This whole performance, the polite whispers, the fake smiles, the ridiculous tension—I told myself it had nothing to do with me. It was just a rich family playing their stupid power games. I was just a mere decoration they dragged out when needed.
That thought holds until my grandfather, with a sickeningly sweet smile, points toward a far door. "Tyr, darling, be a dear and fetch the gift for Mr. Vastano from the study. It's on the third shelf, behind the blue globe."
I want to refuse. I want to tell him to fetch his own damn gifts. But the thought of escaping the suffocating lounge and the awkward situation, even if it's only for a few minutes, is too appealing. I stand up. "Fine."
I enter the study, a vast room lined with leather-bound books and smelling of aged paper. I start my search, scanning the shelves. Third shelf, blue globe.
Suddenly, the door closes softly behind me.
I whip around. Vega Vastano stands there, having moved with the silent speed of a phantom. I meet those piercing eyes—they seem to bore straight through my skin and stare into my soul. The familiarity of his presence is overwhelming, but the source remains a mystery.
I quickly turn away, feeling exposed. "I'm looking for the gift, but I can't find it," I say, my voice tight. "I'll go ask him."
I turn to walk out.
"Miss Alaister," Vega says, his deep, husky voice stopping me dead. "Please sit."
My expression turns instantly cold, colder than any frost I have ever been forged in. I whirl back around. "I am not a fucking Alaister."
His gaze lingers on me, deliberate and heavy, making me feel like I'm being assessed by a beast lurking in the shadows. I hate it.
"My apologies," he says, not sounding apologetic at all. "Please sit."
My eyes narrow slightly. I already felt like this whole scenario was a setup to trap me into some shit, but I honestly didn't expect this person to be involved in the scheme. He seemed like the guest of honor, not the conspirator.
"I prefer to stand," I say.
He doesn't argue. Instead, he simply unbuttons his suit jacket, the motion deliberate and smooth, and sits down in the nearest armchair. His aura is suffocating, instantly shrinking the vast room.
"I am pretty sure your grandfather has already spoken to you," he begins, tapping on a tablet. "I have prepared this contract. You can—"
I don't know what the hell this man is talking about. My grandfather told me nothing but the lie about a meeting.
I interrupt him, my voice loud and laced with disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? That old bastard didn't tell me anything!"
Vega meets my gaze, his eyes searching, as though trying to see if I'm lying. Seeming convinced that I wasn't, a subtle shift occurs in his posture, a predatory certainty.
"Well, it doesn't matter now," he says, his voice cutting through the remaining tension. "I came here today to propose a marriage arrangement between the two of us."
My blood runs cold, and the sensation starts deep in my chest, rushing up until my scalp goes numb. No way. I must have misheard him. The stress, the lack of sleep, the concussion I probably sustained in the ring—it all must be messing with my head. I need my ears cleaned, because there's no way a man like him, in a situation like this, just proposed marriage.
I laugh. It starts small, a disbelieving cough, and quickly escalates into a genuine, loud, hysterical burst. It's too absurd. It has to be a joke.
"I didn't expect a man with a serious face like yours would have jokes," I say, wiping the tears that have sprung to the corner of my eyes. "You have a serious face, but you are actually funny."
Vega doesn't move. He simply fixes his cufflink in a languid, unhurried manner, as though patiently waiting for me to finish laughing at the obvious punchline. His complete stillness only makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
My laughter dies down, choked by his unwavering gaze. "Thanks for making my day," I say, forcing a final, brittle smile.
I make my move. This time, I am really going to walk out. I take two deliberate steps toward the door.
Then, his deep, husky voice hits me from behind, clear and devastating. "Your father owes 4.5 million."
I stop dead.
"And that's just to the bank alone."
My forced smile falls away, replaced by a fierce, protective snarl. I pivot and walk back, my eyes blazing. I snort. "So what? He meets his payments every month."
Vega's fingers, which were resting casually on his temples, move slightly. He lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Does he?"
He holds it out the tablet to me. I pause for a while, looking at his handsome face, a face I want to punch real bad right now. But the sheer weight of his certainty is suffocating.
I take the tablet.
When I see the digital ledger, the world tilts. There are highlighted columns showing sometimes half payments, and other months where there were no payments at all. My fingers tremble around the device. Shit. I swear internally, a deep, frustrated roar. I can't believe it. Why did my father lie to me?
"If this continues, your gym will be repossessed," Vega says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, like a doctor delivering a fatal diagnosis. "Not only that, but your father owes a lot more. I'm surprised he didn't tell you that."
I look down at the tablet, the cold figures finally clicking into place. The overwhelming financial burden explains why my father seemed so stressed lately. He was less playful, not cracking the bad jokes he used to.
He was always in his office, working himself to death. The fear is replaced by a burning, protective anger toward the man sitting opposite me.
I clench my jaw, my voice tight. "What the hell do you want?"
"Will you sit now?" Vega asks, his tone devoid of warmth. "I hate talking to people while they are looking down at me."
I'm so annoyed by his arrogance that I don't argue. I place the tablet down with a heavy thud and sit on the couch, rubbing my fingers together anxiously.
Vega is direct. No preamble, no softening the blow. "I want us to get married for one year."