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DanteDante was irritated—no, furious—but he wore his usual mask of control as he stepped into the glittering engagement party. Applause, music, laughter. All of it felt hollow.
This wasn’t a celebration. It was a sentence.
He never wanted this. An arranged marriage, forged eighteen years ago when he was just sixteen. A deal struck behind his back, sealed with handshakes and old-world ideals. He remembered the day his father told him—how marrying the Kieran heir would “secure the future.” He hadn’t even met Hour. Hour had been a baby.
Now Hour was eighteen. And tonight, he’d meet her for the first time.
He loathed the idea.
At thirty-four, Dante had carved out his life with blood, grit, and strategy. CEO, mafia heir, master of his empire. And yet here he was—paraded like a pawn in someone else’s game. The Kieran name might bring influence, but it came with chains he never asked to wear.
He moved through the crowd like a shadow in silk—impeccably dressed, untouchable. But inside, his thoughts were sharp, bitter.
He spotted Mr. and Mrs. Kieran across the room, smiling and chatting like they hadn’t stolen a choice from him.
“Ah! The man of the hour,” Mr. Kieran said, approaching with outstretched arms. “It’s been far too long. Come—let me introduce you to your fiancée.”
Dante gave a tight nod, jaw clenched.
Mr. Kieran turned, gesturing with pride. “This is my daughter. Hour.”
Time slowed.
Hour stood there—elegant, unaware of the storm she was walking into. The contract made flesh.
Dante met her eyes. He didn’t smile. Not really.
“Pleasure,” he said, voice calm—too calm.
Inside? He was already burning.
This wasn’t a celebration. It was a sentence.
He never wanted this. An arranged marriage, forged eighteen years ago when he was just sixteen. A deal struck behind his back, sealed with handshakes and old-world ideals. He remembered the day his father told him—how marrying the Kieran heir would “secure the future.” He hadn’t even met Hour. Hour had been a baby.
Now Hour was eighteen. And tonight, he’d meet her for the first time.
He loathed the idea.
At thirty-four, Dante had carved out his life with blood, grit, and strategy. CEO, mafia heir, master of his empire. And yet here he was—paraded like a pawn in someone else’s game. The Kieran name might bring influence, but it came with chains he never asked to wear.
He moved through the crowd like a shadow in silk—impeccably dressed, untouchable. But inside, his thoughts were sharp, bitter.
He spotted Mr. and Mrs. Kieran across the room, smiling and chatting like they hadn’t stolen a choice from him.
“Ah! The man of the hour,” Mr. Kieran said, approaching with outstretched arms. “It’s been far too long. Come—let me introduce you to your fiancée.”
Dante gave a tight nod, jaw clenched.
Mr. Kieran turned, gesturing with pride. “This is my daughter. Hour.”
Time slowed.
Hour stood there—elegant, unaware of the storm she was walking into. The contract made flesh.
Dante met her eyes. He didn’t smile. Not really.
“Pleasure,” he said, voice calm—too calm.
Inside? He was already burning.
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