with quiet elegance, her modest heels keeping in perfect rhythm behind Alan.

Her knee-length dress, a classic ensemble in deep navy, clung to her in all the right places, highlighting her slender frame. The white pearl pendant at her throat caught the light, casting subtle glows against her porcelain skin.

As she moved, her features came into sharp focus — crimson lips, impeccably styled hair that fell in glossy waves, and makeup that enhanced her natural beauty without overwhelming it. Each glance she cast around her, each subtle gesture of her hands, seemed to weave a spell over the crowd, leaving an impression of enigmatic allure.

Whispers cut through the ambient noise, growing louder as she passed.

"Who is that? Wow, she's absolutely breathtaking! She looks like she stepped out of a dream."

"Wait, don't you remember? That's Christina — the same one who stabbed Carrie years ago."

"You mean Christina Marshall? What is she even doing here? Someone like that has no business being on a luxury cruise."

The cruise was indeed a sanctuary for the affluent and influential, a floating palace where every guest was a meticulously vetted member of society's elite. Christina's family, once a pillar of such circles, had fallen from grace, and her presence here was nothing short of scandalous.

Nearby, a guest turned away, their expression one of revulsion, their voice icy as they replied to a companion, "Couldn't agree more. Who in their right mind would want to be around a murderer?"

Yes, a murderer — or so the whispered legends went.

Three years ago, Carrie Willis, the eldest daughter of the influential Willis family, had narrowly escaped death by Christina's hand.

...

Unfazed by the icy glares and hushed disapproval swirling around her, Christina trailed behind Alan, weaving through the thickening crowd to ascend to a secluded room on the third floor.

Upon entering, Christina paused, enveloping the room in her calm aura as she absorbed the stillness.

The sound of running water in the bathroom ceased abruptly, and moments later, a man emerged, casually draped in a bathrobe. His eyes, sharp and discerning, landed on the elegant figure of Christina standing poised behind Alan. A spark of recognition flickered across his devilishly handsome features, brightening his expression with a hint of sly delight.

"Christina?" he said, his voice smooth, laced with curiosity.

"Yes," she responded, her voice tinged with a warm, inviting timbre. She offered a slight nod, her gaze drifting across his face, appreciating the finely sculpted contours and the rogue charm they emitted.

The man before her was undeniably captivating, his features sharp and commanding, softened only by the playful twinkle of his amorous eyes, which seemed to dance with a blend of mischief and nonchalance.

Fresh from the shower, his presence was as invigorating as a cool breeze, yet it only enhanced the air of aristocratic grace that seemed to be his birthright.

He was Harold Hewitt, the notorious third son of the prestigious Hewitt family, reputed as the most carefree and reckless charmer in all of Ezrabury.

Christina's thoughts briefly lingered on his reputation, reminding her of the stories that painted him as a charming playboy, a man who turned heads and stirred hearts effortlessly.

Harold sauntered over to the plush sofa and settled into its embrace with a lazy arch of his eyebrows, signaling casual indifference. His voice echoed his relaxed posture, tinged with a hint of curiosity. "What brings you to me?"

Known for his reckless indulgences, Harold's paths with Christina had seldom intertwined.

He had only returned to the country following the death of his mother, Annette Hewitt. By that time, Christina's reputation was sealed behind bars, and her name was synonymous with infamy.

Yet, it was to Harold she made her formal visit upon her release.

Holding out a pendant with a steady hand, Christina began, her voice calm yet resonant, "Remember Warmth Alley three months ago? I was the one who saved you. You left this behind, and you promised me a favor in return. Do you remember now?"

That night near Warmth Alley had been harrowing for Harold. A severe car crash had left him bloodied and semi-conscious, his life hanging by a thread until an anonymous savior intervened.

Amidst his haze of pain, he had murmured a promise to fulfill any request from his rescuer.

It never crossed his mind that the person who saved him would be Christina, the infamous ex-convict fresh out of prison.

Harold's fingers closed around the pendant, his gaze intensifying as his brows knit together, contemplating the twisted fate that had brought them together.

His interest sharpened, mingled with a hint of wariness. Leaning forward, he asked, "So, what is it you want from me?"

Christina met his gaze squarely, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features before she steadied her voice, soft yet firm. "Would you marry me?"

The proposal reverberated through the room like a sudden clap of thunder, shocking yet undeniable.

For Christina, it wasn't merely a question. It was her only way forward.

Three years ago, she had viciously attacked Carrie, who was left permanently disabled. For this crime, Christina was sentenced to prison. Initially given a seven-year term, her sentence was mysteriously reduced again and again, until she was released early.

However, no sooner had she regained her freedom than Aidan Reed, the notorious playboy of the Reed family, unexpectedly proposed to her.

The Marshall family, lacking the influence to defy the Reed family, felt compelled to accept.

But there was something about Harold — he was in a league of his own.