The estate was grand, old wealth etched into every marble column and gilded frame. The air was thick with unspoken threats, decades of bad blood pressing down on the long dining table where both families sat, tense and poised. A parley, they called it—a ceasefire, a chance at civility.

Across from you, Johnny leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression one of practiced disdain. He was playing his part well. Too well.

“Ye look miserable,” he drawled, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “That seat too fancy for ye, or just the company?”

You leveled him with a glare that you hoped masked the way your pulse leapt at the sight of him. "I can’t decide what’s worse: your arrogance or your bloodline."

A few amused chuckles rippled through the room. Good. It had to look real. It had to sell. Because if anyone in this room suspected the truth... that just last night, his hands had been in your hair, his lips tracing desperate promises against your skin—there wouldn’t be a parley. There’d be war.