Chapter 5

Adrian's POV

Isabella apologized for the disparaging voice messages her mother had left me, but honestly, I didn't care about them at all.

To tell the truth, my mind wasn't focused on those harsh audio messages whatsoever.

It had been fixed on that bottle of Elsenham Artesian Spring Water the entire time.

Raoul's reminder last night had indeed been both pertinent and timely.

I had been careful at every turn, yet I had still overlooked one meticulous detail—

This brand of bottled water was only supplied to London's most exclusive private clubs and five-star hotels.

It would never appear on the shelves of any ordinary convenience store or supermarket, and certainly shouldn't appear in the secondhand car of an insurance salesman earning £4,000 a month.

Since returning to the country over a week ago, I had been staying at a luxury hotel in Mayfair.

When I left yesterday, I had casually grabbed two bottles of water from the room's bar and tossed them into the back seat, completely failing to consider this detail.

Yes, although Isabella had fallen so far that she needed to save her family through a marriage alliance, she was still an aristocratic heiress who had grown up in a Kensington manor.

She wasn't some sheltered commoner girl with no worldly experience. Her sensitivity to prices and her distaste for superficial vanity were precisely manifestations of that pride in her bones that refused to be broken.

I didn't want to wound her self-respect.

This was exactly why I had chosen to disguise myself as a struggling insurance salesman.

Only by stripping away the monetary filter that came with the Hawthorne surname would she truly see me as an equal partner, rather than another financial patron attempting to put a price tag on her.

But clearly, my "impoverished persona" disguise still needed more refined polishing.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

I didn't dwell on the topic any further, pulling Isabella toward the backpacker hostel across the street.

It was a shabby private lodging house, its faded neon sign missing two letters. In the damp, cold fog of a London morning, it appeared especially destitute.

Pushing open the heavy glass door, a complex mixture of cheap air freshener, musty carpet smell, and stale overnight coffee hit us full in the face.

The wall behind the front desk was plastered with colorful tourism flyers and tube maps, with a small blackboard hanging beside them on which was scrawled in chalk: Single Room £18/night, Shared Bathroom Bed £12/night.

In the heart of London where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold, this price was already one of the cheapest accommodations that working-class laborers and budget-traveling students could find.

Fortunately, I had habitually exchanged some small change before leaving. I handed some cash to the female proprietor who was dozing at the front desk.

"Go ahead, Isabella. Take a hot shower."

"Thank you, Adrian. I'll be as quick as I can."

Isabella took a toiletry kit and followed a woman who looked like a room attendant upstairs.

While she was washing up at the hostel, I walked to the street corner into the thick fog, where a Bentley Continental Flying Spur was silently parked in the shadows.

Raoul pushed open the door and got out, holding a clean paper bag as he quickly walked toward me.

"Sir, this is the clean women's clothing prepared according to your instructions. The size should fit perfectly."

He lowered his voice as he handed me the paper bag, then pulled out a stack of documents from his briefcase.

"Also, this is the rental information you arranged yesterday—the lease contract and key cards. Two bedrooms, only an eight-minute walk to the hospital, £1,600 monthly rent. It should be right at the upper limit of your £4,000 monthly salary budget."

I flipped through the documents and nodded.

"Well done, Raoul. Now, do you see that building?"

I pointed to the office building across the street.

"Yes, sir. Is that the Register Office?"

"I didn't have time to book several weeks in advance, so I need you to arrange a priority channel for me. In half an hour, I want to take my fiancée in first to submit our notice."

Raoul's face filled with astonishment. "Sir... you mean you're getting married?"

"That's right. I'm getting married."

I tucked that string of cheap brass keys into my pocket, adjusted my suit cuffs, my tone as calm as if discussing the weather.

"From now on, your public identity is no longer my personal assistant, but my major client—a capital magnate who owns Highland estates in Scotland and multiple overseas trading and investment banking enterprises, and who is also a behind-the-scenes shareholder of St. Cecilia's Hospital."

Raoul looked troubled. "Sir, I'm afraid this is somewhat beyond my professional scope. I'm not skilled at acting."

"Don't be nervous, Raoul."

I patted his shoulder. "You've been with me all these years. How I usually deal with those hypocritical old foxes—you've been exposed to it all by now, haven't you?"

I took the paper bag containing the clean clothes and walked to the front desk, handing it to the female attendant who had taken Isabella to the bathroom earlier.

"Excuse me, please give this to my fiancée."

Then I leaned against the counter, methodically organizing the documents and tax statements I needed to submit to the registry office.

Behind the curtain, the proprietor was chatting with another female attendant, using that volume they thought was low but was actually completely unguarded as they whispered to each other.

"Looking at those papers in his hand, he must be here to submit a marriage notice, right?"

"He can only afford to spend £1.50 sending his fiancée to a small hotel like ours to wash up and get dressed? That amount wouldn't even be enough to clear the filthy clogged hair from the sewers!"

"Yeah, didn't you see the dress that woman who just went in was wearing? Although it's haute couture, it's an old style from several years ago."

"Another cliché of a fallen aristocratic family's young lady being deceived by a cunning man. These days, impoverished heiresses are the easiest to fool—just a few sweet words and they'll willingly marry this kind of worthless bottom-feeder with nothing to his name."

I showed no sign of anger, merely calmly putting the documents away in my briefcase.

Turning to walk out of the hostel, I dialed Raoul's number.

"Sir, I've already entered the office and am arranging the priority channel with the staff here."

"Don't be nervous, Raoul. I suddenly think this street has an excellent location, suitable for opening a very tasteful little restaurant. Why don't you go talk to this hostel's owner about acquiring the premises?"

The other end of the line fell into a dead silence lasting a full three seconds.

Raoul was clearly caught off guard by this completely unpredictable directive, his tone betraying both a headache and helplessness.

"Sir... didn't you just open a new restaurant last month? Right near St. Cecilia's Hospital. Besides, this hostel is the owner's ancestral property—it's been in operation for decades. They may not be willing to sell."

"Then you can pay a visit to the London Fire Brigade and the Municipal Health Department."

I interrupted him, my gaze sweeping over the exposed wire above the front desk that clearly didn't comply with modern safety regulations.

"Remind them that this decades-old hostel—hasn't it been piling flammable waste cardboard boxes in the narrow public stairwell, and isn't their fire escape perpetually locked in violation of regulations? A building with such serious safety hazards probably needs to be shut down for three months of rectification."

"I understand, sir."

Raoul complied.

"Adrian, I'm ready. Thank you for the clothes—they fit perfectly."

Isabella emerged.

As I turned around, my heart suddenly skipped a beat.

She had changed into a soft oatmeal-colored knit sweater and a simple dark long skirt.

No jewelry adorning her, no elaborate makeup, not even her hair styled—it was simply gathered at the back of her head with a hair tie.

Having washed away last night's rain and tears and dishevelment, her entire being was like white porcelain cleansed by spring water, emanating an unpolished, gentle luster.

Despite wearing the plainest, most unadorned outfit, she radiated an elegance and beauty from which one couldn't look away.

"Let's go, my fiancée."

I walked over and took her hand.