The rain hadn't stopped.
Callum Virell didn't remember driving. Just the thunder, the steering wheel, the silence that swallowed him as he crossed half the city with one name in his mind.
Dahlia.
His tie hung undone against his chest, his jacket crinkled from anxious neglect, and his hair refused all attempts at order. Each passing second twisted the knot of regret in his ribs a little tighter.
He slammed the car door shut when he arrived at the Virell estate—its towering gates already parted, as if expecting him. He bypassed the grand entrance entirely, heading toward the servants' wing nestled behind the main house. The old stone path was wet with rain, the ivy-covered side wall dimly lit by a single flickering lamp. Tucked beneath that light was the doorway to the quarters.
But she wasn't there.
Only a note waited.
Placed on a small, short brown table.
His name was written in her handwriting—curved, gentle, too calm for what it was about to do to him.
He read it once.
Then again.
His knees hit the floor by the doorframe before he realized he was falling.
** Callum,
I'm sorry I couldn't say this in person.
You love me without asking for more, and I will treasure that love for the rest of my life.
But I've made my choice.
My mother is dying. And we both knew, at her age, and me not matching hers, it would be hard to have this chance again. And out of the thousand donors tested, Sera is the only one who matched.
Only her.
She has agreed to the transplant… on one condition.
You must marry her.
And I—selfishly or not—am choosing my mother.
This is not your failure, Callum.
This is a gift you gave me by building a world where I could choose, even if it's not the kind we dreamed of. I will not let my mother die when the answer is right in front of us.
Please… live.
And someday, maybe, forgive me.
—Dahlia**
The letter slipped from his fingers.
The hallway blurred.
He braced his hands on the floor, biting down a sob like it might kill him to let it out.
But it came anyway.
Raw. Uncontrolled.
Like everything inside him gave up holding back.
Somewhere near the entrance, his father stood in shadow, listening—an unspoken witness to every shattered syllable. When the sound of his despair subsided to an aching silence, Callum rose on unsteady legs and left, and so did his father.
The corridors of the estate stood eerily still, their vast archways swallowing the flickering glow of the lanterns nestled in wall sconces. Shadows stretched long across the polished floors, wavering like ghosts uncertain of their place.
When footsteps sounded, they came lightly—too light for a house so large, too fleeting to belong to those with any certainty. The servants moved in silence, careful, deliberate, as if the very walls might hear their unease. No laughter echoed from the upper rooms; no distant hum of conversation drifted through the halls. Only the quite remained, pressing down like an unspoken weight.
---
The morning arrived without color.
Callum stood beneath the towering arch of the Elion estate's great hall, the sharp scent of oiled steel and leather lingering faintly in the air. He took a breath, steadying himself, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on him like the heavy stone overhead. Today would be pivotal. The decisions made within these walls could alter the course of his life—and the fate of those he cared for.
Unlike the Virell estate, which smelled of imported cigars and polished marble, the Elion estate reeked of precision—everything in line, everything in order. A place where even emotion was expected to be saluted.
He hadn't slept.
Not after reading Dahlia's letter.
Not after sobbing into the cold hardwood of the servant's wing, like a man he no longer recognized.
His father stood beside him now, crisp in a dark gray suit, phone tucked into one hand, silent but alert. A general in the field of numbers—strategy, his only religion.
Across from them, at the head of the Elion table, sat Commander Hadrian Elion, waving and smiling at Callum's father.
At his left, Seraphine entered.
Her posture was perfect. The uniform coat was gone, replaced by a simple navy dress that did nothing to soften the severity of her presence. She did not look at Callum.
He did not look at her.
The two heirs of power sat at the long, lacquered table, separated by a polished silence that felt more binding than any vow.
"Three days," Hadrian Elion said, breaking the stillness like a gunshot. "We will spare no cost. Security will be handled by my men. The rest—press, contracts, announcements—fall under your father's domain."
Callum's father nodded once.
Across the table, Seraphine folded her hands neatly in her lap. No veil, no diamonds, no pretense of joy. Only quiet, unnerving calm.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Her silence said everything.
Callum's father cleared his throat, sliding forward a folder. "Pre-nuptial terms. Power delegation clauses. You'll both retain your separate assets, but your bodies should not—"
Callum didn't flinch, but something inside him twisted.
** A child.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was a treaty, written in grief, debt, and fading choices.**
Still—he signed.
So did she.
Not once did their eyes meet.
The men stood. Deals sealed. Timeframes declared. The wedding would happen within seventy-two hours. The guest list would be brief but prestigious. Press releases were already drafted.
When Callum walked out of the Elion estate's stone courtyard, the sky seemed clear.
Not because the storm had passed.
But because it had already done its damage.
Behind him, Seraphine remained at the gateway, watching them go.
And for a fleeting moment, he almost turned back.
Almost.