"Diana's POV

We've been driving for thirty long minutes, wrapped in a silence so thick it feels intentional-like he's using it to remind me who has the power here. I still remember the looks on the faces of his workers when he walked out of his house with me. Fear. Curiosity. Confusion. They stood straighter the moment they saw him, like his presence alone tightened invisible strings around their spines. And he didn't say a single word to them. Just walked right through the middle like the world was obligated to part for him.

Cold, arrogant bastard.

The way they scattered, the way their eyes dropped-was that supposed to be my life now? Am I meant to shrink around him the way they do? Like some trembling little thing afraid to breathe too loud?

No.

He's in for a very rude awakening if he thinks that's going to be me.

But the silence is starting to chew at my brain. Every second stretches, snaps, stretches again. So before I lose my mind, I say, "You're strange."

He doesn't even turn his head. "Mm. Is that so?"

His voice is bored. Detached. Like I'm a commercial he can't be bothered to mute.

"You can at least look at me when I'm talking to you," I scoff, turning to the window.

"Would you like me to crash the car so I can look at you properly," he replies dryly, "or should I drive responsibly?"

I grit my teeth. Of course he'd twist it back at me. Everything with him feels like a power play-subtle, calculated, indifferent.

"Tell me then," he says after a moment, still not looking at me. "How am I strange?"

I can't tell if genuine curiosity sneaks into his voice or if it's just another tactic to keep the upper hand. But anything is better than this suffocating silence.

"I told you we had a mutual friend and you didn't even ask who."

"If you wanted to tell me, you could have," he says simply.

"Well, you didn't exactly give me the chance to," I snap. "You walked out of the office."

Silence again. Cold and heavy. I swallow and look back out the window, watching houses blur. I try to distract myself-counting streetlights, tracing raindrops on the glass, breathing deeply-but no matter how far my mind drifts, it always snaps back to this suffocating reality.

I'm sitting in a car with a man I do not know.

A man I feel absolutely nothing for.

A man I strongly dislike-maybe even something deeper than dislike.

A stranger. The stranger I'm supposed to marry.

My chest tightens.

Then his voice cuts through my spiral. "See?" he says in that infuriatingly calm tone. "You just had the chance to tell me, and you didn't."

I sink deeper into my seat, suddenly exhausted. "You're right," I mutter. "I didn't."

And that's the last thing I say. I keep my eyes glued to the window for the rest of the drive, letting the world smear past me.

"We're here."

His voice drags me out of my thoughts, and I blink, realizing we're parked right in front of my house.

"I have to go to the office," he says casually, reclining his seat and closing his eyes like I'm nothing but background noise. "Don't take too long."

My jaw locks. "I'll take as much time as I want. Don't tell me what to do."

He doesn't react. Not a twitch. Not even a flicker of irritation. As if my anger is a breeze brushing past him.

I slam the door hard on purpose and stomp toward the house.

The moment I enter, my parents rush toward me.

"Diana, are you okay? What happened? They said they couldn't find you," my mother says, her voice trembling with concern.

Her concern comes too late. Concern means nothing when they already handed me over like a bargaining chip.

"I'm here to get my stuff," I say bluntly. "I'm moving in with the Grahams."

That shuts them up. Their eyes drop, and I walk past them, heading upstairs to my room.

Celine is already there, sitting beside my packed bags. Her small, sad smile hits me like a punch. She saw my message. She always does.

"You got my text," I say softly.

She ignores that. "Are you leaving forever?"

"I hope not." I laugh, though it sounds wrong to my own ears.

She doesn't fall for it. She pulls me into a tight hug. "If he's bad to you, I'll kill him," she whispers, voice thick with held-back tears.

"Us both," I whisper back.

She pulls away only to give me a list of instructions in a rush. "Call me all the time. Send me your address. Don't let him starve you. Eat properly. Spend all his money-it's the least he owes you. And-"

"Celine." I cut her off gently. Her attempt at being tough is adorable. "Did you forget who you're talking to? And besides... we didn't get married today."

Her face twists in confusion. "Why not?"

"I stood him up," I admit, and we both laugh.

"So why are you still leaving with them? Why tell me to pack your stuff?"

"It's part of the new agreement." I swallow. "We're officially... dating."

The word burns my tongue.

"Oh," she whispers. "I see."

"Don't worry too much. I'm still my own person. For now."

She nods. I stroke her head. "And... I'm sorry for how I acted these last few days."

"It's okay," she says. "I would've done worse. This is all his fault."

"And our parents," I add.

Her sigh says enough.

We stay locked in each other's arms for a long moment before I pull away. "I should get going."

She helps me carry the bags downstairs. My parents don't say another word-they just follow us silently. Dad loads my things into the trunk. Roland still doesn't step out. He remains reclined, eyes closed, like this is all an inconvenience he's enduring out of obligation.

I get into the car. Celine leans in and hugs me again before closing the door. Then she marches to Roland's window and knocks sharply. He lowers it lazily.

"I dare you to treat her badly, asshole."

"Celine!" my mother gasps, dragging her back.

Roland's lips twitch-not in amusement, but in something dry, almost empty. "Cute," he says, before rolling the window back up.

Then he starts the engine without looking at me, without saying a word, and drives.

Cold. Indifferent. Unbothered.

Just like him.

Just like the storm I'm about to walk into..