My father had never been an affectionate man, but tonight his silence filled the dining room like fog-thick, inescapable, impossible to see through.

"Where's Serena?" I asked, adjusting the hem of my dress as I lowered myself onto one of the chairs. The house still smelled faintly of my mother's perfume, even three years after her funeral. Or maybe that was my imagination, clinging to ghosts.

"She's upstairs. Homework," my father said, his voice clipped. "Eliana, we need to talk."

Of course we did. That was why I'd been summoned home from New York on a Wednesday night with no explanation beyond a text: Dinner. Come home. No excuses.

I knew that tone. It wasn't. How are you? Or I miss you. It was I've made a decision, and you're going to follow it. I'd been trained to read his voice the way some children learned piano.

"You're not sick, are you?" I tried to keep the edge of panic from creeping in. "Or Serena-"

"No one's sick," he said quickly, impatient. "This is about the future."

His future. Our family's future. Never mine.

He poured a glass of wine but didn't offer me one. Just sat across from me in his usual chair, beneath the portrait of my mother, smiling down at us like she wasn't the reason everything had started to unravel.

"You're almost thirty," my father stated. "You're not getting any younger, and you have to start thinking about marriage and kids. Your future." 

"I am thinking about it. But it's also not something I need to work on right now. I'm dating. Exploring my prospects. There are plenty of single men in New York, I just have to find the right one."

I left out the prospect that the pool of single, straight, non-douchey, non-flaky, non disturbingly eccentric men was much smaller.

 My last date tried to rope me into a seance to contact his dead mother so she could" meet me and give her approval." Needless to say, I never saw him again.

"I've given you plenty of time to find a proper match these past two years." My father sounded unimpressed by my spiel. "You haven't had a single serious boyfriend since your last....relationship. It's clear you don't feel the same urgency I do, which is why I took matters into my own hands."

My blood iced. 

" Meaning?"

I thought the important news he'd alluded to had to do with my sister or the company. But what if.....

No. It can't be.

"Meaning I've secured a suitable match for you. It took quite a bit of work on my end, but the engagement has been finalized."

The words hit with the quiet force of a wrecking ball. Not shouted. No drama. Just a clinical statement, like he'd confirmed the weather or the price of gold.

Arranged marriages were common practice in our world of big business and power plays, where marriages weren't love matches; they were alliances.

I was expected to enter a lifetime contract after "quite a bit of work" on my father's end. 

"I've let you drag your feet too long, and this match will be enormously beneficial for us," my father continued. "I'm sure you'll agree once you meet him at dinner."

I blinked.

"Dinner? As in, tonight's dinner?" My voice sounded distant and strange, as if I was hearing it in a bad dream. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? You don't just get to trade me for better positioning."

He looked at me then, really looked. And for the briefest second, I didn't see the steel-eyed patriarch, but the man who'd once kissed my scraped knees and carried me through midnight storms.

"Everything I've built," he said slowly, "everything I've fought for, bled for-it has to go somewhere. To someone. Serena's still in high school. You're the eldest. It's your turn to carry it forward."

"You mean sacrifice myself for it."

"No." He set the glass down with a soft clink. "I mean protect it."

Being ambushed with news of an arranged marriage match was bad enough. Meeting my future fiancé with zero preparation was a hundred times worse. 

"I didn't tell you earlier because he didn't confirm until today due to...scheduling complications." My father smoothed a hand over his shirt. "You'll have to meet him eventually. It didn't matter whether it's tonight, a week, or a month from now."

My retort simmered on low, destined never to reach a full boil. 

"We want to move things along as quickly as possible. It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and your fiancé is, er, particular about the details."

Funny how he was already calling him my fiancé when I hadn't met the man yet. 

"Mode De Vie named him one of the world's most eligible bachelors under forty last year. Rich, handsome, powerful. You should be happy I paired you with someone like him," My father stated, feeling proud of himself. 

Happy? 

" That's...great." My smile wobbled from the effort of keeping itself intact.

I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down any negative path. 

Get it together, Eli.

As upset as I was at my father for springing this on me, I could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn't like I could say no to the match. If I did, my father would disown me. 

Plus, my future husband- my stomach lurched again- would be here any minute, and I couldn't make a scene. I wiped my palm against my thigh and clung to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable.

"So." I forced a light tone. "Does Mr. Perfect have a name, or is he only known by his net worth?"

"Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family." 

My spine stiffened at the deep, unexpected voice behind me. It was so close I could feel the rumble of words against my back. They slid over me like sun-warmed honey, rich and sensual and made every nerve ending tingle with pleasure. 

Heat slipped beneath my skin. 

