Saturday morning in Santerra Heights begins too beautifully to be honest. Sunlight pours through the windows, glints off marble, and it feels as if my parents' house itself is glowing—like a storefront full of expensive promises.
I stand in front of the mirror in a new business suit. Not just standing—stuck. In my parents' mansion, Edward and Evelyn Cortland's, every square meter of space seems to ask the same question: Are you ready to become what we've decided you are?
The suit fits perfectly. Too perfectly. Like armor. Like a sentence being carried out.
"This is a date," I mutter to myself, "not the signing of a corporate merger."
My father insisted. Of course he did. When he "insists," it always sounds like "it's settled."
I run my hands over my pockets, just to give my fingers something to do—and touch something soft. Crinkly.
I pull it out.
Condoms.
My face twists.
"Dad… have you completely lost your mind?" I whisper to the mirror, and it, treacherously, reflects my face with brutal honesty.
Images flash through my head—so absurd they make me want to laugh and howl at the same time. I cover my face with my hands, from shame, from disgust, from the sheer fact that this is happening at all.
"Andre, my boy, are you ready?" my mother's voice calls out.
My boy.
I'm in my final year at university. I pass brutal exams. I read things my father doesn't even try to understand.
And still—my boy.
Evelyn approaches me like an inspector examining an exhibit. She studies the suit, adjusts the lapel, looks into the mirror as if trying my life on for size.
"Well done. You look good. You're ready."
I nod. Silently. Like a calf before slaughter. The words get stuck somewhere between my throat and my pride.
She hands me a small box.
"Here. A gift for Sofia."
I open it.
An amulet. Stones. Expensive, cold. On the back, a neat engraving:
To my fiancée Sofia, with love from Andre.
A wave of nausea hits me.
Love?
We've barely had a real conversation.
I make an effort. Pull myself together. Stretch my face into a practiced, family-approved smile.
"A beautiful gift. Sofia will love it."
"Good," my mother nods, satisfied.
At that moment my father enters the room.
"Let me take a look at you. The groom."
The groom.
The word hits harder than a slap.
"Much better," he says, looking me over. "You look like a serious businessman."
"Yes, Dad," I think. The perfect outfit for a date.
And suddenly—like a flash—the Angel club. Music. Dancing girls. Laughter that demands nothing. The thought makes it a little easier to breathe. Almost pleasant.
"It's time, son. Time."
Edward steps closer, places his hands on my shoulders, looks me in the eyes as if passing a relay baton—not a fate.
"Try to keep Sofia satisfied."
He pats my pocket.
That pocket.
Nausea rises again. But I smile. Smiling is our family language.
"Everything will be perfect, Dad. Mom."
I step outside. The air is freer out here, but it doesn't save me. I walk toward my red convertible—bright, absurdly cheerful for a day like this.
A bouquet lies on the passenger seat. Too perfect. Like everything else.
My parents stand at the entrance, waving.
As if they're sending me off to war.
I start the engine. Pull away. The city slides past—Santerra, beautiful, sunny, indifferent. The road leads to the sea. To Darian Blackmoor's yacht.
Sofia is waiting for me there.
The thought makes me sick again.
"How am I supposed to survive this day?" I ask out loud. The convertible doesn't answer.
Ahead, the water glitters.
And something tells me the worst hasn't even begun yet.
**
I stand on the yacht's deck, my fingers clenched around the railing as if the sea could steal not only the horizon, but my patience with it.
"Where is Andre?" I ask in a sharp, polished voice—the one that usually works on waiters without fail. "He should already be here."
The crew member inclines his head slightly, a perfectly rehearsed bow, not a single unnecessary emotion.
"I wouldn't know, miss," he replies politely, almost bloodlessly.
He wouldn't know.
But I do. I can feel it.
My palms are damp, my fingers slipping on the cold metal. Breathing is hard, as if a corset has been pulled too tight—though I'm wearing nothing but a light dress, perfectly cinched at the waist. My heart beats faster than the engines of the boats along the pier.
Where are you, Andre…
And then—a flash of red.
"There he is. There he is," I tell myself, almost out loud, and a smile breaks free on its own.
Andre Cortland's red convertible rolls along the pier, bold, bright, defiant. It stops by the gangway, and Andre steps out—suited, holding flowers, too handsome to feel real.
Mine.
He comes aboard and smiles—polite, flawless, exactly as he was taught.
"Hello, my dear Sofia. What a beautiful dress. You look stunning."
I take the flowers, breathe in their scent, and almost lose my balance—whether from nerves or from the way he's looking at me, I can't tell.
"My dear Andre," I say, glowing. "At last, you're ready to meet me."
I lower my voice, slow it down, let the words touch him the way fingers would. And I notice it.
A moment.
A shadow.
Something like sadness… or disgust?
What?
"What is it, Andre?" I ask at once, without ceremony. "Are you unhappy about something?"
He flinches, as if I've caught him at something shameful, then immediately spreads a smile—too wide. He steps toward me and hugs me, firmly, almost demonstratively.
"I love you, Sofia," he says quickly. "And our marriage will be the happiest one."
I must have imagined it.
Of course I did.
I melt into his arms, let myself relax, press closer, breathe him in—expensive cologne, sunlight, a faint note of anxiety.
We move into the salon. Candles burn with an even, intimate glow. Flowers are arranged as if each rose knows exactly where it belongs. The waitstaff stand along the edges, nearly invisible. The world narrows to just the two of us.
Andre turns me toward him and takes my hand. His fingers are warm, but tense. He places a small box in my palm.
"This is my gift to you."
My breath catches. I open it.
An amulet. Precious stones. Light refracts in them like a future I can already see.
The engraving reads:
To my fiancée Sofia, with love from Andre.
I sob with happiness and throw my arms around his neck.
"I love you so much…"
He kisses me.
Our first kiss.
It's hot, hungry, almost desperate. My knees weaken, and I smile right into his lips, certain—I have won.
But…
As he kisses Sofia, Andre's mind betrays him.
The Angel club.
The lights.
Victoria Montrey's slow, dangerous smile.
The image burns through him. His hands tighten on Sofia's back, almost painful, as if he's anchoring himself to a decision already made.
I'll think of her, he decides.
And I'll use this.
I cling to him, smiling, convinced that I've won—
not knowing that this kiss is the trap,
and that the man holding me has already chosen someone else.