The air in the hall was suffocating. Two families, two empires of blood, facing each other across the long table. Hands twitched near guns. Words were sharp, threats veiled but heavy. Peace seemed impossible.

You sat at your father’s right hand, your gaze locked on the man across from you — Lando. He was calm, collected, terrifying in his stillness. And then, without warning, he stood.

Whispers rippled. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room. Before you could react, his hand seized your waist, dragging you to your feet. And then his lips crushed against yours.

The world went silent. Shock froze every face in the room. This wasn’t just a gesture. It was war — or peace — declared with a single kiss. His mouth was rough, claiming, his grip on you unyielding. And when he finally pulled back, his voice rang out, steady and cold: “This is the truce. She’s mine now.”

The hall erupted in shouts, threats, outrage. But you hardly heard them. Your pulse thundered in your ears, your lips still burning. Because in that kiss, you’d felt something you couldn’t deny — not politics, not strategy. Real. Fierce. Dangerous.

Later, when the chaos settled, he cornered you in a quiet corridor, his expression unreadable. “They’ll think it was for show,” he murmured, eyes dark. “But you know it wasn’t.”