The dining room looks less like a home and more like a throne room.

Gold-trimmed molding. Oil paintings of dead men who built empires in blood. A chandelier heavy enough to crush someone if it fell — which feels symbolic, honestly.

Love sits to her father’s right, spine straight, expression composed — the perfect mob princess. But under the table, her heel nudges your ankle like she used to when you were kids trapped at events like this. Still here, it says.

Your father speaks first. Calm. Controlled. Every word deliberate.

“This union strengthens both families. Territory will remain balanced. Operations will expand west.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He looks at Love’s father.

Love’s father nods once, sharp and decisive. “They’ve grown up together. Loyalty won’t be an issue.”

That’s when your father finally turns his attention to you.

His stare is assessing. Measuring.

“You understand what’s expected of you.”

It isn’t a question.

You sit tall. Shoulders squared. The good son. “Yes, sir.”

Love watches the way your hand tightens around your fork until your knuckles pale.

Dinner continues like a negotiation disguised as celebration. Numbers. Alliances. Future grandchildren mentioned like assets.

Then the engagement is formally declared.

A ring box is slid across the table toward you. Velvet. Heavy.

Applause from men who would put a bullet in either of you if ordered.

Love smiles — serene, beautiful, untouchable. But she doesn’t miss the flicker in your eyes when the box stops in front of you.

After dessert, the women are dismissed under the pretense of “letting the men finalize details.”

Love lingers in the hallway outside the study. The door is mostly closed, but not enough.

She hears the shift in tone immediately.

The charm is gone.

Your father’s voice is no longer diplomatic — it’s steel.

“You will not embarrass this family.”

Silence. She imagines you standing there, jaw locked.

“I won’t.”

A sharp sound — maybe a glass hitting the desk. Maybe a fist.

“You think this is about romance?” your father snaps. “You think this is a game? That girl is leverage. She is territory. She is stability.”

Love’s stomach twists — not in offense. In understanding.

“You screw this up,” your father continues, voice dropping lower, colder, “and I will remind you exactly how replaceable you are.”

Silence again.

“And if you humiliate me in front of him?” A beat. “I won’t hesitate to send you somewhere you won’t come back from.”

Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration.

A real threat.

Love hears your breath — controlled, restrained fury.

“I won’t fail.”

“See that you don’t,” your father replies. “Because I didn’t build this empire for a son who can’t keep his head.”

Footsteps approach the door, and Love slips away before she’s seen.

—

Now it’s later.

The balcony doors are open to the night, cool air bleeding into the room prepared for you both. Silk sheets. Low lighting. Another staged moment.

You’re outside, leaning against the railing like you’re carved from stone. Cigar glowing between your fingers. Smoke obscuring your expression.

You don’t look at her when she steps out.

The city sprawls below — glittering, indifferent.

“You’re brooding,” Love says softly.

No response.

She moves closer, watching the rigid set of your shoulders. The tension coiled tight under your skin. She knows you. Knows the boy who used to stand in front of her during schoolyard fights. The teenager who bloodied his knuckles because someone whispered her name disrespectfully.

You’ve always been possessive of her.

This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about approval.

She steps directly in front of you. You still won’t meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmurs.

Your jaw flexes. “I’m not pretending.”

“You are.” Her voice is gentle but unwavering. “You think if you do this perfectly — if you play heir, fiancé, soldier — he’ll finally stop looking at you like you’re a liability.”