"You're getting married to Anna Lawson whether you like it or not."

"But father, do you even care how I feel!?" Devon asked. "Or at least... what I want!?"

"What you want is irrelevant!" Mr. Hamilton declared, cold and fierce like ice.

"The only thing that matters is what is best for this family!" Mr. Hamilton continued, smashing his hands on the office desk in front of him. "And that is paramount!"

For a minute Devon was dumbfounded. He couldn't bear the thought of getting married to somebody he barely knew. He took in a deep breath with one hand in the pockets of his well tailored Italian suit, the other rubbing his forehead frustratingly, then continued.

"I barely even know her, father." Devon said, this time as calm as a dove. "You have to rethink this."

However, as he spoke, the man in question already had a look of growing unease on his face—the kind that tells you that the listener wasn't prepared to listen to whatever you had to say to him at the moment.

Devon saw this, but pressed on regardless. If there was a chance no matter how slim it was, that he could convince the man before him, he had to take it. Maybe—just maybe, his father would listen to reasons. He was screaming as loud as he could from within, but his father seemed deaf to it.

"Surely, you can't just marry me off to someone I've met just once." Devon pestered, feeling the need to stretch the last word. "Just once, father!"

"You will get to know her... eventually."

"But father—"

"I will hear no more of this nonsense, Devon!" Mr. Hamilton ordered furiously. "The decision has been made and that is final!"

"Now... leave!" He said pointing to the door of his luxurious office.

Agitated Devon left his father's office, banging the door on his way out.

It has always been like this. He thought as he walked out through the lobby. There has never been a time, when he stopped to think about how he felt. Or at least, would feel.

Not when he was a kid or still a teenager. Most of all, not now. He was an adult now—26 years of age to be precise. But it still felt like he was on a leash.

He had no control over how things went—choice of school, career, friends he kept, and now marital life. It felt like his entire life was controlled by his father, and he was the puppet.

"Good evening sir, there are some paperwork's waiting to be signed on your desk. Should I get over them or just...?" A beautiful young lady in her mid twenties informed as she saw Devon approaching.

"Sorry, Miriam. This isn't a good time." Devon replied as he walked past her.

"Ok..." Miriam said in a whisper-like tone. For some seconds, she stood there wondering what must've caused Devon's agitation. However, when she turned round to the direction he came from and saw Mr. Hamilton's office, she quickly understood. She watched as Devon got into the elevator, full of frustration as the doors closed behind him.

"Ughh!!!" Devon screamed immediately the elevator doors were closed. Why do I always have to go through all this, why? Why does he have to be so difficult, just why!?

He took a look at the Vacheron Constantin wristwatch he had on his left hand, and the time displayed five fifteen.

"Fifteen minutes past five," he muttered, eyes closed.

He had planned on doing some important things today after work, but seemingly his evening was ruined already. What should he do? He pondered.

Go home in this state? He thought. No! He couldn't.

He needed to take his mind of this... depressing matter. He needed to clear his mind.

He looked at the floor indicator for confirmation, then an idea came surging through his mind. Right now, he was headed to the parking garage.

Yes! He would go partying tonight. He needed to get wasted, to get away from the confinements of being an only child. To get away from his father—at least, for the time being.

Devon Hamilton, was the only child of Mr. Benjamin Hamilton, one of New York City's successful businessmen. As a result he has always faced restrictions.

Getting inside the car, he drove it to the nearest VIP Bars in the town and stopped in front of it. Having a VIP entry, he had the easiest access to the bar despite it being a busy weekend.

Tonight, he wanted to be free and comfortable. And he would do just that. The atmosphere in the bar tonight was very accommodating, one that was befitting of his current mood.

He went straight to the pub area and sat on on of the stools by the counter, placing his mobile phone on the counter as he did.

"Good evening. I'll have a Vieux Carré, please. Make it a double, with a dash of absinthe."

