DMBM Chapter 2

He cast her a reproachful glance, as if blaming her for being too slow to grasp the meaning behind his words. “If all I wanted was a child, then anyone could give me one. I might already have several by now. But what I want is an exceptional heir. That means the mother’s DNA is crucial.”

“DNA?” Her voice cracked in disbelief.

“You’re smart, and quite attractive. You have your own opinions, not like those meek, submissive women. You face challenges head-on and don’t crumble in adversity. That kind of genetic makeup and personality could raise a brave and capable son—one who’s worthy of inheriting the Yan family business.”

So that’s why he chose her?

“Besides, my child needs an intelligent mother, and this family needs a respectable hostess—someone who won’t embarrass me in social settings. There are trivial household matters and finances that also need someone trustworthy to manage.”

Did he want a wife—or just a glorified housekeeper?

She glared at him, visibly irritated.

“Do you understand now?” he said. “If you agree, we’ll sign a contract. For security’s sake, there will be a prenuptial agreement. I won’t risk marrying a woman out to seize my assets.”

What? Did he think she’d poison him for his inheritance?

She trembled with fury, every nerve screaming for her to slap him and reject this humiliating offer. But cold, rational logic held her back. She couldn’t let one moment of pride destroy the chance of saving her father’s life’s work—Xia Yachts.

She didn’t have many options.

Two days later, she agreed. They signed the prenuptial agreement, and he kept his word—transferring the first installment of funding to her company’s account right on schedule.

One month later, they were married.

The lavish affair was hailed by the media as a wedding of the century—the union of a prince and a princess.

But no one dared to speak the truth: this was a marriage of mutual convenience, not love. The fairytale was a lie.

She had married a man who only wanted her DNA. That was the ugly reality.

What was uglier still was that on their wedding night, he made no effort to pretend otherwise. No tenderness, no foreplay. He treated her like a mating partner, a beast seeking only physical union.

She couldn’t bear it. In a panic and rage, she pushed him away. For a brief second, she thought she saw confusion flash in his sharp, cold eyes. But it was fleeting. He rolled off the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and buttoned up his shirt.

“You won’t be able to reject me forever. Better start preparing yourself,” he said before striding out without looking back.

Even rejected by his own wife, he remained proud and aloof. She began to wonder if the man even had emotions—was he some kind of cold-blooded creature?

Three months into the marriage, she finally got her answer.

That night, Xia Xue was in the study, working.

As she read through a report, a loose strand of hair tickled her cheek. Irritated, she brushed it away. When it kept falling back, she grabbed a hair tie and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

The long hair was something Yan Yongxuan had asked her to grow. He wanted her to look more “feminine.”

“Your chest is already small, and you’re always wearing trousers. If you’re not careful, people might think you’re a guy—just like I did when I first met you.”

It was a cold, emotionless comment, but it had still hurt.

She had started taking care of her hair and even forced herself to wear more skirts. But no matter what she did, she never felt like she had earned his approval. Meanwhile, he made no effort to hide his affairs. His latest mistress was said to be half French and looked like a porcelain doll—gorgeous beyond words.

Lily. That was her name. Xia Xue had learned it from his assistant, and oddly, she wasn’t even surprised.

What powerful man didn’t think womanizing was his birthright? He was no different. If she dared question him, he’d probably blame her for not fulfilling her marital duties.

If she couldn’t satisfy him in bed, what right did she have to stop him from finding someone who could?

Xia Xue forced a bitter smile, trying to focus again. But her mood had soured. As she took a sip of coffee and forced herself back to the report, she heard approaching footsteps.

Calm, arrogant strides—it could only be him.

Her body tensed.

Seconds later, Yan Yongxuan pushed open the study door and walked in with composure. She watched him warily, like prey sensing the approach of a predator. He stopped in front of her, looking down.

She bit her lip in silence.

He also said nothing. Raising a hand, he pulled the hair tie from her ponytail. Her hair fell like silk. His fingers brushed her scalp in a strangely intimate touch.

