POV Adrian
I treat work like a firebreak against the sudden blaze of “engagement” burning holes in my skull. Friday’s looming like a corporate death sentence, but there are forecasts to tighten and a team to keep from capsizing completely.
Isabella’s absence hits like phantom limb syndrome—every vendor brief feels clunky, every board prep lacks her surgical precision. Even watching Brittany fumble through calendar confirmations makes me want to put my fist through expensive drywall.
At 11 a.m., my phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number: *This is Emilia Hart. We should meet tonight to discuss our parents’ plans before the gala. Are you free?*
Finally. Someone with actual strategy instead of just rolling over for daddy’s merger fantasies. Maybe the woman on the other end gets that billion-dollar contracts aren’t secured with wedding vows and forced smiles.
The thought steadies my day, though I keep catching myself thinking Isabella would’ve handled the Miller presentation better. Hell, Isabella would’ve handled everything better.
I pick a quiet restaurant downtown—the kind of place where corporate princes take their mistresses and politicians cut their deals. Neutral territory with excellent wine and tables spaced far enough apart for honest conversation.
I’m already nursing a glass when she walks in, and the misalignment hits me like ice water.
This woman wears couture like a costume—trend stacked on trend, logos competing, no taste holding it together. The silhouette fights her, jewelry too loud, a statement bag from the wrong season.
Before she even reaches me, she stops at the host stand and trills, “Ethan, darling!” at a banker I actually know. He blinks, uncomprehending. The host musters a polite smile; she sails past as if she’s been recognized.
“Adrian Marlowe?” She arrives at my table, extending a perfectly manicured hand, brightness turned up too high. “Emilia Hart. You could say we’re practically family already.”
The joke lands with all the grace of a brick through stained glass.
“Please, sit.” I gesture to the chair across from me, already recalibrating. “I have to say, I appreciate you reaching out. This whole arrangement caught me off guard.”
“Oh, totally!” She giggled at a performance laugh. “I mean, who even does arranged marriages anymore, right? It’s so… medieval.”
She’s laying it on thick as concrete. Every gesture screams trying-too-hard wealth instead of the bone-deep fluency that comes with growing up in boardrooms and private jets.
I play along because, honestly, I’m curious where this trainwreck is heading. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do at Hart Industries?”
“Oh, you know, family business stuff. I’m in…” She waves vaguely. “Operations. Strategy. The usual.”
Right. The usual. Because every operations exec describes their job like they’re ordering coffee.
She keeps digging herself deeper—name-dropping charities she clearly googled, restaurants she mispronounces, social connections that don’t quite connect. It’s almost entertaining watching someone perform wealth this badly.
But I’m done being entertained. Time for the killshot.
I lean forward, all casual interest. “Since your father spun off the legacy division last year, is Hart keeping the Pueblo facility under the new name or folding it into R&D?”
The pause stretches like a snapped rubber band. Her eyes flick left, right, searching for a script she was never given. The silence tastes like exposed lies.
That’s enough.
I lean in close—intimate enough that anyone watching thinks we’re sharing sweet nothings—and let my hand hover near the back of her chair. Pseudo-intimacy that looks convincing from three tables away.
“You’re not his daughter.” My voice is velvet-soft, amused rather than cruel. “Don’t embarrass us both.”
Her lips part in what might be surprise or panic.
I keep going, still speaking low enough that the neighboring tables can’t hear us destroy whatever performance this was supposed to be. “How much did she pay you, and why doesn’t she want to meet? You can tell her I’m not interested in this marriage either.”
I straighten up, signal our server with practiced ease. The check appears like magic—reflex of someone who’s never questioned whether they can afford dinner.
“Enjoy the meal,” I add, because kindness hits harder than a scene would. No point in humiliating someone who’s clearly just following orders.
Outside, the night air cuts through the last of my irritation like a blade through fog. I don’t call my father. Don’t speed-dial Legal to discuss breach of contract protocols.
Instead, I file this moment under leverage and clarity.
Whoever Emilia Hart actually is, she’s strategic enough to send a decoy rather than submit to daddy’s puppet show. Principled—or furious—enough to refuse a stage-managed life even when billions are on the line.
That makes two of us.
The irony isn’t lost on me: I’ve spent the day missing Isabella’s competence, and now I’m dealing with another woman who refuses to be managed like corporate property.
Maybe there’s something to be said for people who choose their own battles instead of letting other people’s money choose for them.
My phone buzzes. I let it ring.
Some conversations can wait until I decide how much control I’m willing to surrender for the privilege of keeping the Marlowe name intact.