"Excellent choice. Would you prefer it served in a rocks glass or a coupe?" The bartender, a middle-aged man, inquired.

Just then, his phone vibrated.

"Rocks, please." Devon replied, then bent to look at his phone screen. It was a text message, from none other person but his father. "And add a splash of soda water." He said again, before turning his attention to the phone in front of him.

"Coming right up." The bartender replied as he started his mixture. "Would you like to pair it with something to eat?"

"Just the drink for now, thank you." Devon replied.

Devon glanced through his mobile phone again. The text message from his father read; "Where are you, Devon??"

For a few seconds he pondered on what to do. Reply... or just ignore it totally. Just then, the bartender came.

"Here's your order, lad." He said as he placed a glass in front of Devon. "Enjoy your evening."

Devon picked up the drink, took in a gulp, then dropped it back on the counter. Still staring at the message before him, he clicked the reply icon but then stopped in his tracks.

"Not today, father." He said, as he drew down the notification bar and clicked on the Do-not-disturb icon. Before turning off the phone, and placing it back on the counter.

Tonight, he answered to no one but himself.

With that, he picked up his drink and gulped down it's entire content.

Glass by glass, he gulped, emptying every last drop of alcohol in them. Soon, he was dancing, clapping—he was indeed having the best time of his life.

As the alcohol coursed through his veins, he climbed onto a center table, his eyes gleaming with reckless abandon. "Drinks are on me, everyone!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the crowded bar. The patrons erupted into cheers, whistles, and applause, their faces lighting up with excitement.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and concern etched on his face. "Alright, buddy, let's make sure you can cover this," he said with a chuckle.

Devon grinned, unfazed. "I've got it covered," he said, waving his wallet in the air. "Pour 'em all around!"

The bar erupted into a frenzy of clinking glasses, laughter, and music, while Devon stood atop the table, basking in the attention, his generosity and confidence infectious.

That was when he saw him. Amidst the cheers, the noise and flashing lights, Devon noticed him.

A stranger watching him from across the room. He was... just too sexy, with a face too irresistible. He just couldn't resist the urge of walking up to this man, and kissing those lips of his.

Being an overly protected child, Devon, wanted to do something out of the ordinary for once in his life.

And so, with profound confidence, he pushed through the crowd, walked up to this stranger....

...and kissed him right on the lips.

Devon woke up on the bed of an unfamiliar room, his head throbbing vigorously.

One thing was clear however, he was in a hotel room, but for what exact reason had he come here for? He asked himself.

He tried leaning on his back, while trying to recall the events that lead to him waking up here. After a moment or two, memories of what lead to him spending the night here, came flooding like a wave through his mind.

The other night had been a really wild one, literally speaking. He had gotten drunk and had come here with—his eyes opened wildly. He had come here with the guy he met at the bar last night.

Devon turned to the other side of the bed but found no one. Surely, there had been someone else with him last night.

He got out of bed, head still throbbing, wanting to take a wash and then discovered that all he had on was just his underwear. Then it really dawned on him. If he was half naked then it only meant one thing.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He muttered.

He had brought this stranger, here to this hotel room last night, even though he was gone now.

They had kissed so passionatelty; the two bodies wrapped around each other. One moaned out loud while the other kept worshipping it.

They were unable to control their desire and spent the remainder of the night together, drawing each other deeper and deeper into a puddle of lust.

Father had been the cause of this. He thought. Mr. Benjamin Hamilton had been the cause of this... this mess he just got himself into.

And truly Mr. Hamilton had been. Devon went to that bar, wanting to get drunk, to get free from the confines of being an only child and heir of his father... to get completely wasted.

And it wasn't even the prospect of him getting in bed with a total stranger that left him perplexed, no. That wasn't the case. It was the fact that the person he got in bed with last night, was a man, a man about the same age as himself.

Does this now mean that he is by any chance, gay? He asked himself, unsure of what to believe at the moment.