Her skin tingled.

After playing with her hair for a while, he suddenly leaned down and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her closer.

Their eyes met. The tension in the air crackled like static. She couldn’t move.

“Give it to me,” he said, voice hoarse.

She trembled. “What?”

He nodded at her hand.

She realized she was still holding the pen—her father’s birthday gift to her, something she always carried.

One by one, he pried her fingers open and took it. It felt like he’d stripped away her only defense, and her blood roared with panic.

“Tonight, you won’t be able to escape,” he warned.

Panic clogged her throat. “Yan Yongxuan, you can’t… force me.”

“I can’t?” he sneered, gripping her neck tighter. “Don’t forget, Xia Xue—you are my wife. Legally, you have a duty to share my bed. If you keep rejecting me, I’ll file for divorce. And your company won’t get a single cent more from me.”

She bit down the pain, refusing to cry. “Let go of me.”

He did—but his mocking gaze remained. “Take off your clothes.”

That cold, merciless order sliced through her pride. But she wouldn’t plead. Hands trembling, she slowly began to undress.

Her dress dropped to the floor. Then her blouse. Even though she tried to stall, she soon stood half-naked in front of him, like a dancer forced to perform.

Only her ocean-blue bra and panties remained.

She told herself it didn’t matter—he was her husband. But a wave of shame crashed over her anyway, overwhelming and unrelenting.

He stared at her, eyes dark and unreadable. “Why stop? Are you shy?”

She glared at him, hands shaking as they moved to undo her bra.

Suddenly, a phone rang.

She froze. He picked up, listened for a moment, then his eyes lit with sharp interest.

“You found the painting? Great. When can I get it?” he said, already walking out the door.

Xia Xue remained frozen. Her mind was blank. After a long moment, she picked up her blouse and clutched it to her chest.

He just… left?

What did he take her for?

Never in her life had she felt this humiliated. If his gaze had shamed her, his indifference shamed her even more.

In his eyes, she wasn’t even worth a glance. A painting held more value than his wife’s body.

Why did he marry her then? For her DNA? But if he wasn’t even aroused by her, what about her DNA was so appealing?

Yan Yongxuan—she hated him. Hated him!

She couldn’t hold back anymore. Even someone as composed as her couldn’t endure this. Tears burned her eyes. Her heart ached.

“I hate you… I hate you!” she screamed hoarsely, sweeping everything off the desk in a fury.

Still seething, she grabbed a vase and hurled it against the wall.

“What are you doing?”

He appeared at the door again.

She turned and glared at him, tears blurring her vision. His face showed confusion—and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of alarm.

Was he afraid he’d married a woman on the brink of madness?

She laughed bitterly. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m having a meltdown.”

He frowned. “Because I asked you to sleep with me?”

Because he didn’t even see her as a woman. Because a painting mattered more to him than she did.

Her rage spiked. For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill someone. “Yan Yongxuan, you’re a bastard.”

“I’m a bastard?”

The worst part was that he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. She inhaled deeply, lips twisting in bitterness.

He watched her silently, then after a pause, bent down and picked up her dress, handing it to her. “Put this on. I’ll let you off tonight.”

Let her off?

Was she supposed to kneel and thank him for his mercy?

She shot him a burning glare. “Your blood must be cold. You’re not even human.”

He didn’t answer. His expression didn’t change.

Even her harshest words didn’t faze him. He was utterly, inhumanly cold-blooded.

“I’m going out,” he said finally.

Her heart skipped. “Where are you going?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

He walked away.

She bit her lip in frustration.

She wasn’t stupid—she knew where he was going. If she couldn’t satisfy him, someone else would.

He was going to Lily.

Moments later, the roar of his motorcycle echoed through the night, stinging her ears.

He really left. Off to find a “real” woman.

How romantic… Like a scene from a movie.

“Then what am I? What am I…” she whispered.

Sliding down the wall, she sat curled on the floor.

The night grew darker, shadows deepened, and under the dim light, her tears shimmered like broken stars.

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