In the quiet, wood-paneled study of the Dery estate, Gregory's parents sat across from him, the morning light catching the silver in his father's hair. The tension from the previous night still hung over the house, compounded by the presence of a locked door upstairs.
His father, Arthur Dery, leaned back, tapping his cane against the rug. "Gregory, son, sit down. You're pacing like a man who's lost a patient on the table."
"I'm pacing because the woman I'm supposed to marry just treated me like a nuisance," Gregory snapped, though he finally sank into a leather armchair.
His mother, Helena, reached out and placed a gentle, steadying hand on his knee. "You have to look at the data, Gregory—isn't that what you always say? Think about Anna. We've lived next to the Fidels since she was a child. In all those years, have you ever seen her with a man? Has there ever even been a rumor of a boyfriend?"
Gregory went quiet. "No. She's always been... focused. Obsessive, even."
"Exactly," Helena continued softly. "Anna is a woman of logic and steel. She has spent her entire life building a fortress around herself. Suddenly, her parents—and we—decide it's time for her to hand over the keys to that fortress. For a woman who has never even let a man hold her hand in public, that is a terrifying transition."
"She was humiliated by Damian," Gregory argued. "I was trying to protect her from that."
"And she felt cornered," Arthur added, his voice deep and resonant. "A cornered animal doesn't think about 'good men' or 'logical matches,' Gregory. It thinks about escape. You are a doctor of the brain, surely you understand that her reaction was a survival instinct, not a personal rejection."
Helena squeezed his hand. "Give her space. Let the dust settle from Damian's arrival. If you push her now, you'll lose her forever. Be the patient, understanding man she needs. Show her that marrying you doesn't mean losing her control, but gaining a partner who understands her silence."
Gregory looked at the floor, his jaw tight. He hated being told to wait. He was a man of action, of surgical precision. But as he looked at his parents, he realized they were right about one thing: Anna Fidel was a puzzle that couldn't be solved with force.
"Fine," Gregory muttered. "I'll give her time. I'll be the 'patient' fiancé."
"Good," Arthur said, standing up. "Now, go check on your brother. We need to decide how to handle his 'situation' quietly before the neighbors start talking more than they already are."
The delivery arrived at the AnnTech executive floor at noon. A bouquet of rare, white calla lilies—sterile, perfect, and expensive—was placed on Anna's glass desk.
Anna didn't look up from her monitors immediately. It was only when the scent of the lilies, cloyingly sweet and heavy, invaded her personal space that she paused. Her eyes drifted to the small, embossed card tucked into the stems.
"Mr. Dery."
For a heartbeat, Anna's pulse spiked. A strange, irrational heat flooded her chest. Damian? Had he somehow found a way? Had the madness been a temporary fever dream, and he was reaching out?
But the logic that governed her life slammed the door shut. Don't be a fool, she scolded herself. A man who thinks his father is a ghost made of glass doesn't call a florist. A man who shows up stark naked doesn't have a credit line.
She opened the card. The handwriting was precise, slanted, and clinical.
"Anna, I understand that last night was overwhelming. I am a man of science, and I know that sometimes the heart needs time to catch up with the mind. I am here when you are ready to speak. — Gregory."
Anna's expression didn't soften. She felt no warmth, only a sense of being managed. She tossed the card onto the desk and pushed the vase to the very edge of her table, ignoring it as if it were a piece of faulty hardware.
She tried to return to her code, but the lines of data began to blur. For twenty-nine years, Anna Fidel had been a closed system. She had never cared where people went when they left her sight; she had never wondered about the "why" behind human behavior.
But Damian Dery was a bug in her system she couldn't patch.
She kept seeing the way his muscles had tensed when Gregory touched him. She remembered the sheer, terrifying scale of him standing over her. He had vanished a boy—a reckless, laughing neighbor—and returned a broken titan.
What did you see, Damian? she wondered, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. Where did you go that stripped you of your clothes and your mind, but left you with eyes that look like they could burn down a city?
She decided that she didn't want any flowers. She wanted the truth. And the only way to get it was to bypass Gregory's "clinical" wall.
The guest suite was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and the underlying medicinal tang Gregory had introduced. Arthur and Helena Dery stood near the bed, their postures stiff, as if they were approaching a beautiful, unpredictable predator.
Damian sat on the edge of the mattress, now dressed in a simple, loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers. He looked remarkably composed, his hands resting quietly on his knees. The wild energy from the night before had been tucked away, hidden behind a mask of vacant, wide-eyed stillness.
"Damian?" Helena whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Can you hear me, dear?"
Damian slowly tilted his head, his gaze drifting toward her. He didn't blink. After a long silence, he gave a slow, rhythmic nod.
"Do you remember the girl from last night?" Arthur asked, stepping a fraction closer. "Do you recall Anna?"
Damian's eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, a far-off look crossing his face. Then, a small, ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The pretty lady," he murmured. His voice was soft, melodic, and entirely devoid of the jagged screaming from the foyer. "She smells like… cold rain."
Helena exchanged a worried glance with Arthur. "Yes, she is very pretty, Damian. But you must listen to us. What you did last night—the way you approached her—it wasn't good. You frightened her."
Damian didn't flinch. He picked at a loose thread on his trousers, his expression remaining neutral, almost bored.
"Listen to me, son," Arthur said, his tone firmer but still careful. "Soon, the pretty lady will be joining our family. She is going to marry Gregory. She will be your sister-in-law. Do you understand? You must show her respect. You cannot touch her or shout at her like that again."
Damian stayed perfectly calm. He didn't argue. He didn't have an outburst. He simply went back to staring at the floor, behaving as if their words were nothing more than the buzzing of distant flies. To his parents, it looked like he was too far gone to truly grasp the social weight of a "sister-in-law."
"He's not even processing it," Helena whispered to Arthur, her heart aching. "He's just… empty."
They turned to leave, satisfied that he was at least peaceful for the moment. But as the door clicked shut behind them, the vacancy in Damian's eyes vanished. He sat up straighter, his spine lengthening.
"Sister-in-law," he repeated to the empty room. The words were no longer a mumble; they were sharp, mocking, and perfectly articulated.
He walked to the window and looked out at the Fidel estate. He didn't look like a man who didn't care. He looked like a man who was counting down the seconds until he could tear Gregory's "logical union" to pieces.