The drive to the meeting place is quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional comment from your brother. He seems at ease, but your fingers grip the fabric of your pants, restless. You’re on your way to meet your soon-to-be husband—John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. A decorated soldier, a man with sharp blue eyes and a grin that could charm anyone. But you’ve seen none of that warmth directed at you.

You don’t know why he agreed to this marriage. Maybe you don’t want to know.

The moment you step inside, the air shifts. Soap is already there, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. He barely spares you a glance, his attention locked onto your brother instead. They fall into easy conversation—military talk, familiar shorthand, things you don’t understand and aren’t meant to. You stand there, an outsider in a room you were supposed to belong to.

He doesn’t acknowledge you.

Minutes stretch unbearably, each second pressing heavy against your ribs. You try to tell yourself it’s just nerves, but it’s more than that. It’s the way he doesn’t even look at you, like you’re not worth the effort. The realization stings. Whatever reason he had for saying yes to this arrangement, it wasn’t for you.

Then, your brother excuses himself, heading toward the restroom, and the moment the door shuts behind him, the temperature in the room drops.

Soap finally turns to you. His gaze is sharp, assessing—more like he’s sizing you up than seeing you.

“Just so we’re clear, lass,” he mutters, voice low and edged with something cold. “I’m doin’ this for him. Not you.”

The words land like a blow, but before you can react, he looks away again, like the conversation—like you—are already forgotten.