At night, the moon and stars shone brightly. The Grant residence was festively decorated; maids bustled about, making final preparations for Gracie’s birthday banquet.

After escorting Gracie to her room, Yasmin stepped out and froze. Where was she to sleep?

As if reading her thoughts, a maid politely smiled, "Mrs. Grant, your sleepwear was washed and placed in the bathroom you share with Mr. Grant."

The bathroom she shared with Caleb… Why the ambiguous phrasing?

"Are any spare rooms available? I'm a light sleeper and prefer sleeping alone," Yasmin asked. She felt it inappropriate to share with Caleb.

The maid apologized, "Mrs. Grant Senior specifically instructed that no spare rooms are available tonight; you must share with Mr. Grant."

No spare rooms? The banquet guests weren't staying at the villa; numerous rooms were empty. Had Gracie resorted to this? She usually seemed kind and understanding, but clearly possessed a few tricks.

Yasmin and Caleb's room was on the third floor, a space Caleb had occupied since childhood. The decor and furniture reflected his style—predominantly black, white, and gray—making the unoccupied room feel rather cold.

Caleb was still downstairs with the guests. Yasmin, still nursing a hand wound, showered at length. Exiting the bathroom, she immediately went to bed.

In a daze, she vaguely heard a door open. The mattress sank beside her. Half-asleep, Yasmin opened her eyes. Through the bedside lamp's soft glow, she saw a tall figure sitting at the bed's edge.

It was Caleb, silently staring down at her. Yasmin frowned and closed her eyes, trying to shift position. Before she could, a warm, calloused hand cupped her cheeks. The warmth jolted her awake.

"What are you doing?" Yasmin sat up, scooting back. The auction night, with Caleb's drunken appearance, flashed into her mind.

"How much did you drink?" she asked cautiously. Her almond-shaped eyes shimmered enchantingly in the dim light.

"I'm not drunk," Caleb denied, though he had been drinking, albeit moderately. Yasmin saw nothing unusual in his expression; he was perhaps slightly tipsy.

A moment later, something was pressed into her hands—sharp edges, rectangular. It was a supplementary card linked to Caleb's black card.

"Your pocket money," Caleb explained.

Yasmin leaned against the headboard, twirling the card. "Caleb, you know I'm a spendthrift. In a bad mood, I could spend millions in a day."

She wasn't lying. At ten, she frequented Dior haute couture; at thirteen, she bought Parisian jewelry like candy. But that spending relied on the money being hers, money she had the right to use. Caleb's money was different.

"I'm aware," Caleb replied. Noticing her silence, he leaned in and kissed her. Yasmin recoiled.

"Don't move," Caleb firmly cupped her neck, burying his face in the hollow of her neck.