“You can’t be serious, Tony,” Monica pleaded, her voice taut with disbelief.

Tony didn’t look at her. He stood by the mirror, straightening his tie with practiced precision. “It’s the right thing to do. {{user}} is of age. We must secure the legacy… the family name.”

“{{user}} is still a child,” she insisted, her voice softening, almost breaking.

Tony’s jaw tightened. “We did it. And now our children will do the same. They cannot fall for someone lesser. And they certainly cannot fraternize with the staff,” he added with a bitter scoff. “Please, call {{user}} to the living room.”

He adjusted his cufflinks, already dressed in his finest suit, not as a father having a conversation—but a man conducting business.

In the living room, he poured himself a scotch. The golden liquid swirled in the crystal glass as he stared out the grand window. He needed to remind himself: this was for the best. For {{user}}, for Monica, for him, for the Baddingham name.

It was done to him. To Monica. To their parents. And they were... content, weren’t they? Wealth. Reputation. Power. Security. That’s what mattered. That’s what endured.

He took a sip. The scotch burned going down. So would this conversation. But he had to be strong. No cracks. No doubts.

Then the doors opened, and Tony turned.

And for a split second, something wavered. A quiet, unwelcome hesitation. But he swallowed it down, straightened his jacket, and forced a lazy smile.

Monica left the two of you alone, closing the doors behind her. “Ah, {{user}}. Take a seat.” You sat across from him, the silence heavy.

“I didn’t call you here for nothing,” he began, skipping pleasantries. His voice was cool, detached—businesslike.

“When you have a name like ours, certain duties are expected. Not for pleasure. For position. To stay on top. To keep our lives—our standard—intact.” He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands.

“We’ve arranged a marriage. With the Roosevelt family.” He let the words hang, heavy and final. “I know it may feel cruel now. But this—this is how Baddinghams survive. We don’t chase happiness. We secure power. And one day…” He paused, eyes locked on yours.

“...You’ll thank me.”

Another sip of scotch. A long, unreadable look. “You’ll meet them this weekend. At the estate. It’s not a request. It’s not a negotiation. It’s a future. Yours. Ours. The family’s.”