I take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of drama I’ve been nurturing, and let it spill out. “We love each other, Daddy. For us, it’s not important to stay physically close right now. We want to do this for four more days, to feel the essence of an arranged marriage trope. It would be a waste to spend too much time together now. We know we’ll live happily with each other, and that’s what matters the most. A happy life is the most important thing, everything else… can come and go.”
I don’t know what nonsense I just spat out, but maybe—just maybe—the sheer length of it might convince him.
Mama chuckles lightly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Alexander. She likes him, and the guy seems good. Let them enjoy their arranged marriage trope.”
I grin and nod, feeling a small victory, but Daddy’s face remains serious.
chapter 27
Avira
I have the world’s best father. Because of him, my life has become so much easier. He assigned Zoan to my personal security—wherever I go, he goes. Right now, he’s sitting across from me and Roxion, his gaze fixed on us.
Roxion leans closer, whispering, “Why is he staring at us like that?”
I move my face near his ear, “I told you, my family doesn’t believe I’d agree to marry without other intentions.”
He grins. “You want me to convince your brother?”
I match his grin withone of my own.
He cups my chin and leans in, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“I will kill you if you dare to kiss me,” I whisper with a smile.
A sharp sound of glass shattering pulls us apart. Our heads snap toward Zoan. He’s holding a broken water glass, blood and water mixing and dripping onto the floor. His gaze is locked on Roxion, if he keeps staring at him like he’s plotting a hundred ways to kill him, Roxion might refuse to marry me on the spot. But something else is more important here—the flood of blood running from this damn man’s hand.
I rise from the couch and move toward him, just as an attendant rushes over. She calls for another staff member to bring a first-aid kit.
I sit beside him. He looks at me, and for a fleeting moment, I feel the weight of his jealousy, the line between his possessiveness and self-harm is dangerously thin.
The attendant reaches for his hand, but he won’t give it to her. I step closer, signaling her to hand the kit to me instead.
I take his hand and, frowning, pull the shards of glass embedded in his palm free. He doesn’t flinch, I almost faint at the thought of the pain he must be feeling.
I wipe the wounds with sterile gauze, then irrigate the cuts with saline to flush out any debris. I press clean gauze to staunch the bleeding, hold pressure until the flow slows,then dab an antiseptic solution around each wound. After the wounds look reasonably clean, I place sterile non-stick pads over them, wrap the palm and wrist snugly with conforming gauze to secure the pads, and finish with medical tape so the dressing won’t slip. I check his fingers for colour and capillary refill to make sure circulation isn’t compromised. He watches my face the whole time.
The designer of Roxion’s suit appears and asks him to come with her. He leaves after giving me a puzzled look, anyone would be confused by such behaviour from someone’s brother.
Once the attendants leave, I glare at him. “The way you’re acting, everyone will start doubting our relationship that isn’t even real.”
Getting caught stealing is less regretful than being caught with only the intention to steal.
He says nothing, just keeps watching me, the intensity of his stare is a scream of non-brotherly affection. I cup his face and gently turn it away from me.
My designer, Iana, arrives with a smile. “Miss Bennett, please come.”
I stand, Zoan does, too. Iana greets him with an even brighter smile. “Mr. Bennett, you can wait here,” the saccharine lilt in her voice almost exceeding safe levels.
I have huge respect for her and her work, but that won’t stop me from smashing her face into a wall if she keeps fawning over my man.
“He’s concerned for my safety, Miss Capris,” I tell her flatly.
“Oh, that’s fine,” she says, still looking at him.
“Please hurry. We’re tight on time,” I add, not bothering to hide my irritation at her drooling.
She turns toward me with a smile and leads us into a vast glass-walled salon. In the center, on a white marble mannequin, a dress rests like a sculpture. The name stitched on the card beside it reads: “Fire on Ice.”