"Ah, there you are." My father rose, a strangely triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"How could I pass up the opportunity to meet your lovely daughter?" 

A hint of mockery tainted the word lovely and instantly washed away any budding attraction I had to his voice, of all things. 

So much for Mr. Perfect. 

"Eliana, say hello to our guest." My father gestured to the man still standing behind me. I finally summoned the courage to stand and turn. 

And all the air whooshed out of my lungs. 

Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose enhanced his ruggedly masculine charm.

His presence was so powerful and compelling that it swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.

Unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognisable. My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock. 

Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke. 

"Eliana." My father snapped. 

Right. Dinner. Fiance. Meeting.

I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but polite smile. "Eliana Rivera. It's a pleasure to meet you." 

I held out my hand. 

A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm. 

 "Alexander Grayson. The pleasure is all mine."

There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting. 

Alexander Grayson, the CEO of Grayson Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man who created a buzz at the Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He wasn't just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get. 

He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle. Why, then, would Alexander Grayson of all people agree to an arranged marriage?

"I would introduce myself by my net worth," he said. "But it would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger, given the purpose of tonight's dinner."

His smile didn't contain an ounce of warmth. 

"That's very considerate of you." My cool reply masked my embarrassment. "Don't worry, Mr. Grayson. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I'm sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your legendary charm."

A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn't take my bait.

Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body.

I stiffened again beneath Alexander's scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of my tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps.

This was my standard uniform for visiting my father, and judging by the way Alexander's lips thinned, he was less than impressed.

A mix of unease and irritation twisted my stomach when those dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again.

We'd exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew two things with gut certainty.

One, Alexander was going to be my fiancé whether I wanted it or not.

Two, we both don't want this engagement or anything to do with each other.

The soft clink of silverware echoed in the cavernous dining room, a delicate sound almost swallowed by the weight of silence.

Everything was perfect, as always-hand-cut crystal, French linen napkins, an oak dining table long enough to seat royalty. My father never tolerated less than excellence. And Alexander Grayson fit right in, all clean lines and cool indifference, a man moulded for power and untouched by warmth.

He sat across from me, his expression unreadable, his every move calculated. He hadn't said much since he arrived. Not that I expected him to. Still, I waited, watching. Listening.

Then came the first strike.

"The wedding will take place in six months," my father said, reaching for his wine with the ease of someone making small talk.

"No, it won't." Alexander objected. "No one will believe I'm marrying someone with such short notice unless something was wrong," he continued smoothly.

My father's lips thinned. "What would you suggest then?"

"A year is a more reasonable timeframe."

 "Alright. That's enough time to plan a proper celebration without dragging things out. However, public announcements should go out in two weeks."

I held my glass a fraction tighter, its stem cool against my fingers.

I turned my head slightly. "Two weeks?"

"Announcements should also go out later," Alexander added. "A month gives us time to craft a proper story, considering your daughter and I have never so much as been seen in public together before."

My father's eyes narrowed. "We don't need a month to come up with a story," he snapped.

"Two weeks," my father countered. "We'll announce the weekend Eliana moves into your house."

The words hit harder than I expected.

Move in?

I blinked, caught off guard. I turned to Alexander, searching for any sign that this was news to him, too.

It wasn't.

He calmly sipped his wine without comment, as if my relocation to his home had already been carved into stone.

The nausea curled low in my stomach. I was moving in with a stranger-a cold, calculating man who looked at me not like a person, but a proposition.

"I'm sure your family would like the announcements to go out sooner rather than later as well," my father said.

Alexander finally looked up. "Two weeks it is."

"Excellent. We'll work together to draf the-"

"I'll draft it," Alexander interrupted. "Next."

My father's glare was swift. But Alexander didn't care. His confidence was surgical, dispassionate, cutting without blood.

Something wasn't right between them.

Talk turned to guest lists and press contacts, but I barely heard it. I was too busy steadying my breathing, rebuilding the mask of composure I'd worn since I was fourteen, the year my mother died, and silence became a second language.

I reached for the only shield I had: charm.

"I appreciate you taking the time to fly in when we could've met in New York. I know you must be busy."

He didn't respond.

I tilted my head. "I also heard the more zeroes one has in their bank account, the fewer words they're capable of speaking. You're proving the rumour correct."

His eyes finally met mine. Cool. Calculating.

"I thought a society heiress like yourself would know better than to discuss money in polite company."

"The keyword is polite."

A flicker of amusement crossed his features-brief and razor-thin.

"It's not polite to speak to a guest that way," he murmured, reaching for the salt. His sleeve brushed mine. I didn't move.

"What would your father say?"

