Applause thundered through the grand auditorium of Halecross University. The banners of crimson and gold fluttered above, and the polished marble floors reflected the brilliance of a proud moment—graduation.
April Shawl, dressed in her navy gown and cap, stood tall on stage, her black hair cascading in waves past her shoulders, eyes glistening with tears of pride. The chancellor handed her a plaque with shining gold letters: Best Graduating Student of the Year—Faculty of Architecture.
Her heart swelled as she looked out into the crowd. Her mother, Ava Shawl, stood beside her grandparents—Harold and Beatrice Langston, members of one of the most powerful elite families in the city. They wore expressions of pride, but even that seemed slightly restrained, like they expected more.
April smiled brightly, the applause still ringing in her ears. She had worked relentlessly for this moment—sleepless nights, internships, sacrifices—and now, she had finally arrived.
As she stepped off the stage, hugging her award tightly, a man approached her. Tall, composed, dressed in an impeccable black suit, his presence immediately drew eyes. He handed her a sleek black envelope with a soft "Congratulations, Miss Shawl."
Her eyes met his.
She froze.
Her breath caught as time bent around her.
"Arthur... Hale?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He gave a half-smile. "You remember me."
How could she forget?
*Two years ago*, during a late-night walk near the cliffs, she had seen a car crash—bloody, mangled, flames licking the air. She'd dragged the unconscious man from the wreck and nursed him in her rented studio apartment, away from attention. He never said much about who he was, only that he needed to stay hidden. Then one morning, he was gone. No goodbye. No trace.
And now... he stood before her. Alive. Calm. And far too composed.
April clutched the envelope in confusion. Before she could speak, a faculty member called her name for a group photo. She looked back—he was gone.
Later that afternoon, outside the event hall, she stood by the rose garden, staring at the envelope. Before she could open it, footsteps echoed behind her.
"Miss Shawl."
She turned.
There he was again.
This time, he didn't smile.
"Let me introduce myself properly," he said smoothly, hands in his pockets. "I'm Lucien Arthur Hale , your fiancé."
April blinked. She thought she misheard him.
"I'm sorry... what did you just say?"
Lucien's gaze was unreadable. "We're to be married. This weekend."
The world tilted.
Her stomach dropped.
The word "fiancé" echoed in her ears like a bombshell, blurring everything else. Her fingers tightened around the envelope.
"Is this a joke?" she asked, voice shaking. "Because if it is, it's not funny."
"It's not a joke." He stepped closer, his cologne—clean, expensive—invading her senses. "This arrangement was decided long ago. Your grandfather signed the agreement."
"Harold?" Her voice cracked.
Lucien nodded. "He's quite pleased about the match. Apparently, merging the Langston legacy with the Hale Corporation has always been the plan. You're just the final piece."
"No... no one told me—" she stammered.
He cut her off. "Because you didn't need to know. Until now."
His eyes flicked to the file in her hand. "The contract is there. Sign it. You'll be picked up Friday for the wedding ceremony."
With that, he turned on his heels and walked away—like he hadn't just dropped a bomb into her life.
April stood frozen, the cheers of students in the background fading into a dull buzz. Her hands trembled as she opened the file.
Her name was there. Along with his.
Pre-nuptial arrangements. Marriage license. Legal documents. All signed. Except hers.
She felt sick.
From behind, her mother's voice called, "April, sweetheart, come take a picture with us!"
She turned slowly, face pale. Her grandfather stood at the center, grinning like a man who had won a long game of chess.
"You knew," she whispered as she approached them.
His smile didn't falter. "Of course I did. A perfect match. Hale's family has influence beyond what you know. This is a blessing."
"A blessing?" she choked. "I'm not even twenty-two!"
Her mother gave a nervous glance at the photographers nearby. "April, don't make a scene. This is not the time."
April's chest tightened. "Why didn't anyone ask what I wanted?"
Her grandfather chuckled, then leaned in close. "Because, child, what you want has never been relevant in matters of legacy."
April staggered back a step. Her hands clutched the file against her chest.
She looked around—everyone smiling, celebrating, living in ignorance of the chaos unfolding in her world.
She couldn't breathe.
This wasn't a proposal.
This was a transaction.
And she was the currency.
As the sunset dyed the sky in gold and crimson, April walked away from her family. Away from the cheers. Her heels clicked on the pavement, echoing her silent defiance.
But she could feel it—that familiar presence. Watching.
Lucien was somewhere nearby.
And the worst part?
Her heart wasn't just terrified—it was racing.
Something in her remembered the man from two years ago. Not the CEO. Not the heir to a billion-dollar empire. But the broken soul she found bleeding and quiet in the dark.
But he wasn't broken anymore.
He was here.
To collect.
And this time, he wasn't leaving without her.
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