"Should I reschedule your four o'clock meeting, sir?"
There was no hesitation in my answer.
"There's no need. You're dismissed."
"Alright, sir."
My assistant gathered her tablet and rose from her chair, closing the door softly behind her. Silence reclaimed the room.
My office sat at the top floor of Blackwood Holdings, all glass and steel—cold, deliberate, expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the skyline stretching endlessly beneath me.
Every piece of furniture had been chosen with intent: dark wood desk, leather chairs, minimalist shelves lined with carefully arranged files.
Power didn't need decoration.
I adjusted the cuff of my shirt and returned to the documents in front of me, skimming through the final portfolio from the previous meeting.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
I didn't look up.
There was only one man who walked into my office without knocking.
His footsteps were slower than I remembered—measured, heavy with age, but still commanding. He took the seat across from me without invitation, settling back like he owned the space.
We sat in silence.
I let it stretch.
Finally, I glanced up.
Silver threaded through his dark hair now, most visible at the temples. His face was sharper, lined with time and authority, but his eyes were the same—calculating, unyielding. Age had slowed his body, not his mind.
"So this is how you acknowledge your father," he said calmly. "I raised you better than that, Adrian."
I wasn't surprised.
"Good morning, Father," I replied coolly. "What may I do for you on this fine day?"
"Cut the nonsense," he snapped. "You know why I'm here."
"I'm afraid I can't grant you that wish."
He leaned forward, resting his cane against the arm of the chair. "Spare me the bullshit. If you don't get married within three months, I'll have no choice but to transfer majority control of the board to your uncle."
I leaned back in my chair, unfazed, fingers steepled.
"So that's your threat now."
"It's not a threat," he said evenly. "It's preparation. I'm not as young as I once was."
"This company is mine," I said flatly.
"Why do you care what happens to it?"
"Because," he replied, eyes narrowing, "if something happens to you, the Blackwood name dies with you. I didn't build an empire just to watch it crumble because my son refuses responsibility."
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair.
"Why are you forcing this on me?"
"Because I need certainty," he said. "A wife. An heir. Stability. I need to know this legacy survives you."
Silence fell between us again.
"So if I get married," I said slowly, "you'll leave me alone."
A thin smile tugged at his lips. "Completely."
I stared out the window, the city glittering below like it was waiting for my decision.
"Fine," I said at last. "I'll do it."
His expression relaxed instantly.
"Then we have a deal."
He rose and left without another word, the door closing behind him with finality.
I stayed seated long after my father left, the office settling into a familiar silence.
Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on the edge of my desk, illuminating dust I never bothered to notice. This office had seen years of decisions, losses, and victories. None of them had prepared me for this one.
Marriage.
The word dragged something old to the surface. Not a face—just a feeling. Trust that had been given and never returned. Loss had taught me control. Distance.
A memory I had buried deep—promises spoken in certainty, vows meant to last longer than they did. Love, once given too freely, taken too quickly.
I didn't think about her often. Didn't allow myself to. Loss had taught me discipline.
Precision.
I had learned never to repeat mistakes.
My jaw tightened as I looked away from the window.
Then—uninvited—another thought surfaced. Different eyes. Softer. Uncertain. Standing in a room meant for transactions, not hesitation.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since a night that should have ended the moment it began. No names exchanged. No expectations. Just heat and silence and a woman who had looked at me like she was stepping off a ledge.
That memory felt different.
It wasn't heavy like the past. It was sharp. Disruptive. Inconvenient.
I dismissed it just as quickly.
One night meant nothing. It always had.
And yet, as I leaned back in my chair, the truth settled in with quiet certainty.
If I was going to do this—if I was going to marry for reasons that had nothing to do with love—
Then it wouldn't be with someone chosen at random.