You hated Rafe Cameron long before your fathers ever signed the deal.

It started when you were fourteen and he ruined your family’s fundraiser — crashing the party with his smug grin and a broken bottle of bourbon, he ruined your cousin’s name in a whisper campaign back in school, started fights in the shadows, always looked at you like you were beneath him — a spoiled little heiress from the wrong empire. You never forgot that. Never forgave it.

You hated how he walked like the world owed him. How he talked like he already owned it.

So when your father sat you down last year and told you you were marrying him to “secure the legacy,” you laughed. Then cried. Then screamed. But none of it mattered. The deal was done. The marriage would merge your empires — clean Rafe’s name and double your father’s reach. A perfect match, on paper.

Now, sitting beside him at yet another suffocating dinner with both families, you’re reminded that hate doesn’t vanish with a diamond ring.

Especially not when Rafe leans in like this, brushing your hair back just to get under your skin. “I was the enemy,” he whispers. “And now I sleep in your bed.”

Your spine stiffens. You force your expression to stay neutral, aware of both sets of parents mid-discussion across the table — mergers, land, money, futures being tied together like this was strategy, not punishment.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper back without turning your head.

He hums, sipping his drink like your insult was a compliment. “Maybe,” he says. “But you married disgusting, sweetheart.”

His thigh brushes yours under the table. Intentional. Of course.