His Adoption Game

In the deep autumn of my twelfth year, the rain fell with an unusual, persistent softness. I stood inside the funeral home's farewell hall, my fingertips wrinkled from the cold rain, and even my breath carried a damp chill. A pair of polished brown leather shoes suddenly came to a stop before my mud-streaked canvas shoes. I slowly lifted my gaze, meeting the warm and steady eyes of Yale Shawn. He wore a dark gray trench coat, a silver cufflink pinned to his collar, radiating a steadfast tenderness. "Will you come with me? From now on, I will take care of you." I stared at the hand he extended; his palm was dry and warm, like a small flame flickering in the depths of a bitter winter. I nodded softly, slipping my cold hand into his palm. That touch lasted twelve years. Everyone in the neighboring city knew that Yale Shawn had a cherished girl by his side, named Rachel Wade. Rumor had it that sooner or later, I would become Mrs. Yale. I once believed it—his kindness to me was glaring and impossible to hide. A haute couture dress I glanced at twice in a magazine would lie in the wardrobe the very next day; When I said I wanted to see the Snow Festival in B Country, he canceled the quarterly meeting to accompany me on a flight of more than a dozen hours; even a niche designer I mentioned once, he managed to find and commission a bespoke suit for me. He never avoided suspicion, taking me to every event. In others' eyes, there was envy and disdain alike; he always drew me close and whispered softly. "This is my Rachel." I gradually sank deeper, even believing that within this kindness, there was a glimmer of true sincerity. Until the night of my twenty-fourth birthday. The bedroom's crystal chandelier was lit, the air heavy with the sweetness of cake and the crispness of champagne. Yale Shawn leaned against the headboard, a photograph clasped between his fingers, which he tossed onto my lap. "Rachel, I have cared for you for twelve years; now it is your turn to help me." The man in the photo had sharp features; he was Sam Luke—the most powerful businessman in the neighboring city, and also Yolanda Scott's cherished love. "I intend to forge a marriage alliance with the Scott Family; But Yolanda's heart belongs solely to Sam Luke." "You must get close to him and sever her hopes." His voice was calm, yet a chill ran through me. Those twelve years of tenderness were all part of a calculated scheme. What I believed was something special was merely a tool to provoke Yolanda. "I want Yolanda to marry me willingly." He reached out to stroke my hair, but I instinctively turned my head away. His hand froze in mid-air, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Tomorrow, I will arrange for you to meet Sam Luke. With your looks, capturing his attention won't be difficult." His tone was firm, as if commanding a pawn on a chessboard. "Yolanda Scott is proud; seeing you close to him will naturally ease her mind." He pulled me into his arms, his warm breath close to my ear, yet it sent shivers down my spine. I had long known that Yolanda Scott—his childhood sweetheart—never truly held him in her heart. That was why he spent twelve years lavishing me with affection, creating the illusion of "loving me"—all just to make her jealous. Those inconsistencies suddenly became clear: he had never introduced me to his grandparents, and every gift he gave was a style Yolanda Scott hated. The first stirrings of my heart shattered into dust in an instant. "Alright, I'll help you." My voice was calm, as if I were speaking of someone else's affairs.