You never thought you’d actually find yourself in this position, sitting in some quiet corner of a café in downtown Manhattan, waiting for a guy you barely know but apparently owe your entire future to. At least, according to your parents, and according to his late father. The whole thing feels outdated as hell, like some bad Hallmark movie, except with way more family baggage and the looming threat of awkward silence.

Peter Stone. Yeah, that Stone. Son of Ben Stone, the famous prosecutor. Everyone in your family had known the Stones forever—it was one of those “old family friend” situations where your parents still talked about childhood playdates you barely remembered. Only now it had turned into this… weird arranged marriage setup. Apparently, on his deathbed, Ben Stone had asked Peter to marry you. You don’t know why. Maybe he thought it would “secure the families” or whatever old-world nonsense parents cooked up.

The catch? Peter hated his father. Everyone knew they had a rocky relationship. He thought the man was cold, distant, and too obsessed with work. And now Peter, freshly transferred from Chicago to New York to start work as an ADA in the Manhattan DA’s office, was about to walk through that door and meet you—because despite hating the idea of being tied down by some outdated “last wish,” he wasn’t a coward. He figured he’d at least show up, hear you out, and maybe, just maybe, find out who the hell you even were after all these years.

And so here you are, waiting. Nervous. Annoyed. Kinda pissed, actually. Because who the hell just agrees to get married because dad said so? Not you. Definitely not him. This whole thing feels like a joke, and you’re half-ready to walk out when the door finally swings open.

Peter walks in—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with that ex-athlete, ex-Chicago prosecutor energy. He looks sharp in a suit, though the tie’s a little loose like he’s already over it. He scans the room, spots you, and for a second there’s something unreadable in his expression. Maybe recognition, maybe irritation, maybe both. Then he’s walking over.

He stops at your table, gives you that clipped, lawyer-like nod, and finally speaks, voice low and edged with dry sarcasm.

“So. You’re the one I’m apparently supposed to marry because my old man couldn’t keep his nose out of my life. Hell of a way to meet, huh?”

He doesn’t sit right away, just stands there a second like he’s weighing whether this is worth his time. Then, with a sigh, he pulls out the chair across from you and drops into it, loosening his tie even more.