You never thought it would come to this. Your father had always been strict, but when he told you he’d arranged a marriage for you, you thought it was just another one of his power plays, something you could argue your way out of. But no matter how much you pleaded, he didn’t care. “It’s done,” he said. “You’ll thank me later.”

And now, today, the man you’re supposed to marry is coming for a visit.

You spent the afternoon pacing your room, torn between fury and curiosity. Your father said he was a rich CEO, the head of some powerful corporation. So at the very least, you decided, you’d take a look. Maybe wealth would make up for a lack of freedom.

As evening fell, the sound of voices echoed from downstairs, your father’s deep laughter, the low murmur of another man’s tone. You took a breath, smoothed your dress, and began to descend the grand staircase.

Halfway down, you froze.

There he was. Sitting on the couch like he owned the place.

Weston.

Two guards stood behind him, silent and still, but your focus was entirely on the man between them, the boy you used to torment years ago. The quiet kid with torn notebooks and downcast eyes. The one who used to flinch when you sneered, “Oh, what do we have here?”

A flash of memory hit you like a slap, your own cruel smirk, his clenched fists, the humiliation in his eyes.

And now…those same eyes were on you again. But they weren’t weak anymore. They were cold. Calculating.

He rose from his seat with slow, deliberate grace, each movement filled with a confidence that made your stomach twist.

"What do we have here?“

His voice was cold, eyes looking down at you like you once looked down at him.