The house loomed like it had been waiting for me patient, calculating, vindictive.
Stone walls glinted in the morning sun, tall windows sharp and watchful, hedges clipped so perfectly they might've been sculpted by someone with OCD and a vendetta.
Fountains glittered in the center of the courtyard, spitting water in synchronized perfection, as if mocking the chaos I'd dragged home from last night.
I stepped out of the car, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, and let it drop carelessly onto the marble entry hall floor with a satisfying *thud*.
Arms spread wide, I raised my voice. "Dad! I'm home!"
Silence.
Then, from the dining room, Richard's voice drifted out calm, measured, dangerous. "You're late."
I sauntered in, sliding into a chair halfway down the absurdly long table like it was a throne I'd already claimed.
Sunglasses off, tossed onto the white linen like a gaudy crown.
I grabbed a croissant, flaky crumbs scattering everywhere.
"Traffic," I lied, tearing into the pastry. "You know how it is."
Richard didn't even look up from his newspaper. "I sent my driver."
"Yeah, well, he doesn't know shortcuts." I leaned back, letting the chair creak under me, lounging like I owned the place. Which, technically, I would someday. "So what's the emergency? Another charity gala you want me to smile through? Or did you finally track down my bar tab from last night?"
Richard set down his paper with the kind of precision that made my stomach twist.
He folded it once. Twice. Then looked at me.
"You'll be engaged by the end of this week."
The room goes dead quiet. Even the fountain outside seems to stop spitting.
The croissant froze mid-air.
My hand trembled slightly as I lowered it. "I'm sorry *what?*"
"Engaged," he repeated, placing his coffee cup down with a soft *clink*. "The arrangements have been made. You'll meet him tomorrow."
The world tilted.
I blinked. Once. Twice. "Wait *him?*"
"One of my most trusted people," Richard said, voice smooth as glass, sharp as a blade. "Someone who can handle you."
A laugh burst out of me sharp, disbelieving, borderline hysterical. I leaned back, spreading my arms. "You're joking. Tell me you're joking."
Richard didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Just looked at me like I was a mildly entertaining puzzle he'd already solved.
I laughed again, louder this time, coating every syllable with disbelief. "Unbelievable. Dad, I thought you were going to shove me toward some heiress or a CEO's daughter. But a *guy?!*" Another bark of laughter escaped. "You've officially lost it."
"No one fits you better than him," Richard said simply, like he was discussing the weather.
I shot upright, chair skidding back with a screech. "First of all, I'm not interested. Second....and I can't believe I have to say this.... But dad I'M NOT GAY."
Richard rose too, calm and unhurried, like a chess master moving into checkmate. "Are you sure about that?"
My jaw clenched. "Of course I'm sure."
"You said the same thing about sushi," he countered smoothly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And now you eat it three times a week."
"Dad, sushi isn't my *life!*" I snapped, heat crawling up my neck.
"This man will be," Richard said, tone almost gentle. Almost. "He's perfect for you. Disciplined. Strong. The kind of person who won't let you self-destruct."
I glared at him, then smiled sharp and dangerous. "If you like him that much, why don't you marry him yourself?"
"I can't," Richard said without missing a beat. "I already have Sarah."
As if summoned by her name, she swept into the room, heels tapping like a metronome against the marble.
Early thirties, polished to perfection, smile practiced and sharp as a scalpel.
She leaned down, fingers brushing my cheek with false affection.
"Welcome back, son."
I jerked away, scowling. "I told you, you're not my mom."
She laughed, light and unbothered, like swatting away a fly. "Still dramatic as ever."
"Yeah, well, you're still too young to play house with my dad."
The air crackled. Richard sipped his coffee, eyes glinting like he'd orchestrated this entire scene just to watch me squirm.
"Sit," he said. Voice firm. Final.
Reluctantly, I dropped back into the chair. "I should've stayed on the yacht," I muttered.
Sarah glided to her seat beside Richard, juice in hand, radiating smug satisfaction. "Oh, come on. Breakfast with us can't be worse than hangovers and cheap champagne."
I snapped my head toward her. "First, nothing about my champagne is cheap. Second." I jabbed a finger at her, "....you're not even married into this house yet. Maybe stop auditioning for the role of doting stepmom."
Her smile widened, taunting. She propped her chin on her palm. "Defensive already. It's cute."
"Cute?" I scoffed, tearing into another croissant like it personally offended me. "I don't do cute."
"Right," Sarah said, reaching for her cup. "You do reckless late nights and lipstick stains that aren't yours. Quite the catch."
I froze mid-bite, jaw tightening. "You keeping tabs on me now? Thought only my father had that hobby."
Richard, calmly buttering his toast, murmured without looking up, "She's observant. You could learn from her."
I dropped the croissant in exaggerated defeat. "Oh, perfect. Tag-team parenting now, huh? What's next a PowerPoint presentation on why I should marry your bodyguard?"
Sarah smirked. "Honestly? I'd pay to see that."
Richard finally glanced up, eyes like steel. "You'll thank me one day, Ethan. I'm not asking. Eat your breakfast."
I leaned back, arms crossed, crooked grin spreading across my face. "Oh, I'm eating, Dad. But digesting? That's another story."
Staff cleared the last plates, but tension still hung in the air like smoke.
Richard dabbed at his mouth with a napkin precise, controlled and slid a sealed envelope across the polished table.
I eyed it like it might explode. "What's this? My eviction notice?"
Richard's expression didn't change. "His name. His photo. Everything you need to know. He'll be here tomorrow at three. Don't disappear. Don't make plans."
I groaned loud enough to rattle Sarah's glass, slumping back dramatically. "Dad, do you *hear* yourself? You sound like one of those Indian aunties arranging marriages. Newsflash...I'm your *son*. A man. Free. Completely and totally *not* a piece on your chessboard."
"Free men can still be fools," Richard said evenly.
I dragged the envelope closer, flipping it lazily between my fingers without opening it. "Great. Can't wait to meet your perfect pick. Should I bring a dowry? Maybe my record collection?"
"Ethan," Richard said, voice quiet but weighted with finality. "Be ready."
Sarah sipped her juice, amusement dancing in her eyes. "At least pretend to be curious. You might actually like him."
I snorted, springing from the chair so fast it scraped against the floor. I palmed the envelope and spun on my heel. "Right. And pigs might fly me to Vegas while they're at it. I'll be in my room. DO NOT DISTURB."
I strode out of the dining room, footsteps echoing down the hall.
But I didn't go upstairs.
Not yet.
I stopped in the lounge, standing in front of the massive stone fireplace. The envelope felt heavy in my hand heavier than it should.
I stared at it.
My name written in my father's precise handwriting across the front.
Inside a stranger's face. A name I didn't know. A future I didn't ask for.
My jaw tightened.
I flicked open my lighter, flame dancing to life with a soft click.
The corner of the envelope caught fire instantly, paper curling, blackening, the photo inside consumed before I ever saw it.
I dropped it into the fireplace, watching the flames devour it completely. Ash drifted up, delicate and final.
"Problem solved," I muttered, brushing the soot from my hands.
"Tell your perfect groom the wedding's off. I just divorced him by fire."
A ghost of a grin tugged at my lips as if burning the envelope could burn away the problem itself.
I turned and headed upstairs, leaving the ashes behind.