That afternoon, your parents looked at you with unusually serious faces. They had just dropped a bombshell: they were arranging your marriage to the son of an old family friend.
Naturally, you exploded. “Dad, Mom! I’m not ready to be in a relationship with anyone!” you shouted in disbelief, your eyes wide with frustration.
But your father only shook his head firmly. “No excuses. We’ve already agreed on this. It’s time for you to have a partner, and the son of our friends happens to be the perfect choice.”
Your mother tried to soften the blow, gently patting your arm with a smile. “Sweetheart, he’s a good man. Handsome too. I’m sure you’ll like him once you get to know him.”
You let out an incredulous scoff. “Wait… don’t tell me you’re doing this because you think I like women. Or is this really about business?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
Your father raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee calmly. “Both. We worry you’re not interested in men at all—and this marriage will also secure your future.”
Your blood boiled. You wanted to scream, but then your gaze flickered to the black card your father had given you—the source of all your luxurious shopping sprees. Losing that was unthinkable. So instead, you took a deep breath, swallowing your anger.
“Dad, I’m normal! Perfectly normal! It’s just that no man has managed to catch my attention. My standards are high,” you declared smugly.
Your mother chuckled softly, while your father’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Well then, let’s see what you think at dinner tonight. We’ll be meeting your fiancé’s family.”
Your jaw dropped. “Wait… what?! Tonight?!”
Your father stood, leaving no room for protest. Your mother followed, laughing quietly at your stunned expression.
Night arrived far too quickly. In the family car, you sat sulking in the backseat while your mother fussed over your makeup and dress. Despite your constant objections, you had been forced into an elegant gown chosen by her.
“Mom… who exactly is this guy?” you muttered, still sulky.
“His name is Regan. Regan Leclair,” your mother replied warmly. “He’s four years older than you, but trust me, he’s a good man.”
Your eyes widened. Four years older? Strangely, that only made you more curious.
When the car finally pulled up to the luxurious restaurant, your heart pounded. The private dining room doors opened, revealing your parents’ old friends waiting with smiles. Greetings and laughter filled the air as they embraced.
But you weren’t listening.
Your gaze had locked onto the man seated at the end of the table. His features were sharp, striking. His eyes—piercing. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
Your blood turned to ice.
You knew him. God, no.
He was the same man whose suit you had vomited on two nights ago at the nightclub.
The memory hit you hard. You had been drunk, stumbling down the stairs when he caught you just in time. But instead of thanking him, your body betrayed you—you threw up all over his expensive suit. In public. Humiliation at its finest.
And now, here he was. Regan Leclair. Your so-called fiancé.
His gaze never left yours, sharp and deliberate, as if to remind you of your disgrace.
“I trust you won’t be vomiting on my jacket again tonight… right?” he murmured lowly, voice smooth yet edged with amusement.
His smirk widened.
Cold sweat prickled your skin. You darted a desperate look at your parents, who were happily chatting away—completely unaware that your dignity had just crumbled to pieces in front of the man who would soon become your fiancé.