The air in the Fidel drawing room was thick with the scent of expensive Earl Grey and the suffocating weight of "logic."
Anna sat perfectly upright, her spine a steel rod. Beside her, her sister Shanti was practically vibrating with relief, her husband nodding along to every word spoken by the man across from them. Gregory Dery was the "ideal" candidate—a brilliant neurosurgeon who understood the mechanics of the human brain, yet seemed completely oblivious to the lack of spark in Anna's eyes.
"It's the most rational step, Anna," Gregory said, his voice smooth and clinical. "Our families have been pillars of this community for decades. We share values, history, and—if I may be so bold—a mutual respect for order."
Anna looked at her parents. Their expectant smiles felt like a cage. She was the Ice Queen of AnnTech, a woman who built empires out of code, yet here she was, being programmed into a marriage of convenience.
"Fine," Anna said, the word tasting like ash. "If the data suggests this is the optimal path for the families, I'll agree to the engagement."
The room erupted in a chorus of polite celebration. Shanti reached over to squeeze Anna's hand, and Gregory's father, the elder Dery, began to toast to their future.
Then, the heavy oak front doors didn't just open—they slammed against the walls.
The celebration died in a collective gasp.
A man stood in the foyer, his skin bronzed by the sun but smeared with the grime of the world outside. He was twenty-eight, but his eyes held the haunted, frantic energy of a child lost in a storm. He was Damian Dery—the brother who had vanished into the ether five years ago.
He was also completely, unapologetically naked.
The room descended into chaos. Shanti shrieked, covering her eyes; the elders rose in a panicked scramble. But Damian didn't see them. He moved with a predatory, fluid grace that ignored the screams. His body was a masterpiece of raw, functional muscle—broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and heavy, corded abs that rippled with every frantic breath.
He bypassed his father. He bypassed his brother, the brain doctor. He walked straight to Anna.
He didn't stop until he was inches from her, his presence an overwhelming heat that smelled of rain and earth. He was a visual assault, his nakedness a provocative contrast to the sterile, buttoned-up world she occupied.
"Anna!" he shrieked, his voice a jagged edge. "Anna, you have to hide me! I saw him! I saw the ghost! My father's ghost is walking in the garden with a knife made of glass!"
He leaned over her, his well-built frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. Anna, usually so composed, felt her breath hitch. Her eyes searched for a place to land—the floor, the ceiling, the wall—but everywhere she looked, there was the devastating, raw reality of his skin.
He was supposed to be a madman. He was supposed to be a tragedy. But as he stood there, trembling and shouting her name, Anna felt a jolt of electricity that no "rational" marriage could ever spark.
"Damian, stop this!" Gregory yelled, rushing forward to throw a decorative rug over his brother. "He's lost it! Father, help me get him away from here!"
As they struggled to haul him away, Damian's eyes locked onto Anna's for a fraction of a second. Amidst the shouting and the "mad" tears, the frantic energy seemed to still just enough for her to see a flash of something… deliberate.
But then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a howl of terror.
The chaos in the foyer was a blur of high-thread-count rugs and desperate limbs. Gregory, the man who spent his days mapping the intricacies of the human mind, now struggled to contain the raw, physical reality of his own brother.
"Help me, damn it!" Gregory hissed at the family gardener who had rushed in.
They dragged Damian up the winding staircase, his heels thudding against the mahogany. Even as the sedative needle found its mark in his shoulder, Damian's head remained lolled toward the drawing room, his voice a hoarse, echoing rasp.
"Anna... the ghosts are coming for the bride... Anna, don't let them take the light!"
As the heavy door to the guest suite clicked shut and the lock turned, Gregory stood in the hallway, adjusting his twisted silk tie. He looked through the small observation pane at his brother—now slumped on the floor, a heap of muscle and madness. Gregory's lip curled. There was pity there, the clinical sadness of a doctor looking at a broken machine, but beneath it was a deep, roiling disgust. Damian had always been the wild one, and even in his ruin, he had managed to be the center of attention.
