Your father had always said power wasn’t inherited — it was negotiated. Tonight, you were the negotiation.

The Vales were coming over — the most influential family in the city, a dynasty built on cold strategy and cleaner lies. An arranged marriage, they called it. A merger, in reality. You’d spent all afternoon convincing yourself it didn’t matter who the groom was. Until the door opened.

He walked in like he’d been there before.

Aiden Vale. The boy you used to tease for his glasses and quiet voice. The one who never fought back. Now taller. Sharper. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for space — it claimed it.

Dinner was all polite smiles and business talk — stock markets, land expansions, alliances. You barely tasted the food. Aiden barely spoke, but when he did, every word was measured and controlled.

Your father eventually cleared his throat, the signal you’d been dreading. “Why don’t we let the kids talk? They should have a chance to know each other before we finalize anything.”

Mr. Vale nodded. “Agreed. Give them a little time.”

And just like that, the parents disappeared down the hall — laughter echoing behind them, doors closing one by one.

You and Aiden were left alone under the chandelier’s soft gold light.The house had emptied. Their fathers’ laughter faded down the hall, leaving you and him alone under the chandelier’s dim gold light.

You didn’t speak at first. Neither did he. He just stood there — tall, calm, unreadable — like silence itself bent around him.

The Aiden you remembered had eyes that darted away. This one’s didn’t move at all.

“You’ve changed,” you said quietly.

He smiled — a small, cold curve. “You haven’t.”

You almost asked what that meant, but something in his tone warned you not to.

He turned toward the window, hands in his pockets, the city’s reflection slicing his face in half — one side light, the other shadow. “Tomorrow,” he said, “our engagement goes public. I don’t want surprises.”

Your pulse skipped. “So this is just business?”

His gaze shifted, slow, deliberate. “Everything is business. Until it isn’t.”

Then he walked past you, close enough for you to feel the air move — expensive cologne, quiet danger.

Just before leaving, he stopped — not looking back, just tilting his head slightly.

“Strange,” he said softly, almost to himself. “How life makes people kneel in the places they once laughed.”

Then he walked out, the echo of his footsteps sounding a lot like a warning.