"He'd say guests should adhere to social niceties as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation."

"Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing like you stepped out of a Fifth Avenue Stepford Wives factory?"

The comment landed with surgical precision.

My outfit was classic-a pale skirt suit, pearls, clean lines designed to communicate elegance and power- my father-approved wardrobe. It was deliberate. Strategic. But the way he said it, laced with derision, turned it into a costume.

"No," I said, smile sharpening. "But they certainly don't include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy. You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Grayson."

His lips quirked, the faintest suggestion of approval.

My father rose. "I'll go see if dessert is ready."

He left the dining room, taking his wine with him.

Silence hovered between us.

Alexander  stood, chair scraping. "Excuse me."

And just like that, he was gone.

I sat in the too-silent dining room, staring down at the half-full glass of wine I no longer wanted. The air still carried the bitter taste of control, of my father's manoeuvring, of Alexander's amusement. Of the way I'd once again become an asset, not a person.

The heels of my shoes echoed down the marble hallway as I stood and walked away from the table. I didn't need directions. I knew where he'd gone.

There were only a handful of places in this house that offered any true privacy.

Of course, he'd choose that one.

I found him exactly where I expected-in my father's office, leaning back in the chair like he'd always belonged there, head thrown back with his eyes closed.

I stepped through the doorway, spine straight, voice cool.

"What are you doing?" 

"Enjoying a break", he said as he scanned my face.

"In my father's office?" I asked from the doorway.

"Obviously," he said.

I walked across the room without taking my eyes off his. 

"You're clearly used to doing whatever you want," I said, my voice even. "But it's exceedingly rude to sneak off during a dinner party to lounge in your host's office."

"That's my problem, not yours."

"Please rejoin us in the dining room. Your food is getting cold."

"Why don't you join me for a break?" he drawled. "I promise it'll be more enjoyable than your father's hand-wringing over floral arrangements."

"Based on our interactions so far, I doubt it."I snapped.

He moved around the desk, casual, slow.

"I don't understand why you're here," I said. "You're clearly unhappy about the arrangement. You don't need the money or the connection with my family. And you can have any woman you want."

He paused. "Can I?"

"What if I want you?"

My heart skipped. I hated that it did.

"You don't."

"You give yourself too little credit." He said as he stood in front of me, so close I could practically feel his breath fan my face. His eyes darkened as he lifted his hand and grazed his thumb over my bottom lip. 

My breathing shallowed, but I didn't move away.

 I held my ground as his gaze lingered on my lips.

"You're a beautiful woman," he said. "Perhaps I saw you at an event and was so enamored I asked your father for your hand in marriage."

"Somehow, I doubt that's what happened."

"What kind of deal did you make with him?" I finally asked.

He stilled, then stepped back.

"You should ask your dear father that question," he said. "The details don't matter. Just know that if I had any other choice, I damn well wouldn't be getting married. But business is business, and you..." He gave a careless shrug. "You're simply part of the deal."

The words landed like a slap. But I didn't show it.

"You're so cruel."

"Yes, I am." His smile was all pearly white teeth. "Better get used to it, because I'm also your future husband."

He walked out, the scent of his cologne and arrogance lingering long after the door shut behind him.

Alexander's POV 

Damien looked like he wanted to bolt.

Christian looked like he was calculating how much longer until Damien got disowned.

I looked like I always did: calm.

"You're engaged?" Damien said again, like repeating it might change the answer.

"To Eliana Rivera," I confirmed, sharp and unbothered.

Christian's brow ticked up. "Wow. So it's officially that kind of day."

He didn't sound surprised. Then again, he'd been in on the damage control meetings. He knew exactly what was at stake.

"I-what?" Damien sputtered. "Since when? You haven't been seeing anyone seriously, and now you're engaged?"

"Since three days ago," I said.

Christian leaned forward, fingers steepled loosely in front of him. "Let's be clear. This isn't about love. This is about Cassian Rivera having leverage and Alex eliminating it before it hits daylight."

"I already said I was sorry-" Damien tried.

"You saying it doesn't make it less useless," I cut in. My voice stayed low, but the chill in it could've flash-frozen steel.

He shut up instantly.

"You were seen with the daughter of a married diplomat in a five-star hotel," I continued. "You didn't just screw around, Damien. You risked international fallout. If Cassian had leaked those photos to the right media outlet, or worse-to her father? You wouldn't just be a headline. You'd be a liability. You'd be dead."

Damien swallowed, his confidence buckling fast.

That photo, taken during his late-night rendezvous with the daughter of a very married South Korean dignitary, hadn't even been meant for me. But Cassian had it. And he used it.

