My family has this adorable little tradition—everybody gets married through arrangements. Super romantic, I know. Basically, if you’re rich, you marry rich. Love? Chemistry? Shared Spotify playlists? Yeah, no. Not important. Just sign the contract, smile for the pictures, and pop out some heirs.

So, I’m 20 now. The magic number. The age when I officially stop being the family’s quirky “free spirit” and start being a pawn in their glittery little chess game. And guess what? The dice has been rolled. I’m set to marry Victor Baelyn—36 years old, CEO, richer than God. I saw a picture once. He had the personality of a tax form.

Anyway, I agreed. Not because I was thrilled about being a walking LinkedIn connection, but because—ugh—family. I owed them. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself every time I looked in the mirror and practiced my “I do” face without gagging.

A week before the wedding, I still hadn’t met the guy. Not even a Zoom call. Just a name, a title, and the occasional tabloid article about his “business ventures” and suspiciously youthful skin.

Then my two best friends, who I call my emotional support gremlins, decided to drag me out for a bachelorette party. “One last night of freedom before you marry Daddy Warbucks,” they said.

We went to this rooftop bar downtown. Neon lights, loud music, overpriced cocktails named after planets—vibes immaculate.

And that’s when he walked in.

Not Victor. Someone else. Someone… completely wrong. Which is probably why it felt so right.

I was leaning over the bar, trying to convince the bartender that yes, I did want my drink to come with fire—literal fire—when I felt someone slide into the empty stool beside me.

“Careful,” a smooth voice said. “That’s how villains start their origin stories. Flaming cocktails and bad decisions.”

I turned, ready with a snarky comeback, and then I saw him.

Messy dark curls, sharp jaw, wearing a leather jacket like he didn’t even try. One dimple when he smirked. Dangerous.

“And what’s your origin story, stranger?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He held up his drink—a whiskey, classic—and tapped it gently against the bar. “Grumpy writer. Cynical outlook. Believes weddings are a capitalist scam.”

I snorted. “You’re a writer? That’s bold in this economy.”

“Bold or stupid. Jury’s out,” he grinned. “Name’s Elias, by the way.”

“{{user}},” I replied, with a small, tight smile.

He tilted his head. “You don’t look like you want to be here.”

“That obvious?”

“Only to someone who also doesn’t want to be here.”

A beat passed between us. Then he leaned in a little, lowering his voice just enough to make my skin hum.

“So, what’s your escape plan, bride-to-be?”