You barely made it through the front gates before one of the servants intercepted you.

“Your father wants you in the dining room.”

Which usually meant one of two things:

A business dinner.

Or bad news.

Given the tense look on the servant’s face, you already knew which one it was.

You loosened your school tie as you walked through the massive halls of the Figarland estate. Voices echoed from the dining room ahead—your father’s smooth, calculating tone mixed with another voice far rougher. Deeper.

Familiar.

The moment you stepped inside, every conversation stopped.

Your mother sat stiffly at the end of the table, diamonds glittering around her throat like shackles. Your father stood beside her with his usual unreadable expression.

And seated across from them—

was Shanks.

Well.

Figarland Shanks.

The son of the infamous businessman and political monster, Garling Figarland.

Your classmate.

Your problem.

Your absolute headache of a classmate.

He lounged in his chair like he owned the room—which, considering his family practically owned half the country, maybe he did. His white dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, red hair messy as ever, one long scar slashing across his left eye.

And the worst part?

He was grinning at you.

Like this was funny.

“Sit down.”

Your father’s voice cut through the room.

You obeyed automatically, dropping your bag beside the chair.

A heavy silence followed.

Then Garling spoke.

“We’ll keep this simple.” He folded his hands on the cane resting before him. “Our families will be merging assets overseas next quarter.”

Your stomach dropped immediately.

No.

Absolutely not.

Your mother avoided your eyes.

“And,” Garling continued calmly, “to solidify the partnership, we’ve agreed on an engagement.”

You stared at him.

Then at your parents.

Then slowly—slowly—back at Shanks.

He looked just as surprised as you felt.

“…What?”

“That’s the reaction I expected,” Garling said dryly.

Shanks barked out a laugh. “You think?”

“Enough,” your father snapped.

You ignored him completely.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“This is insane.”

“Most successful arrangements are.”

You pushed your chair back slightly. “You can’t seriously expect me to marry him.”

“Oi,” Shanks interrupted, sounding offended. “What’s wrong with me?”

You turned toward him instantly. “Everything.”

That only made him grin wider.

Idiot.

Your father leaned forward. “This decision is final.”

The room went cold.

You looked at your mother desperately, but she only lowered her gaze to the tablecloth.

Of course.

Nobody was going to help you.

Not here.

Not ever.

Across the table, Shanks finally stopped smiling.

For the first time since you walked in, he looked directly at you—not teasingly, not lazily, but carefully.

Like he finally noticed you weren’t angry.

You were trapped.

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Then he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“Well,” he said lightly, “guess we should at least exchange numbers properly if we’re getting married.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You already have my number.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But now it’s romantic.”