No! That couldn't be; this really couldn't be happening. He is straight and that was it. Whatever had happened the previous night certainly was a mistake, a misunderstanding and would remain that way.

Devon scanned the entire room for his clothes and other personal belongings, and found every of them scattered throughout the room.

He picked up his trousers from where it had been left, then with the other hand, picked up his shirt. He found his wallet, his business card, bank cards, keys and some cash on the table, all accounted for. Nothing was missing, but still he felt incomplete.

Nahh! Scratch that sentence already, something was indeed missing. His luxurious Vecherron Comstatin wristwatch, valued at $5 million was no where—oh! There it was, neatly kept on the table beside the bed.

He retrieved the wristwatch from the table and with that, dressed up and left the hotel.

All the while as he drove home, Devon couldn't really think straight. He couldn't get his mind off the events of the previous night and the possible scandal that could result from it.

Every event replayed itself repeatedly. Every of them— like paragraphs of some urban novel, or some scene from a twisted romance movie.

Thankfully, this stranger hadn't been there in the hotel when he woke up this morning. He thought. How would he have faced him? What would he have said?

Devon couldn't help but let out a deep sigh. All these were the repercussions of his actions, after all he had acted so stupidly.

Hopefully, he wouldn't get to see him anymore. Since they didn't get to exchange contacts or pleasantries—as far as he could remember. Moreover, his wallet had been in the exact same spot he had flung it last night, along with other personal items of his.

He took out his phone, and unlocked it. There were no calls or messages, nor were there any email notifications on the screen, and the flight mode he had activated earlier at the bar was still active.

It was during times like this that the disabled face ID on his phone security served him better. He remembered deactivating it the day he woke up to see his father seated beside him, scrolling through his messages.

This was of course, a long time ago. As someone who valued privacy, even as a child, he had immediately deactivated facial recognition, switching it to an eight-digit PIN to unlock his phone.

But even so, he clicked on the contact icon, just in case. He spent some time scrolling through the displayed list of contacts, call logs and even, checking for deleted ones.

Suffice to say that he was satisfied, after finding nothing suspicious. He let out a sigh of relief. There was no way for that man— whoever he was, to contact him.

Now, he could head home in peace. He was ravenously famished, and could only hope that Mrs. Pearl had prepared one of those her lovely rice cakes she occasionally prepared with oats some mornings.

Devon had lost his mother during child birth, and never got to meet her. He was raised by nannies, special home tutors and the maids who were all hired by his father to take care of him.

Mr. Hamilton, in all his evil deeds, had blatantly refused to take another wife after Laura Hamilton, Devon's mother, had passed away. Proclaiming that she was and would remain his only lover.

Mrs. Pearl wasn't just the house manager to the Hamiltons. She was a maid, a cook, his nanny and the closest thing he had to a mother. She had been with them for as long as he could remember, and though she was a worker. She was often regarded as family.

After a about thirty minutes of driving, Devon finally arrived at the gates of the Hamilton Manor.

The gates were opened upon his arrival, and he drove in straight to the parking garage.

"Oh!" He exclaimed softly. How he had longed for home.

He needed a shower, a shave, and most importantly a good breakfast— one which Mrs. Pearl was undoubtedly, more than capable of preparing.

But just as he stepped out of his black Mercedes-AMG E-Class, he was met with his father's piercing stare.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father demanded, standing by the front entrance, his face twisted in anger, his eyes cold.

Devon didn’t sleep the night he returned home.

He had tried, God, he had tried. But no amount of warm showers or herbal tea could undo the events of that night or silence the memory of lips he couldn’t forget. Every time he closed his eyes, flashes returned: the man’s breath hot on his skin, their bodies tangled beneath hotel sheets, the rush and shame bleeding into one another like ink in water.

Now, three days later, he sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed in a navy button-down and slacks, staring blankly at his phone. No texts. No missed calls. No strange numbers.

A relief. Supposedly.

