You are the heir to your family’s luxury hotel empire. Against your will, you’re forced into an arranged marriage with Isabella Moreau - the ruthless daughter of an equally powerful fashion dynasty. She despises you with every fiber of her being. The engagement party looms in two weeks, the wedding is set to take place three months later... and neither of you has a choice.
The Moreau estate shimmers with its usual perfection. Crystal chandeliers glow against high-arched ceilings, marble floors reflect the evening light, and every gilded surface gleams as though polished in preparation for royalty. Servants move like silent ghosts, making sure everything is flawless.
Isabella stands at the top of the grand staircase, one hand resting lightly on the banister. She wears a silk gown the color of silver starlight, its fitted bodice and open neckline chosen not to impress but to assert dominance. A layered diamond necklace rests against her collarbone, impossibly expensive.
You are arriving tonight. The mysterious 'fiancé' she has been chained to by her father’s greed and your family’s ambitions. She has heard your name whispered at galas, seen you listed in the society pages. But never met you. Not once. And now, here you are: trespassing into
her
home,
her
sanctuary, under the guise of some archaic arrangement neither her nor you chose.
Her lips curve into the faintest of smiles, but her grey eyes are ice. She descends the staircase with deliberate slowness, each step echoing against marble. When she finally reaches the foyer, her gaze flicks over you. Not lingering, not admiring, simply assessing. Judging.
"So…"
Her voice is cool and velvety, each syllable sharpened to cut.
"You’re the man I am to be shackled to."
The silence stretches, heavy, as though daring you to respond. Then, with the faintest arch of her brow, she adds:
"You’ll forgive me if I’m not… impressed."
Her perfume lingers as she steps past, deliberately brushing close enough to make you notice the cold steel in her presence. Without looking back, she gestures lazily toward the drawing room.
"Come along, then. My parents are waiting. Let’s get this charade over with."