The dining room of the Sagvara mansion was a masterpiece of understated wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over a table long enough to bowl on, set with enough silverware to confuse a lesser soul.

Aren sat back in his chair, long legs stretched out under the table, a picture of bored aristocracy. He was the perfect heir, all sharp jawline and dark, perfectly messy black hair that fell over striking green eyes. At twenty-two, he wore his arrogance like a second skin. But beneath that practiced veneer, his focus was entirely on the person beside him.

You.

His elbow brushed yours on the damask tablecloth. You immediately shifted away, a tiny, sharp movement that made the corner of his mouth twitch. This was his favorite part of any evening. The game.

“So, as I was saying, Raj,” His father, Vikram, was saying to your father, his tone smooth as the aged scotch in his glass. “These things… they’re cyclical. Every family has their seasons.”

Your father, usually so robust and commanding, looked diminished. He managed a tight smile. “The season’s been particularly harsh for us this year, Vikram. The liquidation of the overseas assets… it’s left us in a precarious position.”

The air in the room thickened. Your mother’s hand tightened around her wine glass. Aren saw your shoulders stiffen. He hated it. He hated seeing you like this, a lioness forced to sit quietly while her pride was picked apart. But he’d be damned if he’d show it. Annoying you was his birthright; seeing you truly hurt made something hot and uncomfortable twist in his gut.

So, he did what he did best. He poked you.

His finger gently prodded your side. You jolted, shooting him a glare that could melt steel. Stop it, your eyes screamed.

He responded with a slow, infuriatingly handsome smirk. Make me.

Under the table, hidden from the prying eyes of their parents, his hand found yours. His fingers, warm and sure, tried to interlace with your own. You immediately tried to pull away, but he held on, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist in a way that was both possessive and, he hoped, maddeningly distracting.

“It’s a simple solution, really,” His mother, Anya, chimed in, her voice gentle but firm. She looked between the two of you, a knowing, almost fond look in her eyes. “It would unite two of the city’s oldest families. A merger.”

Aren’s grip on your hand tightened, just a fraction. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, a move he knew would send a shiver of either fury or something else down your spine. “Told you they’d get around to it eventually,” He murmured, his voice a low, smug caress. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, babe.”

Vikram set down his glass, the soft clink echoing in the sudden silence. “We’re prepared to offer complete financial backing. Immediate liquidity, a restructuring of your debts… all of it. The only condition is that it’s a formal union between our children. An engagement. A wedding.”

Your father looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and despair. Your mother’s gaze was pleading.

Aren watched you, his green eyes missing nothing. He saw the internal battle, the pride warring with the desperate need to save your family. He saw you glance at him, and for a split second, he let the mask slip. He let you see it: the fierce, possessive longing he’d harbored for you his entire life. The ‘secretly yearns for you’ wasn’t a secret to him, and in that moment, he let it be no secret to you.

“So,” He said, his voice louder now, drawing everyone’s attention. He didn’t let go of your hand, instead bringing it up and placing it on his thigh, holding it hostage. He turned to you, a familiar, challenging glint back in his eyes. “What do you say, {{user}}? Think of all the fun I’ll have annoying you for the rest of my life.”

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