His innocent wife is a dangerous hacker.-Chapter 573 Wedding (3)

It fell away, and the scar was revealed.

It ran from just below her left eye down to the corner of her jaw, a thick, ragged line of raised tissue, dark against her pale skin. Not a clean scar. Not the kind that could be hidden with makeup or dismissed as character. It was brutal. Deep. The kind of scar that told a story of violence, of pain, of survival.

It pulled at the corner of her mouth when she spoke, distorting her smile. It made the left side of her face look like a battlefield beside the smooth perfection of the right.

She turned sharply to face him, watching his reaction with the defensive readiness of someone who had seen this moment play out a hundred times before. The flinch. The quick glance away. The polite mask that could not quite hide the shock.

Dominique looked at her.

He looked at the scar. At the way it carved across her beautiful face. At the pain in her eyes that had nothing to do with physical wounds.

And then he looked at the rest of her.

At her lips, full and soft, the color of wild roses. At her other cheek, smooth and luminous. At the way the light caught the electric blue of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. At the strength in her jaw, even marred, even damaged.

She was beautiful. Not despite the scar. Not in a way that required overlooking it. She was beautiful, scar and all.

"You’re staring," she said flatly. "Most people look away."

"I’m not most people."

"Clearly." Her voice was dry, but there was a tremor beneath it. "Well? Are you going to run away now?"

Dominique did not answer right away.

Instead, he reached out slowly, giving her time to pull back, and gently touched her chin. Just his fingers, light as a whisper, tilting her face slightly to the side.

She let him.

His dark eyes traced the scar from top to bottom. Studied it. Then moved to the rest of her face, taking in every detail with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"You want to know what I see?" he asked quietly.

She did not answer. She could not.

"I see a woman who survived something terrible." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "I see strength. I see fire." His thumb brushed, feather-light, along her unscarred cheek. "I see lips that should smile more. Eyes that could stop wars." He paused. "And a scar that proves you’re still here. Still fighting. Still beautiful."

Hazel’s eyes glistened.

No one had ever looked at her like that. Like the scar was not something to overlook, but something to acknowledge. To accept. To see as part of her, not a flaw in her.

"You’re lying," she whispered. But it came out weak, uncertain.

Dominique shook his head slowly. "I’m a lot of things. A model. Leo’s glorified errand boy. But I do not lie about things that matter."

Her lips parted. No words came.

He let his hand drop, stepping back to give her space. But his eyes never left hers.

"Wear the mask if you want," he said softly. "Or do not. It is your face. Your choice." A small, genuine smile curved his lips. "But if you ask me, the mask hides the wrong things. It hides your smile. And your smile..." He tilted his head slightly. "I have a feeling it is worth seeing."

Hazel stared at him.

A wall in her heart cracked slightly. Just slightly. Just enough to let light in.

"Who are you?" she breathed.

He chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly gentle. "Just a guy who wanted to tell the bride she is beautiful before she marries someone who does not deserve her."

Her eyes widened. Confusion flickered across her face. What did he mean by that?

Then he turned, reaching for the tablet he had set down on the nearby table. His fingers moved across the screen, pulling up a file, and then he held it out to her.

Hazel took it slowly, her gaze dropping to the screen.

And then—

Stillness.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him through the mirror, then back at the tablet. Her thumb moved, scrolling down.

A photo. Nicolas, his arm around a woman at the bachelor party. Her face pressed close to his, laughing.

Another. Nicolas leaving a club, a woman’s hand on his chest.

Another. Messages. Flirtatious. Explicit. Sent just last night.

Another. A video thumbnail. She did not press play. She did not need to.

With each scroll, her face changed.

The softness that had been there moments ago, the vulnerability, the openness, drained away. Her jaw tightened. Her lips pressed into a thin line. The scar on her cheek seemed to stand out more sharply against skin that had gone pale.

Her eyes, those electric blue eyes, turned cold. Hard. Something dangerous flickered in their depths.

By the time she reached the last image, her face was ugly.

Not the scar. Not the damage. But the expression. The fury. The betrayal. The ice-cold rage that transformed her features into something terrifying.

She looked up at him through the mirror.

Dominique did not flinch.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "But you deserved to know. Before."

Hazel stared at him for a long, long moment.

Then she looked back at the tablet. At the evidence of everything she had chosen not to see.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. Flat. Dead.

"Where is he now?"

Dominique met her gaze without hesitation. "At the altar. Waiting for you."

A silence stretched between them.

Then Hazel set the tablet down carefully.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice had not changed, still that flat, controlled tone. "You can go now."

He hesitated. "Hazel—"

"I need a moment." She still was not looking at him. "Please."

Dominique nodded slowly. He walked to the door, paused, and glanced back.

She was staring at her reflection again. But this time, her expression was different. Calculating. Cold.

He left.

The door clicked shut.

Hazel picked up the tablet again. Her fingers were shaking.

She clicked the video open.

The screen flickered to life, grainy, clearly taken from a hidden angle, but clear enough. Clear enough to see everything.