I place my hand against his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady beneath my palm. “Because I keep my precious memories safe.” The confession emerges more vulnerable than intended, my voice catching on words that expose more than I planned. He says nothing in response, but his eyes speak volumes—longing, regret, possibility. It’s pointless to pretend I don’t understand; what began as childhood affection has transformed into something electric and adult between us. But we’re no longer the naive children anymore. We’re adults with complicated lives, and I silently vow not to let him slip out of my life again without at least securing his contact information.
We rise reluctantly from our sanctuary on the terrace, drawn back to the social obligations awaiting inside. Nathan places his hand at the small of my back, the pressure light but unmistakably possessive as he guides me through the doorway. It doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, it grounds me. The atmosphere indoors has shifted during our absence; tension hangs in the air like gathering storm clouds.
“Why does it feel like you’re throwing me into the lions’ den?” I murmur, meeting his gaze with apprehension that feels suddenly justified.
“Right? I thought the same thing.” His whispered response confirms my unease isn’t imagined.
“You’re such a gentleman!” I tease with mock seriousness, trying to lighten the inexplicable heaviness that has descended.
“Don’t worry, I’m watching your back.” The protective promise warms me despite my growing anxiety.
I cock an eyebrow at him, unable to resist. “My back or my ass?”
“I refrain from answering,” he smirks, shaking his head with playful admonishment, but the appreciative glint in his eyes tells me everything his words don’t.
“Since we’re all finally here, we can sit down,” the Duke announces with ceremonial gravity that raises goosebumps along my arms. Something about his tone—too pleased, too anticipatory—triggers my instinctive wariness.
Nathan and I share a look before settling onto the silk brocade sofa, closer than propriety strictly dictates, while Dad and the Duke position themselves directly opposite, like opposing counsel in a high-stakes negotiation. A maid silently serves drinks, the crystal glasses catching light as she moves. I notice my father and the Duke exchanging meaningful glances, a silent communication that makes my stomach tighten with foreboding. They’ve orchestrated something, decided something—the realization crashes over me with certainty.
“Trouble,” Nate and I murmur under our breath before hiding a smile.
“So, guys, this evening will be a special one.” Gabriel looks directly at me, a proud smile spreading across his aristocratic features that sends terror cascading down my spine like ice water. “In just over two months, Izzy, you’ll be twenty-five. I remember correctly, don’t I?”
“Yes?” My response emerges cautiously. A siren of warning sounds in my mind, my body tensing for impact before I consciously understand why. Run, my instinct screams, primordial and urgent. I shift uncomfortably, gaze darting briefly toward the nearest exit, calculating the distance to potential escape.
“Twenty-four years ago, Lucas and I made a pact.” He pauses dramatically, his eyes moving deliberately from me to Nathan and back again. “It’s not really a pact. More like a tradition, agreement. It is an ancient form of respect that our family has followed for centuries and therefore must be respected as such.”
“Without debating it,” Dad interjects, fixing me with the familiar that’s-what-you’ll-do expression I’ve seen throughout my life—when informing me of boarding school, when selecting my university, when directing my career path. The look that indicates this isn’t a conversation but a pronouncement from which no appeal will be considered.
“I don’t think I like what they have to say,” Nathan mutters, his voice tight with apprehension that mirrors my own mounting dread.
“On the contrary, it’s a wonderful thing,” Grace counters, her voice bright with forced enthusiasm. “Nathan, you and Isabel are going to get married.” The announcement lands like a grenade in the centre of the room.
Silence envelops us, thick and suffocating. A strangled laugh erupts from my throat—a reflex of disbelief rather than amusement. The sound dies abruptly as I register my father’s unwavering seriousness, the hard set of his jaw confirming this isn’t some elaborate, tasteless joke.
“This is a joke, isn’t it?” Nathan asks, his question echoing my thoughts with such precision it’s as though we’ve developed telepathy.
“It is not,” the Duke snaps, irritation flashing across his features at our resistance. “For generations, our family has found a deserving and perfect wife for our sons. The concept of marriage has changed over the centuries. Usually, the future spouses saw each other for the first time in front of the altar, but you already know each other since you’ve grown up together. The basis of a marriage is mutual trust and respect…”
Stupid me thinking it was love too. The bitter thought rises unbidden as I glance sideways at Nathan. He stares straight ahead, expression carefully blank but betrayed by his hands—clenched into fists so tight the knuckles have gone white. Instinctively, I place my palm over his, feeling the tension in his tendons, the barely contained fury vibrating through him. At my touch, some of the rigidity ebbs from his posture, though the anger remains palpable.
The Duke continues his sermon on dynastic marriages and family tradition, but his words blur into indistinct noise as panic builds in my chest, constricting my lungs until each breath becomes laborious. The walls of the drawing room seem to inch closer, the ornate ceiling lowering incrementally. Trapped. The word pulses in my consciousness like a distress beacon.
“No, it won’t happen!” I surge to my feet, unable to remain passive another moment. The crystal tumbler in my hand sloshes dangerously as I set it down with more force than intended. “How? How could you have thought we could accept such a thing?” My voice rises with each word, indignation burning away the initial shock.
“Isabel, that’s enough!” Dad snarls, his political mask slipping to reveal the iron will beneath. “So it’s decided, and so it will be!”
“I hope you’re kidding!” Heat floods my face, blood pounding in my ears like war drums.
“Isabel!” The warning in his tone would normally quell any resistance—the voice that has silenced parliamentary opponents and intimidated cabinet ministers.
“No, no Isabel! Mom would be so disappointed in you!” The words fly from my lips like weapons, striking with deadly accuracy. Tears sting my eyes, but rage pushes them back, refusing the vulnerability of visible emotion.
Dad rises from his seat, looming large in his fury, and I freeze instinctively, a childhood reflex I despise even as I yield to it. “Don’t you dare mention your mother!” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that carries more menace than any shout.
“Lucas, Isabel, please calm down,” Grace intervenes, her hand on my father’s arm applying gentle pressure until he reluctantly resumes his seat. The momentary diffusion does nothing to dispel the storm of emotions raging within me.
I’m beyond fury—incandescent with it, the heat of betrayal flooding every cell. My hands tremble with the effort of restraint, of not smashing the priceless ornaments that surround us, physical representations of the oppressive tradition they’re attempting to shackle us with.
