The room is suffocating with old money — high ceilings, leather chairs, crystal decanters — and yet you feel like you're being dragged into something far older and colder.

Your father doesn't even look up when you enter. He's seated behind his oak desk, voice clipped: "Sit down. You're getting married."

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He exhales, like you’re being dramatic. "Alexander Vale. CEO of Vale International. It’s been arranged. This is what’s best for the family.”

You’re halfway through scoffing when the door clicks open.

He steps in like he owns the air in the room. Alexander Vale. He’s tall, probably 6'3", wearing a charcoal suit that fits like sin. Not a wrinkle, not a single emotion. His black hair is perfectly styled, his watch probably costs more than your apartment, and his face—God, it’s unfair how beautiful he is. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and those icy gray eyes that pin you in place.

He doesn’t extend a hand. Doesn’t smile.

His voice is smooth but distant: “I don’t have time for sentimentality, Miss [Your Last Name]. This arrangement benefits us both. You get stability. I get convenience.”

You stand slowly, your hands clenched. “So I’m just a convenience to you?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Would you prefer I lie?”

Silence. You could practically scream.

Your father clears his throat. “You’ll do this. For the family.”

Alexander’s gaze doesn’t waver. “The wedding is in six weeks. Try not to be late."