Guy had come to America with a plan. A marriage of convenience. A wife with enough wealth to rescue his crumbling estate back in England. Affection wasn’t necessary. Love was out of the question. It was all business, cold, calculated, and necessary.

But then he met you.

And somewhere between the garden parties and stolen glances, between laughter over tea and late-night conversations that bled into dawn, the plan began to unravel. You were warm, disarming, impossibly clever, and entirely unlike anyone he’d ever known. Falling for you wasn’t part of the plan.

And yet, it happened.

What he didn’t expect, what struck him like a blade between the ribs, was learning the truth far too late.

He found you standing near the piano, light streaming through the tall windows, soft music floating through the parlor. He was smiling, until he heard the words.

You’re engaged. To Theo.

Theo. His oldest friend. Practically a brother.

His voice came low, sharp, disbelieving.

« You’re getting married… to Theo?! »

You turned, startled by the edge in his tone. And in that single moment, something fragile between you began to splinter.