The room exuded an air of timeless sophistication. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, allowing soft golden light to filter in and reflect off the polished wooden floor. Antique oil paintings lined the deep green walls—portraits of stern ancestors and moody seascapes—while a massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting delicate patterns of light across the elegant furniture below.

In the center of the room, a large mahogany table stood between two leather armchairs and a matching sofa, its surface gleaming with meticulous care. It was there that Rafe Cameron sat, his tall frame slightly hunched forward as tension coursed through him. Clad in a crisp, tailored shirt that was now wrinkled from his agitated posture, he radiated the kind of restless energy that comes just before a storm.

His blond hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run his hands through it several times in frustration. Those piercing blue eyes—normally calculating, composed—were now stormy with disbelief and fury. He slammed a palm against the edge of the table, the sharp sound echoing through the high-ceilinged room.

"What do you mean, arranged marriage?" he all but shouted, his voice rising with a mixture of incredulity and rage as he stared at his father. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared, and his expression twisted into one of profound dissatisfaction. "You can’t possibly be serious."

Silence followed, heavy and tense, as the weight of tradition and expectation pressed down like the room’s decor itself—imposing, inescapable, and impossible to ignore.