had not planned to be at that club.I never planned anything when it came to fate. It always seemed to move faster than I could track — pulling me along with it. And that night, fate placed her in front of me.
Isabella.
The girl my father promised me before I even learned what it meant to belong to someone. I had seen her name on documents, on invitations, in quiet conversations spoken behind closed doors. I had seen her photograph once — a formal portrait; polite smile, guarded eyes. But that picture hadn't prepared me for her.
When she stepped into the club, she looked out of place — too soft among the flashing lights and restless bodies. Like something delicate in a world too loud for her. And yet, there was fire beneath her softness. I saw it in the flush on her cheeks, the way she moved, the way her lips parted when she tried to swallow whatever she was feeling.
She didn't notice me at first. She didn't know me. And for a few precious minutes, I was a stranger to her. Just a man. Not her future. Not her fate.
Just someone who listened.
She told me everything — her confusion, her anxiety, the strange invitation, the mansion, the unspoken deal between our fathers. The way no one had bothered to explain the truth to her. She laughed as she spoke, and her laughter was fragile. The kind of fragile that makes you want to protect it. Or claim it.
I should have told her who I was.
But I didn't.
Because the way she looked at me — open, unguarded — was something I knew I would only get once. Before she learned the truth. Before the walls went up. Before she learned she belonged to me. I didn't want to lose that moment yet.
When I kissed her, she leaned into me as though she already knew me. As though some part of her recognized mine. Her hands on my chest — small, warm, hesitant — felt like something I had been waiting for without realizing it. I held her close. Maybe tighter than I should have. Maybe like I was afraid she might disappear. She didn't ask questions. She didn't doubt me. She simply trusted. And that was the most dangerous part of all. When she left, I stayed standing there for a long time, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume on my shirt, fighting the urge to go after her and tell her everything —
That she is mine.
Not because of a contract. Not because of duty. But because the second she looked at me — really looked — I knew. The next time she sees me, she will know my name. And she will not be ready. But neither, if I am honest, am I.