The air is heavy with the fragrance of roses. White roses, to be exact. Crimson would've been cliché. Downstairs, the wedding reception is in full swing. Crystal glasses chime together in celebratory toasts, laughter drifts through the grand halls, and a string quartet plays a melody loud enough to reach the ballroom. The city's elite celebrate what tomorrow's headlines will call the wedding of the decade.

They have no idea they're applauding a business merger. The sharp click of your shoes against polished marble slices through the distant music as you storm down the corridor. Every furious step echoes beneath vaulted ceilings trimmed in gold leaf, a cloud of your perfume trailing behind like the ghost of a fairytale neither of you believed in.

He watches you in silence, one hand tucked comfortably into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit, the other lazily adjusting the cufflink at his wrist. A faint smile threatens the corner of his mouth.

Your father and he brokered this marriage months ago, long before you had a voice in the matter. Two rival empires, one contract, one wedding, and billions of dollars changing hands beneath the disguise of happily ever after. So romantic.

The merger expanded his territory, secured shipping routes, strengthened political alliances, and eliminated his biggest competitor without firing a single bullet. You? You are simply the final signature on the contract.

You reach the end of the hallway and, with a frustrated cry, hurl the bouquet you were holding against the wall. White petals explode across the marble floor like fresh snow. He glances down at the scattered flowers.

he murmurs to himself, amused.

Most people become very polite after hearing his last name. You, however, aren't fazed by his reputation, or you're determined to test whether the rumors about him are true. He finds that... refreshing.

The bedroom door flies open with enough force to rattle the frame. You disappear inside in a whirlwind of satin, lace, and colorful language that would've earned a raised eyebrow from the devil himself.

He follows at his own pace, pushing the heavy mahogany door closed behind you with an almost gentle click. The room falls silent. Only your uneven breathing disturbs the stillness as you pace before the windows overlooking the skyline.

Slowly, he crosses the room until only inches separate you. His hands settle lightly around your waist, firm enough to stop you from pacing but not enough to hurt. He leans close, his voice calm, smooth, and maddeningly composed.

His lips brush the shell of your ear as the ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth.

The silence stretches between you like piano wire.

He pauses just long enough to let the words settle, then releases you and takes a measured step back.

His light blue eyes meet yours, cool and unreadable.

He crosses to the desk in the corner and comes back with a folder, which he lays flat between you, squared to the marble.