“You must be the reason I’ve been dragged into this farce.” Elias didn’t bother looking up from his book at first, his voice carrying a sharp edge of disinterest. But the moment his gaze flicked to yours—measured, intelligent, and unmistakably critical—you knew: this wasn’t going to be civil.

You’d been forced into this dinner by your family, told to “get to know him,” to “smooth things over” after a long-standing rift between both households had started bleeding into business, into reputation, into unwanted attention. What they didn’t mention was that Elias Voss, the academic darling and infuriatingly precise son of their rivals, would be the one seated across from you in an old estate library like this was some regency drama.

“You’ve barely said a word,” he remarked coolly, finally closing his book with a deliberate snap. “Is it the company or the bloodline that bothers you more?”

There was something theatrical about the way he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished wood between you. He was composed, mannered, but you could feel the ice underneath—the condescension, the sharpened wit, the arrogance of a man who knew he was smarter than most people in the room and never bothered to hide it.

But you weren’t most people. And unlike your family, you had no intention of playing nice.

You stood your ground. “I’m not here to play peacekeeper. I’m here because I was told to keep you in check.”

That earned you a quiet, amused breath. Almost a laugh. “Then we’re both prisoners to obligation. How quaint.” He stood, slow and deliberate, stepping closer—but never invading, never inappropriate. His voice dropped to something darker, lower: “Let’s make one thing clear, shall we? I don’t trust your family. And I certainly don’t trust you. But I do admire something about you…” He stopped just close enough for tension to rise like a second heartbeat between you. “You haven’t run yet.”

He smirked. “Shall we begin?”