She was just the "spare" daughter, hidden behind champagne smiles and velvet gowns. But when a sapphire-laced scandal erupts on the runway, Stella Lin shatters every illusion—starting with the billionaire who branded her with a kiss and called her his "medicine." Ethan Locke, CEO of the world’s most ruthless jewelry empire, is a man whose pain can only be cured by one woman—his secret wife. Cold, brilliant, and marked by a tragic past, he doesn’t believe in love. But he believes in ownership. As betrayals unravel from Paris to the penthouse, Stella’s forgotten designs turn into weapons, and her body becomes the battlefield where business, blood, and lust collide. When truth is engraved in diamonds and trust is auctioned at a price, can love ever be more than a contract? Hidden marriage. Cursed kisses. A sapphire that started a war. "Eclipse" is not just her signature. It’s his obsession.
... 展开全部 ... 收起全部
Chapter 1
Stella Lynn curled up in the cluttered storage room behind the jewelry exhibition hall. Outside the door, her stepsister Yvonne Lynn’s sugary voice rang out, “Sis, that gown of yours... doesn’t seem very sturdy.”
Riiip—
The sharp sound of silk tearing made Stella’s blood run cold. Yvonne held a pair of scissors, slicing through satin with cruel precision. Stella’s gaze dropped to the faint kiss mark just below her collarbone—left there the night before by Ethan Locke.
That man had gripped her chin, his eyes bloodshot like a beast’s. “Remember—you’re just my medicine.”
Medicine? How humiliating.
She let out a bitter laugh. But as she stood, her heel caught the hem of her ruined dress. Yvonne’s “masterpiece” split completely down the side—from waist to ankle, an ugly tear like a wound.
Footsteps approached from outside.
Stella grabbed the antique hairpin on the table—her mother’s only keepsake, left to her on her deathbed.
“If it’s going to fall apart…” her fingers brushed over the sapphire at its tip, and she let out a soft laugh, “…might as well make it a masterpiece.”
Five minutes later.
When Stella Lynn stepped through the side door into the grand ballroom, the crowd gasped.
What should have been a disaster now stunned the room: the girl was wrapped in deep navy satin, her torn dress transformed into an asymmetrical gown held together with the sapphire hairpin. Her bare shoulders and collarbone glowed under the chandelier light—and there, bold as day, bloomed a lipstick-colored kiss mark.
“Isn’t that the disgrace of the Lynn family?” someone sneered.
Yvonne swept over with a glass of champagne. “Sister, you look like a—”
“—like the ‘Shattered Galaxy’ dress you plagiarized last year?” Stella cut her off, casually tapping her finger toward the ballroom’s massive LED screen.
It was currently displaying Yvonne’s award-winning design—an exact replica of the hairpin pattern Stella held in her hand.
“Funny coincidence,” Stella murmured, lifting her phone. With a flick, she pulled up an old file. “Design number E-0927, international competition archives. Dated two years before Miss Lynn’s submission.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Yvonne’s face turned ghostly white. The champagne flute slipped from her hand and shattered on the marble floor.
Upstairs in the VIP suite, Ethan Locke’s fingertips brushed across the surveillance screen, pausing on the kiss mark at Stella’s collarbone. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He spoke to his assistant in a voice like ice:
“Purge every spy Chase Group planted. And…”
He loosened his tie, a storm brewing in his eyes. “Tell my wife I’ll be testing the ‘medicine’ tonight.”
Meanwhile, down on the ballroom floor, Stella remained oblivious to the gaze locked onto her. She turned to leave—only to be stopped by a lazy, velvet-smooth voice.
“That reconstruction, Miss Lynn… definitely Vogue cover-worthy.”
Adrian Chase leaned against a marble column, his eyes glinting like mischief wrapped in moonlight. He slipped a gold-embossed business card into her hand.
“How about becoming my exclusive designer? The pay includes...”
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “…helping you take down Ethan Locke.”
Stella’s pupils contracted sharply.
The sound of polished shoes echoed behind her, each step striking like a countdown. Then came Ethan’s voice—low, cold, and laced with blood:
“Mr. Chase seems a little too interested in my wife.”
Chapter 2
Adrian Chase’s breath fanned against Stella Lynn’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingers whitened around the business card. Behind her, Ethan Locke’s presence slammed into the room like a winter storm.
“Wife?” Adrian arched a brow, his smile devilish. His fingertip traced deliberately across Stella’s wrist. “Didn’t Mr. Locke claim he had no interest in women?”
A black-gloved hand clamped down on Stella’s waist—tight enough to bruise. She let out a stifled gasp of pain just as Ethan’s voice murmured against her ear, “Looks like last night’s dose wasn’t enough.”
The ballroom’s big screen flickered. Instead of the design showcase, a security feed appeared—footage of Yvonne Lynn slicing Stella’s gown to shreds.
Gasps exploded around the room.
Ethan raised a hand. With a snap of his fingers, ten men in black suits entered in perfect formation. One stepped forward and handed a USB to the event host. “Transfer records—Chase Group bribing the service staff.”
“Ethan Locke!” Adrian’s smirk finally fell.
