Aaron
The house is quiet when I step through the door, the soft hum of the central air the only sound greeting me. It's the kind of quiet that could be peaceful if my mind weren't a war zone of thoughts and memories. I toss my keys onto the console table, the metal clinking against the wood as I loosen my tie and shrug out of my suit jacket.
It's been a long day. Too long.
Dropping onto the leather couch in the living room, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. For a moment, I close my eyes, trying to shut everything out. The hospital, the Marchers, Meghan, Chloe—it all swirls in my head, a chaotic storm I can't escape.
My thoughts drift back to Elena. Seeing her today had been… complicated.
Elena was my one attempt at something real, something that wasn't dictated by my father's plans or societal expectations. She was smart, driven, and unapologetically herself—a force of nature wrapped in a white coat. For a while, I thought we could make it work.
But then reality sank its claws in. She wanted someone who could match her commitment to the hospital, someone willing to share her world completely. And me? I was already drowning in my own world, suffocated by expectations I couldn't meet and responsibilities I didn't want.
We ended things quietly, with no fireworks or shouting matches. Just two people who realized they were better apart. But seeing her today brought it all back—the warmth in her smile, the spark in her eyes. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what might have been if I'd been a different man if I'd wanted the life she offered.
But that ship has sailed, and now I'm steering a much more complicated course.
I push myself off the couch and head upstairs, my body heavy with the weight of the day. The bathroom is my refuge, a sanctuary where I can try to untangle the mess in my head.
The warm water pours into the tub, steam curling into the air as I add a splash of eucalyptus oil. I strip down and sink into the bath, the heat wrapping around me like a cocoon. For a moment, I just breathe, my head resting against the cool marble edge.
But that peace is only momentary. My thoughts refuse to let me go, dragging me back to the Marcher family's dining room.
When I agreed to this arranged marriage, I thought I knew what I was getting into. Chloe was a stranger, yes, but one I could learn to care for. She's kind, sweet, and eager to make this work—a picture-perfect match.
But then Meghan walked into the room.
The air had shifted instantly, the weight of her presence pressing against my chest. It took everything in me to maintain my composure as she sat down, her eyes locking on mine with a mixture of shock and something else I couldn't place.
Meghan Marcher. Chloe's older sister.
I'd spent the last few hours trying to forget her, convincing myself that our one night together was nothing more than a fling—a moment of weakness I could bury. But seeing her again, sitting across from me at that table, brought it all rushing back.
The memory of that night is seared into my mind. The way she laughed, her head thrown back with abandon as if she didn't have a care in the world. The way her lips tasted of wine and temptation. The way she looked at me as if I were the only man in the room.
We'd both known it couldn't go anywhere. I was leaving, chasing a life halfway around the world, and she had her own path to follow. But for one night, none of that mattered.
And now, she's Chloe's sister. My future sister-in-law.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut every time I think about it. How am I supposed to navigate this? Chloe is everything my family wants for me, the perfect partner on paper. But Meghan… She's the one who makes my pulse race, who sets my world on fire just by being in the same room.
The water in the tub cools as my thoughts spiral. I run a hand through my hair, trying to push it all away, but it's no use. The image of Meghan's face, her guarded expression at dinner, lingers like a ghost.
When I finally drag myself out of the bath, the air feels sharp against my skin. I towel off and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, letting the routine ground me. But my mind is still a mess, the emotional rollercoaster of the day refusing to let up.
When I step out of the bathroom, the cool air prickles my skin, and I towel off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. The faint vibration of my phone on the nightstand catches my attention. I pick it up, my father's name flashing on the screen. Of course.
I contemplate answering it. I had been ignoring him all day just so I could get some me time. Now that is over, it is time to face him. My heart pounds against my ribs as I swipe right.
"Dad," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Aaron," his voice comes through, as flat and authoritative as ever. "I heard you were at the hospital today."
"Word travels fast," I say, moving to the edge of the bed.
I could feel my stomach churn. Someone at this hospital told him about my arrival. It is impossible to trust those guys.
"It's my hospital," he says curtly. "And I like to stay informed. How was it?"
I roll my eyes. My father never knows when to act cocky or modest.
"It went well," I reply, my shoulders tensing. "I caught up with Dr. Patel and some of the staff. Everything seems to be running smoothly."
"It should be," he says, his tone clipped. "But I want to hear your assessment. What did you think of the operations?"
I pause, searching for the right words.
"Efficient. The team seems dedicated, but there's room for modernization in a few areas. Technology upgrades, mostly. I can draft a proposal if you want specifics."
There is a pause on the other end of the line and I wonder if my father is thinking of his next words.
"Good," he says as if my input is nothing more than an expectation met.
"This hospital is a legacy, Aaron. Your legacy. It's time you started taking that seriously."
I shift uncomfortably, gripping the phone tighter. There is no need to remind me when I know about that. The only thing that is holding me back from this dream is marriage. He had warned me plenty of times about getting married in my mid-twenties but I had been adamant about enjoying life. Now in my early thirties, it is time I take responsibility. At least that is what my father expects.
"I'm aware, Dad. That's why I went today—to get a better sense of things."
"Good," he repeats. "And what about the company in Japan? Any progress there?"
"It's stable," I say, though the unease in my gut grows. "Profits are up, and the team is handling things well on the ground. I'm confident in the leadership I've put in place."
There's a long silence on his end, one that makes my skin prickle.
"Confidence isn't enough," he finally says, his voice sharp. "This isn't just about maintaining stability. It's about growth, about dominance. If you can't deliver that, I'll find someone who can."
The words hit harder than they should, but I've heard them before.
"I'm working on it," I say, my jaw tight. "You'll see results."
"See that I do," he says flatly. "Now, about Chloe—how is the engagement progressing?"
My throat tightens, but I force myself to answer. "It's going well. Chloe's great, and we're getting to know each other."
"Good. The Marchers are an excellent match for us. This marriage is critical for the business and our reputation. Don't forget that."
"I haven't," I say, my voice carefully neutral.
"And Meghan?" he asks, almost as an afterthought. "She's the older sister, isn't she? How was she?"
My grip on the phone tightens, but I keep my tone even. "She seemed fine. Quiet, professional. We didn't interact much."
"Good. Keep it that way," he says, his voice a hammer of authority. "You have a responsibility, Aaron. Don't let anything—or anyone—distract you from that."
"Understood," I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Goodnight," he says, hanging up without waiting for my reply.
I toss the phone onto the bed with a frustrated sigh, the device bouncing slightly before settling among the rumpled sheets.
Running a hand through my hair, I can feel the tension building within me, the weight of the conversation pressing down heavily on my shoulders like a thick fog.
My father's approval looms over every decision I make, a relentless pressure that feels as unyielding as gravity itself, pulling me down into a vortex of expectations and obligations. It's as if his voice echoes in my mind, critiquing my every choice, leaving me to question if I will ever meet the lofty standards he sets.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, contemplating my next move, I can't help but feel trapped in a cycle of striving for something that seems perpetually out of reach.