Water fell but left Bangkok untouched. Instead, it smeared the city's flaws into glossy pools, reflecting colored lights like raw wounds. Beneath the glass wall of Rattana Grand Tower, I stayed still, arms tight around my leather case till it seemed fused to bone. My shape stared back—pale, warped, eyes too wide, frozen as if expecting harm. Fog clung close, heavy on the air, making my shirt cling like wet paper. Yet it was not the rain that made me shiver—it was what came after.
A single thought filled my head. Not money, but sound—the echo of digits piling up. A debt shaped like a blade, sharp enough to cut years off a man's breath. My father stood at its edge. His name is tied to figures too heavy to carry alone. This place held answers, though it looked more like silence than help. I walked in knowing the cost before they named it.
"Miss Lalin?"
Out of nowhere, the sound sliced across the downpour—calm, exact, and impossible to guess. Under the awning, a figure waited, covered by a dark umbrella, dressed in a slate-gray suit so clean it could draw blood. He did not grin. Exactly the type others turn to when trouble needs to disappear.
"Yes." A knot rose in my neck; outside, traffic roared like it might drown the sound before it left my lips.
"Khun Phakin is expecting you. The private elevator is prepared."
Phakin Rattana. Speak that name, and silence follows—no matter the room, whether suits sit tight or judges lean forward. Some said he held Bangkok in his palm, like coins stacked high. For three years, I was part of what he held.
Behind came my footsteps. Black stone pulled at my shoes, while gilded seams climbed the walls as if guarding secrets. Cold air rushed forward, peeling sweat from fabric, biting where warmth once sat. A trace of sandalwood curled through wealth too old to name. Metal doors sealed shut—not loud, but certain. Upward we moved. Floating upward, floor after floor slipped by—distance growing between who I was hours earlier. Somewhere above eighty, a sharp pressure cracked inside my head.
Last thing—right when the doors were about to open, the assistant said something. One rule only—that was it
Heart jumped. What law?
"Do not meet his eyes unless he allows it. Khun Phakin values hierarchy."
The alarm rang out, part ancient echo, part nonsense—yet somehow ice-cold real. My pride? A luxury has no place here. "Got it."
The doors opened slowly. Through wide windows, light crawled over a space too large to feel real. Rain had made the streets shine like something taken without asking. A single lamp glowed near an oversized desk. Behind it, he waited—facing away, motionless, strength humming off him like metal left in the sun.
Last words came slowly. He spoke softly. Not a shout. Just truth hanging there.
Five minutes too soon, I said without pausing, eyes drifting to the watch like always.
It took you too long to make up your mind, he said before walking away.
Something slipped my mind. Not turning away - that too. Phakin Rattana carried danger like heat off asphalt, his face shaped like dark stone: sharp jaw, high bones, hair pulled tight with careless harshness. Yet it was the gaze that locked me still. Empty. Unfeeling. He studied me as if pricing goods, never seeing someone alive.
A thud came as he placed the glass on the desk. He stood behind it, motioning to a chair without speaking at first. The word came sharply: Sit.
That much I remember. My hands rested on the leather seat, chilled by its surface. A black file edged across the table, pushed slowly into view. Words came next—changes made, terms rewritten. All hospital costs tied to Dad would now be paid, without exception. The burden shifts to Rattina Corporation now. Until the period finishes, the property stays under your name, protected by a trust
Fingers just above the pen, still. Then—what about everything else?
He watched them as if they were an exhibit. "Three years. You will reside here. You will attend public events as my wife. You will smile, pose, and perform the role flawlessly."
Yet what about in private? The words came out thin, fragile.
His mouth suggested something like amusement. "Privately, you stay out of my way. The west wing is forbidden. My business is not your concern. And you will not expect intimacy."
Faces warmed by some mix of shame and near-invisible ease. "Your bed is not what I'm after," it came out straight and low. The air held it.
Good," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
Up he stood, moving around the desk, near enough that rain clung to his coat, mixed with sharp alcohol and another deeper trace beneath. My breathing slowed. A wet lock of hair fell across my face. His hand lifted it away. Soft as it was, the motion spun me sideways; skin near my neck tingled where his thumb sat still, feeling each beat.
"You look exactly like him," he murmured.
Who exactly? That was my question.
A flicker crossed his gaze—rage maybe, sorrow, or just a crack in control. Back he jerked, sudden enough to sting. The words came flat: sign the paper.
That book stayed closed. My fingers remembered every number anyway. A pen moved across paper. Like courtroom wood cracking under authority, the file clicked shut.
"Welcome, Mrs. Rattana."
My legs froze when I said it—would I go?
"One last thing." He turned to the window. "The wedding is in three days. You will not leave this building. Your phone has been disconnected. Your former life ends tonight."
Defiance was mine, the only truth left, so my voice rose. "You cannot lock me away," I told them.
He faced me slowly. "Clause fourteen says otherwise. You belong to me now." His voice sharpened. "And don't cry over your father again. I despise waste."
A flick of his hand sent me away. Out I went, shaky steps forward, breath sharp in my chest. My family was safe now—the cost accounted for. Yet when those doors shut tight behind me, locking me inside this golden trap, something deeper settled into my skin. Not just a marriage to power. Something else. Into enemy ground I walked, where hatred waited without explanation. My skin remembered the pressure of his thumb, a mark that stirred another sensation entirely. Not fear, not quite—more like defiance rising slow. The balance tipped before I noticed. Danger wore a familiar face now. Calm sat too heavy in my chest. This lack of fright? That was the real warning.
Cliffhanger: A gust of air stirred the curtains when the door clicked open. There stood someone in a dress picked by an aide—three days gone since we last spoke. From behind, his words sliced through the quiet.