I Married His Uncle for Revenge

Chapter 1

When Mother handed me the arranged marriage list, my fingertip paused over Quentin Sterling's name for a solid three seconds.

"Him," I said quietly.

Her teacup nearly slipped from her fingers.

"Bianca, are you sure? He's the current head of the Sterling family—he's eight years older than you—"

I lowered my lashes, a faint smile tugging at my lips, offering no explanation.

But the memory from my past life seared behind my eyes—the night of our Golden Anniversary when I accidentally wandered into Ethan's private study and found an entire wall dedicated to Stella.

Photos of her, from sixteen to thirty-six, each carefully labeled with dates and locations.

For twenty years, my husband had been secretly chronicling another woman's life.

"Bianca!" Mother's anxious voice yanked me back to the present.

"You and Ethan grew up together—"

"That's ancient history," I cut her off gently.

I closed the folder with a soft snap.

"Quentin Sterling is a much better match for the Northwoods."

Three days later, at the Sterling Group's gala, Ethan cornered me, flanked by his usual crowd of hangers-on.

"Heard you're marrying into the Sterlings?" he sneered, swirling his champagne with a smirk.

"Bianca Northwood, do you really think pulling this stunt will make me propose?"

Laughter rippled through the group like a bad joke.

I took a slow sip of my juice, unbothered.

"You're mistaken, Ethan," I said, calm as ever. "I'm marrying your uncle."

The room turned to ice.

Ethan's face twisted like someone had punched him.

"Are you out of your mind? He's thirty-two!"

"Exactly. I like men with maturity," I said, flashing a cool smile.

I turned to leave, but Ethan grabbed my wrist.

"Stop playing games," he hissed. "Take back this nonsense, and maybe I'll let it slide."

I gently pulled free.

"Mind your manners, Ethan."

Right then, Stella burst into the room, tears streaking her perfect face.

"Bianca, congratulations on your—" Her voice cracked into sobs, and she bolted.

Ethan dropped my arm without a second thought and ran after her, throwing a parting shot over his shoulder:

"You'll regret this, Bianca."

I watched him disappear, my expression unreadable—until a movement above caught my eye.

On the second-floor balcony, Quentin Sterling stood, a glass of red wine in hand, studying me with quiet, almost amused intensity.

When our eyes met, he lifted his glass in a silent toast, the ghost of a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.