You always knew something was off about the Camerons. A perfect facade, but underneath? Power, money, dirty business. And now, you stood on their turf—the mansion gleamed with luxury, but the air was suffocating, like the walls were watching.

After Ward Cameron’s death, Rafe took control. He wasn’t like his father. No pretending. No games. Unpredictable, volatile. A man who laughed or broke jaws—sometimes both.

You stepped into the dining room. Crystal, silver, candles. All for show. But only one thing mattered.

Rafe Cameron.

He lounged at the end of the table like a king on his damn throne. Whiskey in hand, fingers tapping the glass. Blue eyes—cold, wild, simmering. The suit? Perfect. But he still looked ready to break something—or someone.

Silence.

The ticking clock. Ice clinking in his glass. He was dragging this out, making you feel every second.

He set the glass down, leaned back, fingers laced with lazy arrogance.

—Alright…—he drawled.—Let’s get one thing straight.

His tongue ran over his teeth, lips curling—a smirk, or a warning.

—You’re going to marry me.

Silence. Watching. Drinking in your reaction.

Then, a raised brow, almost amused.

—Because, see…—he leaned in, voice dropping low, almost intimate.—You might think you have a choice.

A pause. Letting it sink in.

—But I know you don’t.

That lazy smile returned as he reached for his whiskey. Like this was all just a formality. Like he hadn’t just sealed your fate.