The house was quiet, in that heavy, echoing way that came after too many conversations left unfinished.
Keigh stood by the tall windows of his parents' estate, looking out at the neatly trimmed garden. His father believed perfection started with order, every blade of grass in its place, every duty fulfilled without question.
It was the same with his life.
"You're twenty-eight, Keigh," his father said, voice firm and measured. "You've built an empire, yes, but it's time to start thinking beyond your company. A family name means nothing without continuation."
Keigh didn't turn around. He'd heard this before. "Continuation can wait," he said. "I've got expansion meetings lined up this quarter. There's too much at stake right now."
His father's tone sharpened. "There's always something at stake. You've been saying that for years."
His mother, seated on the couch with her cup of tea, spoke softly before tension could fully settle. "Darling, don't push him."
"I'm not pushing," his father replied curtly. "I'm reminding. He's not a boy anymore."
Mrs. Dynamite sighed. "He's also not a machine. Let him live at his pace."
Keigh's shoulders eased slightly at her words. His mother had always been the gentler force in the house, the kind who smoothed sharp edges with kindness.
"Your mother and I have spoken," his father continued, ignoring the glance she shot him. "We're arranging a dinner with the Alaric family next weekend. Their daughter, Fiona, just finished her MBA. Elegant, well-mannered, and with strong values. She'd make a good wife."
Keigh turned this time, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're arranging a what?"
"It's just dinner," his mother said quickly, though even she couldn't quite meet his gaze. "No pressure."
But pressure was exactly what it was. He could feel it in the way his father stood tall, immovable, certain.
"Dad," Keigh said carefully, "I appreciate the thought, but I'm not interested in meeting anyone right now."
His father's brow furrowed. "You said the same last year. And the year before that. You bury yourself in work, but life isn't a contract you can keep renewing. It's time to choose stability."
The silence that followed was thick. Keigh wanted to argue, he wanted to say that he had found something close to stability once, but it had slipped away. That every relationship after Nara had felt like dust in his hands.
Instead, he said quietly, "I'll think about it."
His mother's eyes softened with something between pride and pity. She knew that tone; it wasn't agreement, it was surrender, for peace's sake.
Later that night, after his parents had gone to bed, Keigh sat in his office surrounded by muted light and half-open files. His gaze drifted to his phone, the last message he'd sent still on screen:
> Morning, Nara. I know it's short notice, but I'd like you to coordinate my parents' anniversary dinner next weekend. They asked for something intimate, i trust your touch. We can discuss the details in person if you're available.
He hadn't told them who he hired. Maybe because some part of him wanted to keep that secret, that fragile connection away from his father's scrutiny.
He leaned back, a humorless smile forming.
"Arrange my marriage," he murmured to the empty room. "But let me handle my own disasters first."
When he closed his eyes, he saw her again, that calm certainty in her smile, the quiet way she carried strength.
And for the first time in a long while, the idea of stability didn't sound so suffocating. It sounded like her name.