POV Emilia
Shock pinned me in place, but I kept my voice level as my gaze traveled between my father and Richard Marlowe. The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity.
"Did you place me in Adrian's office on purpose?" The question cut through the room like a blade.
Richard answered before my father could marshal his defense, his voice smooth and unhurried, carrying the confidence of a man who'd never been told no.
"It was my idea, actually. We thought proximity would do what contracts couldn't—let feelings develop as naturally as possible. You're both brilliant, driven individuals. The attraction seemed inevitable."
"Naturally?" My mouth tilted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Like you and Mom, Dad? That was an arrangement too, wasn't it?"
My father flinched, his knuckles whitening against the armchair. The truth we'd danced around for years finally stood naked between us.
"Your mother and I grew to care for each other deeply," he began, but I'd heard this rehearsed speech too many times.
"You look better." I stood, smoothing my skirt with steady hands. "The color's back in your face. I'm glad the surgery worked. But I have more urgent matters than performing gratitude for a trap you've been setting for months."
"Emilia, you're being dramatic—"
"I'm being honest." I moved toward the door, each step measured and deliberate. "We'll meet at the gala, since you've left me no choice. But don't expect me to play the blushing bride-to-be."
Richard's voice followed me, still maddeningly calm. "Adrian has already agreed to the arrangement. He understands what's at stake."
"Then Adrian understands more than I do." I paused at the threshold. "Because all I see are two old men trading their children like stock options."
I stand, smoothing down my skirt with hands that definitely aren’t shaking. “We’ll meet at the gala on Friday. Since you’ve apparently left me no choice.”
The hallway outside feels like freedom, even if it’s temporary. I punch Melanie’s number before I’m even in the elevator.
"Melanie, I need you at my apartment. Not the penthouse—mine. Twenty minutes."
By the time she arrived, I'd worn a path in my living room rug, my heels abandoned by the door. She took one look at my face and headed straight for the wine.
"That bad?"
“I quit today,” I said. “Then came the kicker: Daniel Hart and Richard Marlowe have decided to merge their empires.” I accepted the glass she offered, the wine sharp against my tongue. “And to make it tidy, I’m apparently expected to sign a marriage certificate—with Adrian Marlowe—as if it’s just another contract.”
Melanie stops mid-pour. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Dead serious. They’re announcing our engagement on Friday at some gala I apparently have to attend.”
“Jesus Christ.” She downs half of her glass in one go.
I sank onto the couch, my mind already spinning through possibilities.
"But I need leverage. Richard claims Adrian already agreed, which means either he's lying or Adrian is more spineless than I thought."
"So what's the play?"
I studied the wine swirling in my glass, a plan crystallizing. "Tomorrow, you're going to text Adrian. Tell him I want to meet privately before the gala—someplace discrete. When he shows up, you'll be there instead."
Melanie's eyebrows shot up. "Me?"
"Make him want out, Mel. Be everything a corporate prince would despise—loud laugh, sharp edges, the kind of vulgarity that makes blue bloods clutch their pearls. Make him think marrying me would be social suicide."
She studied me, her expression shifting from surprise to determination. "If it gets you a choice in your own life, I'm in. God knows you deserve that much."
For the first time all day, I could breathe.
POV Adrian
Isabella’s resignation detonates on my desk like a controlled demolition, and I do what three generations of Marlowe men have done: I work through the crisis.
I rewrite the entire week’s briefing stack myself—something I haven’t done since business school—and hand Brittany a list of non-negotiables. My voice is flat steel when I tell her yesterday’s shitshow performance will not fucking repeat itself.
“I understand, Mr. Marlowe. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
I call HR to accelerate the replacement search, and when the director starts chirping about timelines and requisition protocols, I snap harder than I should.
“Find someone competent. As soon as possible. I don’t care what it costs.”
The silence after tastes like copper pennies and poor impulse control.
My father walks in without knocking—because of course he does—and the room subtly realigns around his presence. Richard Marlowe doesn’t just enter spaces; he conquers them through sheer gravitational force.
“The Hart merger is progressing beautifully,” he says, settling into the chair opposite my desk like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. “Better than projected, actually.”
“Define ‘better.’” I lean back, already sensing incoming corporate fuckery.
He slides a leather folder across the mahogany surface. “Strategic partnership requires strategic alignment. Personal investment ensures long-term stability.”
I open the folder. Legal documents, merger specifics, and buried in the fine print like a landmine: marriage clause. Emilia Hart. Arrangement to be announced Friday at the charity gala.
The name means absolutely nothing to me. Everything else means too much.
“You arranged a marriage.” Not a question. A statement of fact delivered with the enthusiasm of someone discussing quarterly tax projections.
“I facilitated an opportunity.” Dad’s voice carries that particular brand of paternal authority that’s crushed boardroom rebellions for decades. “The Hart girl is intelligent, well-educated, appropriate. You’ll meet her properly on Friday.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just sit there processing the reality that my personal life has just been filed under “deal structure” without my fucking consent.
The timing is almost elegant in its cruelty. Isabella walks out this morning because I confused control for care, and now my father’s doing the exact same thing—managing me like an asset instead of treating me like a person.
“The board approved this arrangement?”
“Unanimously. Hart Industries brings significant value. The marriage solidifies long-term partnership.”
Of course they did. Of course it does.
I nod because that’s the choreography we’ve perfected over thirty years. Dutiful son receives instructions, dutiful son complies with family vision. The dance we’ve been doing since I was old enough to understand that Marlowe men don’t get to want things—they get to execute strategy.
But when he leaves, I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows for a long time, watching the city move below me like an anthill, already measuring how I might keep control of the one part of my life that’s just been claimed by everyone except me.