Stella was yanked into a private elevator. The mirrored walls reflected Ethan’s strained forearms and clenched jaw. As he ripped open his collar, the faint outline of an old scar peeked from beneath his shirt—jagged and cruel.
A remnant from the pile-up three years ago.
“You knew Adrian would be there?” she hissed, backing against the freezing steel. “You used me as bait—”
Before she could finish, he gripped the back of her neck. His pupils were blown wide, almost unnatural, and his teeth grazed the artery at her throat.
“You’re the one who tried to run.”
The elevator opened straight into the penthouse suite. Stella was tossed onto a Persian carpet like a broken porcelain doll. Ethan stripped off his gloves. His pale fingers brushed the kiss mark at her collarbone.
“Where did Adrian touch you? Here?” He traced the mark. “Or… here?”
“You’re insane!” she screamed, flinging a crystal ashtray at him.
It grazed his temple—blood beading across his brow. But Ethan just laughed, low and dark, before grabbing her ankle and dragging her beneath him. The velvet curtains sealed the room in darkness. His body burned like fire against hers.
“Clause Three.” He bit off her shoulder strap. “When Party A relapses, Party B must cooperate with treatment.”
Her body froze.
She remembered the night they signed the contract—his private doctor had handed her a confidentiality form: “Mr. Locke suffers from tactile-induced synesthesia. Only your body fat percentage matches his treatment threshold.”
And she had believed that bullshit.
Now, his feverish mouth traced her spine, and—shockingly—relieved the pain pulsing in her nerves. Her fingers trembled as they skimmed the raised scar tissue along his back, shaped like a beast’s claw marks.
“Don’t move.” Ethan groaned, pressing his thumb to the birthmark on her lower back. “Unless you want your family bankrupt by tomorrow.”
Her phone buzzed violently on the carpet. A message from her stepmother lit the screen:
Your dad’s in ICU—heart attack. —[Photo: Yvonne taking a selfie outside the hospital room]
“You did this?” Stella’s voice cracked.
Ethan snatched the phone and dropped it into the champagne bucket. Water dripped from his fingers as he gripped her chin. “Beg me.”
Outside, rain slammed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. His gold-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose, revealing the madness pooling in his eyes.
Stella bit his wrist, hard.
The taste of blood burst in her mouth—metallic and hot. Ethan’s pupils contracted instantly.
Suddenly, an alarm screamed.
“Mr. Locke!” his assistant burst through the door. “Adrian Chase just bought 17% of Lynn Corp’s shares!”
Without flinching, Ethan grabbed his tie and bound Stella’s wrists. His expression returned to arctic cold. “Let him. When the stock peaks, release the mining disaster files from Congo.”
Stella’s fingers fumbled toward the letter opener on the nightstand. She pressed the blade to Ethan’s throat—and finally saw the tattoo under his collarbone.
One word. Latin. “Eclipse.”
Her first-ever signature as a jewelry designer.
“You knew…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “After the accident—you chose me… because my designs could revive Locke Corp’s jewelry line?”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He wrapped his hand around the blade, letting blood run freely over the sheets. Then he leaned down and licked a tear off her lashes.
“Because you're the only one who makes me feel pain.”
The storm outside thundered louder.
At that moment, a message from Adrian popped up on her phone screen:
Want the truth about the tattoo? Meet me tomorrow, 10 AM. Design Tower.
Next morning, Design Department Meeting Room.
Yvonne Lynn dumped coffee over Stella’s design draft. “You should go back to cleaning rags, sis. Your hands…” she raised her voice, “…are only good for plagiarism.”
Apparently, the entire room had collectively forgotten her plagiarism scandal from the gala.
The design director cleared his throat. “Stella, go sort the inventory. Yvonne will handle the new season's flagship piece.”
Stella wiped off the soaked paper with a calm smile. “You're using South African blood diamonds, right? Shame Chase Group just got hit with a mining scandal.”
She lifted her phone. The headline read: “Locke Corp releases footage of Congo mine collapse.”
Yvonne’s face went pale—her crown design required 300 blood diamonds.
“Oh, and by the way,” Stella added as she reached the door, “you forgot to flip the hospital photo you faked. The heart monitor numbers are reversed.”
The room exploded in whispers.
At that exact moment, Chloe messaged:
Babe! Your husband just beat the hell out of Adrian Chase at the auction! Live stream’s insane!
Stella bolted for the stairs—and ran straight into Ethan’s assistant. He handed her a blood-stained envelope.
“Madam, Mr. Locke just bought you the 'Blue Tear’.”
Her mother’s final design.
On-screen, Ethan Locke had Adrian by the collar, slamming him through a display case. Holding up the 24-carat sapphire, he stared into the cameras and said:
“Touch what’s mine again—and next time, I’ll smash the Chase family mausoleum.”
Stella’s fingers found the folded document inside the envelope.
An old diagnosis.
“Tactile-emotional synesthesia. Patient experiences emotional stress as physical pain. Only relieved through contact with a specific subject...”
千斤顶
English
简体中文
繁體中文
한국 사람
日本語
Deutsch
русский
بالعربية
TÜRKÇE
português
คนไทย
french