Ciry sat in Luka's sleek black Mercedes, the night air warm and filled with the distant hum of the city, she felt her heart hammer in her chest.
The rooftop dinner had been perfect—well, minus the awkward moment where she accidentally brought up a debate about whether vampires preferred synthetic blood or fresh.
But now, as they sat in the quiet of the car, the tension between them shifted.
Luka turned to her, his sharp blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. His hand lifted, fingers brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
"I had a great time tonight," he murmured.
Ciry swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Me too."
There was a pause. The kind of pause that felt heavy with anticipation. His gaze flickered to her lips, and she knew—this was it.
Her mind raced. Do I tilt left? Right? What if I go the wrong way?
Panic bubbled up, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Wait, do I tilt left or right?"
Luka froze for a second, blinking. Then, a slow, amused smirk spread across his face.
"You're really overthinking this, huh?" he teased.
Ciry's face burned. "I just— I don't wanna—"
Luka chuckled, shaking his head. "Here, let me help."
Before she could embarrass herself further, he leaned in, smoothly tilting her chin just enough to guide her in the right direction. The moment their lips met, all her nervousness melted away. His lips were warm, slow, teasing.
When he pulled back, his smirk returned. "See? No instructions necessary."
Ciry covered her face with both hands. "I'm never recovering from this."
Luka laughed, resting his head back against the seat. "Trust me, it was cute."
Ciry peeked at him through her fingers. "So… we're doing that again sometime?"
Luka grinned. "Oh, definitely."
"Goodnight, Ciry," he murmured.
She barely managed to squeak out a reply before stepping out of the car, heart pounding.
As she walked up the steps, she could still feel the warmth of his lips against hers.
Awkward? Yes.
But absolutely perfect.
And as she closed the door behind her, one thought echoed in her mind:
This was the best night of her life. And nothing is going to ruin it.
Ciry practically danced her way into the living room, her voice light and full of excitement as she sang, "He loves me, he loves me, oh, he loves me!"
But the moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Her father, George, sat in his usual armchair, his posture rigid, his strong hands gripping the armrests.
He was a man of power—tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly combed black hair that had just begun to gray at the temples.
His expression was unreadable, but the tension in the air was suffocating.
To his left, her mother, Marla, sat stiffly on the plush sofa, her fingers gripping the hem of her dress. Across from her, on the opposite couch, lounged Flora—the gang's first wife and the undeniable thorn in Ciry's life.
Flora was elegance personified, draped in a crisp white Gucci skirt suit that fit her like a glove.
Every strand of her dark brown hair was pinned flawlessly, her manicured fingers lazily adjusting the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
She exuded confidence, her deep red lips curling into a knowing smirk. Her daughter, Cynthia sat next to her.
They had been in the middle of a conversation—one that came to a dead stop the second Ciry walked in.
Flora was the first to break the silence, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Why don't you tell her now, George?"
Ciry's smile faded as she hesitated at the entrance, suddenly feeling out of place. Her stepfather shifted uncomfortably before clearing his throat.
"Sit down, Ciry. We need to talk."
Her heart stuttered. Why does this feel serious?
She cautiously moved to sit beside her mother, who refused to meet her gaze. George exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face before finally looking at her—though his gaze was filled with hesitation.
"Ciry," he began, voice unusually careful. "There's something... something I need to tell you."
Her stomach knotted.
He hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty before he spoke. "We've signed a contract that requires you to…" He trailed off, a deep sigh escaping him.
For a long moment, he seemed to battle with the words. Finally, they came out, forced and heavy. "Marry the boss of the Hoshira-gumi."
Ciry blinked, her ears ringing as her mother silently handed her a tablet.
She barely registered the action before her fingers shakily scrolled through the document. Lines of legal jargon blurred before her eyes, but the words marriage agreement and binding contract stood out in bold.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the device.
"You're… selling me?" she whispered, her voice barely holding together as it cracked under the weight of her disbelief.
"It's not like that," George said quickly, his tone firm but defensive. "You'll have a good life. He's a boss—a very rich and powerful man. Isn't that what every girl dreams of?"
Ciry's chest tightened as the weight of his words sank in. Her vision blurred with unshed tears before they finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting.
"I just turned twenty three yesterday," she choked out. "I have a boyfriend who asked me out for the first time! I can't do this! Why don't you give him Cynthia instead?"
Flora, who had been calmly watching the exchange, suddenly stiffened in her seat.
Cynthia—her precious daughter. The firstborn of the gang. Twenty-five years old and the epitome of perfection.
"You don't expect my daughter, Cynthia, to marry a terrorist. No!" Flora spat, her usual grace slipping into pure disdain.
Ciry's breath hitched.
"A terrorist?" she shrieked. Her hands balled into fists as she turned to George, her body trembling.
George sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. "Listen, Ciry," he said, his voice now laced with something sterner. "Our gang is in danger. If you refuse this, we go to war."
His eyes darkened, and for the first time, she saw something close to fear in them.
"He's a dangerous, mindless brute," he admitted. "He's already taken over two gangs, and now, he's coming for us."
He exhaled sharply before continuing, his voice almost pleading.
"We're begging you to shoulder this burden—just this once. For us. As a thank you for everything I've done for you. I rescued your mother and you when your father died. You were left hopeless, and I took you in. The least you can do is repay that kindness."
Ciry turned to her mother, desperation in her eyes. "Mom… say something," she pleaded.
But Marla stayed silent. She sat there, stiff and emotionless, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Because in the end, her words meant nothing.
She was just a mistress.