He’d combed through his device multiple times, just in case. The contact list was clean. Deleted messages: nothing unusual. His wallet had all its contents, his cards untouched, his wristwatch unscathed. Whoever the man was—he’d vanished cleanly, like a ghost who’d only borrowed the night.

But the ghost had left a mark.

Devon rose, crossing to the tall window that overlooked the Hamilton estate’s eastern lawn. Sunlight streaked across the trimmed hedges and gravel walkways, where gardeners moved with quiet purpose. Everything about this place screamed order, perfection, and legacy.

Legacy. That word again.

He rested his forehead against the glass. In forty-eight hours, he would be engaged. To Anabelle Lawson. A woman he barely knew beyond rehearsed smiles and polite conversation. She was beautiful, sure. Cultured. Daughter of a man his father respected—a rare feat in itself. But none of that changed the truth: Devon had no idea who he was supposed to be when he stood beside her.

A loyal fiancé?

A Hamilton heir?

A man who woke up tangled in hotel sheets with another man?

He shut his eyes tightly.

“This didn’t mean anything,” he whispered aloud. “It was a mistake.”

That night had been about rebellion, about escaping his father’s expectations, about losing himself in something reckless and stupid. It hadn’t been about desire. Or identity. Or anything deeper than the bitter taste of whiskey and the heat of skin against skin.

But deep down, Devon knew better.

It wasn’t the physical act that haunted him. It was the way he had responded to it. How easily it had all happened. How natural it had felt. That terrified him more than the possibility of scandal or exposure.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Devon?” came Mrs. Pearl’s voice, muffled but warm. “Breakfast is ready.”

He cleared his throat. “Coming.”

The dining room was quiet when he entered. Mrs. Pearl had already laid out breakfast, French toast, scrambled eggs, berry preserves. His father wasn’t there, of course. Mr. Hamilton rarely joined meals unless there was someone to impress or berate.

Devon sat down and picked at his food.

Mrs. Pearl hovered nearby, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she said gently. “Is it the party?”

He offered a faint smile. “Something like that.”

She paused, then walked over and touched his shoulder lightly. “Whatever it is, don’t carry it alone, dear.”

He glanced up at her, grateful for the words, but unsure how to respond. If she knew… God, if anyone knew…

“I’ll be fine,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

By late afternoon, the house was a flurry of movement. Caterers arrived for the engagement party walkthrough. Florists delivered massive arrangements of cream roses and eucalyptus branches. A string quartet rehearsed in the main hall. Staff bustled between the kitchen and ballroom, setting up polished silverware and crystal flutes.

Devon wandered the estate like a ghost in his own home.

He passed through the library, the solarium, the west hall, all places he’d known since childhood, feeling like a stranger everywhere he turned. Everyone else seemed excited for the big day. Only he carried the weight of pretending.

When he passed the mirror in the gallery hallway, he paused.

His reflection stared back: tall, composed, expensively dressed.

He looked like his father.

The thought chilled him.

That night, he stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, watching the moon rise above the Hamilton gardens. His phone sat beside him on the stone ledge. Silent. Still nothing.

He told himself again that this was a good thing.

There were no calls, no consequences, zero messes to clean up.

But there however was a strange tightness in his chest, one he couldn’t name. Could be regret, or maybe longing. Or even just the aching knowledge that what he wanted—what he truly wanted—had never been his to want in the first place.

He took a long breath and then picked up his phone.

He almost texted Anabelle. Just to say something, anything. But what would he even write?

> “Looking forward to the engagement?”

Felt too hollow.

> “We should talk.”

This one was kinda too serious.

> “Do you even want this?”

Too honest.

And in the end, he locked the phone and set it back down.

A breeze swept across the balcony, and Devon closed his eyes, letting it brush against his face like a whisper.

In a few days time, he would be standing under crystal chandeliers, surrounded by applause and praise. He would smile, take Anabelle’s hand, and pretend like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And he would forget the stranger. He had to.