Used it to push me into a corner. Into a proposal. Into Eliana.

"What were you thinking? Sleeping with a married woman from a dangerous family like that?" Christian asked him with an exasperated look.

"Shit, I didn't even know who she was until after we slept together. If I knew I would never have done it and gotten you dragged into this mess." he paced around the room with his fingers in his hair.

"This isn't about guilt," I said. "It's about strategy. I just need to be engaged to her long enough to get my hands on the evidence and destroy it permanently."

And then I could be free from Cassian and his threats.

Christian exhaled a soft laugh. "This is the most terrifying wedding toast I've ever heard."

"No one asked for your toast," Damien muttered.

Christian exhaled through his nose, slower. "We're tracking where Cassian's storing the backup files. He's not dumb-he didn't just keep one."

"Encrypted server," I said. "We'll find it. And when we do, we wipe every copy."

"I'm on it," Christian said. "My team's already working leads through two data brokers and his assistant's burner account. We'll get it."

Christian's voice was cool, confident-but I caught the flicker of tension beneath it. He understood the stakes better than anyone. He was head of security for Grayson Group, and the only man I trusted with secrets deeper than our family's.

He also knew what would happen if this didn't work.

Damien ran a hand through his hair. "So what-your brilliant plan is to marry his daughter and make this all go away?"

"It's not a plan," I said. "It's a fact. It's going to happen."

"And she agreed to that?"

"She didn't object."

"She probably didn't have a choice," Damien muttered.

"Neither did you," I said coldly.

He flinched.

Christian finally cut in, his tone half-light but laced with warning. "Damien, look at him. Do you think Alexander  wanted to marry anyone let alone the daughter of that conniving fucker?"

"I don't know, okay?" Damien snapped, then looked instantly regretful.

"She's cold," I said. "Calculating. Every word out of her mouth is wrapped in silk and aimed like a knife."

Christian hummed. "Sounds familiar."

"I don't like her," I added.

"Also familiar."

"But she knows what's at stake. So she's not fighting it."

Damien let out a bitter laugh. "Wow. The foundation of a healthy marriage."

"She'll be fine," I said. "She knew what this was."

"Did she?" Christian asked, softer now. "Or did she just play along because she's as trapped in that family as you are in this deal?"

I paused.

Because even now, I could still see her face at that dinner in Boston. Perfectly composed, like she'd trained for that exact moment her entire life-and maybe she had. But there had been something behind her eyes. Something sharp. Controlled.

She hadn't been surprised. But she hadn't agreed either. She'd endured.

It should've made her forgettable. Instead, it made her an instrument of my curiosity.

Eliana Rivera was elegant, sharp, and beautiful. 

She also hated my guts as much as I hated hers, maybe even more.

And she was going to be my wife.

"She and her father get more wealth and status. We get silence," I said. "We both play our parts. That's all this is."

Christian didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at me. Then, finally: "And if she figures out what this really cost you?"

"She won't."

"You underestimate her."

"I'm not underestimating anyone," I said, voice harder now. "This is not about her. This is about him."

I stared at Damien.

He looked... small. Ashamed. Rightfully.

"You don't get to be reckless anymore," I said. "You don't get to act like the rules don't apply to you because you're my brother."

"I know," he murmured.

"Do you?"

"Yes." His voice cracked. "I know."

Christian shifted in his seat. "We're almost through Rivera's firewall. Give me a few more days, and I'll have something actionable."

"Good," I said.

"Then what?" Damien asked, quietly. "Once you destroy the photos? What happens to the marriage?"

I didn't answer.

Because even I didn't know.

Eliana Rivera was a problem. Elegant. Controlled. And smarter than she let on. I didn't like her, didn't trust her, and sure as hell didn't want to be married to her.

But I also didn't like loose ends. And she'd just become one of the most dangerous ones I'd ever tied to my name.

"I don't walk away from responsibility," I said instead.

"That's one word for it," Christian muttered under his breath.

"I'm serious," I said, eyeing them both. "This isn't about optics. This is about protecting what's ours."

"I didn't mean to screw it up," Damien said again, softer this time.

I looked at him. Really looked.

And as angry as I was-as ready as I was to let him twist under the pressure-I remembered something. Him, eight years old, walking into my office barefoot with a bloody nose because he didn't want me to find out he lost a fight. Because he thought I'd be disappointed.

"I know you didn't mean to," I said quietly. "But you did."

Damien dropped his eyes.

"And now I'm going to fix it," I added. "Even if it means marrying someone I'd rather never see again."

Christian finally rose from his seat. "Alright. I'll check in when I get something. And Damien?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to be a walking PR crisis until then."