Gregory wiped his hands on a linen handkerchief, as if washing off the very scent of his brother, and descended the stairs.
Back in the drawing room, the air had turned stagnant. Anna's father was already smoothing things over, his voice booming with forced authority.
"A temporary setback, nothing more," her father said, gesturing for the maid to bring more tea. "Gregory, we understand. The Dery blood is strong; this is just a... a lapse. We should finalize the date for the gala. A spring wedding would be most 'advantageous' for the merger."
Shanti nodded quickly, her eyes still wide. "Exactly. Anna needs stability now more than ever. This just proves why she needs a man like you, Gregory, to handle these... complexities."
Gregory took his seat, his professional mask sliding back into place. "I agree. Damian will be institutionalized by morning. We won't let his 'episode' distract us from the logical progression of our union. Anna, wouldn't you agree that—"
"No."
The word was a quiet blade. It cut through her father's bluster and Gregory's clinical drone.
Anna stood up. She didn't look like a "fading rose" or a submissive daughter. She looked like the CEO who had liquidated three companies before breakfast. Her gaze was fixed on the spot where Damian had stood—where the air still seemed to hum with his heat.
"Anna, sit down," her mother whispered, her face pale. "We are discussing your future."
"You are discussing a transaction," Anna corrected, her voice ice-cold. "And the market has just crashed. I am not marrying Gregory."
"Anna, be reasonable," Gregory said, rising slowly. "You're in shock. My brother's state was... jarring. As a doctor, I can tell you—"
"As a doctor, you should know when a heart isn't beating for you," Anna snapped. She didn't spare a glance for the shocked gasps of her parents or the wounded pride on Gregory's face. "The arrangement is over. Find someone else to balance your books, Gregory."
She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, her heels clicking a steady, defiant rhythm against the floor. Behind her, the "logical" world she had lived in for twenty-six years began to crumble into silence.
Anna retreated to her private study, the only room in the house where the air didn't feel like it was being filtered through her father's lungs. She leaned against her desk, the cold glass surface a familiar comfort, but her mind was a chaotic storm of data she couldn't sort.
The door creaked open. Shanti slipped in, her expression a mix of pity and exasperation.
"Anna, please," Shanti started, her voice hushed as if the walls were listening. "Go back out there. Tell them you just need a moment. You're throwing away a perfect life because of a ten-minute nightmare."
"It wasn't a nightmare, Shanti. It was a wake-up call," Anna replied, her eyes fixed on the dark garden outside. "Gregory is a list of qualifications. He isn't a man. At least, not my man."
Shanti sighed, stepping closer. "Love isn't a tech start-up, Anna. You don't just find the perfect 'product.' You build it. Give Gregory a chance. Go on a few dates, let him show you the man behind the MD. You might actually find yourself falling for him if you'd just stop analyzing him like a spreadsheet."
"I don't think I will," Anna said, her voice trailing off. For a fleeting, terrifying second, the image of Damian flashed behind her eyelids—the raw heat of him, the way he had screamed her name as if she were the only fixed point in a spinning universe. "I have a feeling my man will come around. When he does, I won't need a medical degree to recognize him."
Shanti threw her hands up, the silk of her sleeves snapping. "You're doing it again! That impossible, stubborn defiance. You're waiting for a miracle that doesn't exist in the real world."
"I'm waiting for something real," Anna corrected.
"You're waiting for a ghost," Shanti snapped, her frustration finally boiling over. "Keep being this 'Ice Queen,' Anna. Keep pushing everyone away because they don't fit your perfect little 'algorithm.' But don't come crying to me when you're sixty years old, sitting in this big, empty house, aging alone with nothing but your money to keep you warm."
Shanti didn't wait for a rebuttal. She turned and marched out, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed through the quiet room.
Anna stood alone in the silence. She reached up, her fingers grazing the base of her throat where she could still feel the phantom warmth of Damian's proximity. She was the woman who controlled everything, yet for the first time in her life, she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to push her over.