The family yacht slices through the warm water as softly as a dolphin gliding along the waves. The engines purr low and muted, almost intimate, and the sound mirrors my mood perfectly—calm on the surface, predatory underneath. The sun is sinking into the ocean, staining the water gold and blood. Santerra shimmers in the distance like a jewel already slipped into a pocket, but not yet fully claimed.
I stand on deck between my parents. The wind toys with my hair, tugs at my dress, brushes my skin—as if reminding me: I am alive, I am here, I am in control of this world. Or at least, I should be.
My mother, Elina Blackmoor, holds a glass of champagne and glows as if she is the one getting married.
"I'm so happy for you, Sophia," she says with almost girlish delight. "Very soon, you'll be a wife."
A wife.
The word clicks pleasantly somewhere inside me, like a lock snapping shut—on someone else.
I turn my gaze to my father. Darian Blackmoor stands slightly apart, his shoulders tense, his eyes skimming the water as if he expects to find an answer there. Or an excuse. His silence cuts sharper than words.
"Father?" I turn toward him slowly, deliberately. "What is it?"
I pause. A small pause, but a painful one.
"You still haven't set a date for my wedding to Andre Cortland."
He flinches. Just barely. I notice. I always notice.
"My dear…" he begins, and that my dear sounds like surrender. "These things need to be coordinated with the Cortland family."
I plant my hands on my hips. The deck sways slightly beneath my feet—or perhaps I'm the one rocking the situation.
"And what exactly is the problem?" My voice is even, but inside, gears are already clicking into place. "Do I really need to push you every time toward my own happiness?"
My mother shoots him a quick look—a warning.
"We're doing everything to make sure you're satisfied," she says softly. I know better. This isn't a request. It's an order.
My father exhales. Too deeply. A bad sign.
"Sophia… I promised Edward Cortland that before your wedding, we would finalize a deal between Prime Meridian Holdings and Solaris Dominion Group."
There it is.
Something inside me tightens, sweet and sharp.
"And?" I prompt, lifting an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to frighten me?"
"Our financial intelligence has found discrepancies in Solaris Dominion Group's reports," he continues, avoiding my eyes. "There's a chance Edward is concealing problems. If we miscalculate… the deal could be extremely unfavorable for us."
For us.
How touching.
"So," I tilt my head, smiling, "because of a few suspicions, you're prepared to take my beloved man away from me?"
I see my father shrink. Almost physically.
In that moment, I picture Andre clearly. His perfect smile. His obedient eyes. His dependence. The thought of how hard he will try, how eagerly he will please, how grateful he will be…
A warm wave runs over my skin. Almost arousal.
"Darian," my mother cuts in sharply, "stop this. Call Edward Cortland immediately and set a wedding date."
My father nods. Broken.
"All right," he says quietly. "I'll do as you wish."
I catch the moment. Just one.
A smug, satisfied smile flickers across my mother's face—brief, nearly invisible. But I see it. And I understand exactly whom I take after.
An obedient husband. A convenient man. A controllable family.
I already know how this works.
I look back at the sunset. The sun has nearly vanished beyond the horizon.
Night rises slowly, full of promise.
And suddenly a thought strikes me—sharp and dangerous, like a shard of glass:
What if the problems at Solaris Dominion Group are real?
And what if Andre knows more than he lets on?
I smile.
If the game is getting more complicated, that only makes it more interesting.
Because if anyone thinks they can take away what I desire—
They haven't yet understood who they're dealing with.
**
Evening at Solaris Dominion Group stretches thick and slow, like resin hardening in the air.
I—Andre Cortland—sit at my desk among glass, metal, and other people's ambitions. Cold lamps carve sharp lines into my jacket, every sheet of paper, every uneven breath I take. I work. Or rather, I pretend to.
Formally, I'm an intern.
In reality, I'm on trial.
My father likes to say that business is a marathon.
For some reason, he always fires the starting pistol right next to my temple.
I flip through reports, but the numbers dance, mocking me.
The wedding with Sophia.
The thought surfaces again, and my stomach tightens unpleasantly. I realize I'm gripping my pen so hard I might snap it—or my own hand.
Breathe, Andre. Just breathe. You're not in prison. Not yet.
On my desk, the call indicator blinks quietly. A red dot. Almost intimate. Almost threatening.
"Mr. Cortland, the director is requesting you," the secretary's voice says—perfectly polite, perfectly neutral.
Father doesn't like to wait.
Father doesn't like it when anyone forgets who the god is around here.
I stand, straighten my tie. My reflection in the glass looks back at me with ironic fatigue. Handsome. Polished. Almost happy.
Liar, I think. You're good at fooling even yourself.
My father's office smells of wood, expensive coffee, and power. Edward Cortland sits behind his massive desk, as if the chair were a natural extension of his spine. He smiles.
That smile always means trouble.
"Sit down, Andre," he says softly. Too softly.
I sit. Inside, a light panic stirs—the feeling just before you jump into water without checking how deep it is.
"I spoke with Darian Blackmore," my father continues, leaning back. "We've set the date for your wedding to Sophia."
The world goes silent for a second.
As if someone cuts the sound, leaving only the roar of blood in my ears. Cold sweat slides down my spine. My heart stumbles, misses a beat.
I laugh. Nervously. Almost hysterically.
Then I pull on a smile—the family smile, drilled into me since childhood.
"That's wonderful news, Father," I say, rising to embrace him. "I'm so glad you came to an agreement."
Liar. Liar. Liar.
Every word feels like another nail hammered into my own coffin.
"You're a good son, Andre," Edward says, patting my shoulder. "You know how to obey. That's why you'll go far."
Or fall hard, I think, stepping back.
"And when…" I pause, performing excitement, "…when is the wedding?"
He raises his index finger like a professor about to reveal the meaning of life.
"In three months."
Three months.
Sophia.
Her smile.
Her cold tenderness.
The calculation always hiding behind her eyes.
I see her so clearly it feels like the room is shrinking around me.
That's it. I'm finished.
No. Stop.
Pull yourself together, Andre. You're still alive. Which means there's still a way out.
"Father," I say more calmly now, almost businesslike, "do you remember my request? About an internship for Christian's friend… Victoria Montrey."
Edward narrows his eyes. Measures. Weighs.
"Of course," he says at last. "Let her come. But you're responsible for her."
"I agree," I answer too quickly.
A spark flares in my chest. Small. Dangerous. Hope.
Victoria.
Dancing.
Alive.
Not like Sophia in the slightest.
If she charms my father… if this works…
I leave the office with my back straight and chaos inside.
Three months.
One chance.
One woman who could become my salvation—or the final nail.
And for some reason, I feel it:
this plan just might work.