Chapter Three— Proposal Dinner

The soft clink of silverware echoed in the cavernous dining room, a delicate sound almost swallowed by the weight of silence.

Everything was perfect, as always—hand-cut crystal, French linen napkins, an oak dining table long enough to seat royalty. My father never tolerated less than excellence. And Alexander Grayson fit right in, all clean lines and cool indifference, a man moulded for power and untouched by warmth.

He sat across from me, his expression unreadable, his every move calculated. He hadn't said much since he arrived. Not that I expected him to. Still, I waited, watching. Listening.

Then came the first strike.

“The wedding will take place in six months,” my father said, reaching for his wine with the ease of someone making small talk.

”No, it won't.” Alexander objected. ”No one will believe I’m marrying someone with such short notice unless something was wrong,” he continued smoothly.

My father's lips thinned. ”What would you suggest then?”

”A year is a more reasonable timeframe.”

 “Alright. That’s enough time to plan a proper celebration without dragging things out. However, public announcements should go out in two weeks.”

I held my glass a fraction tighter, its stem cool against my fingers.

I turned my head slightly. “Two weeks?”

“Announcements should also go out later,” Alexander added. “A month gives us time to craft a proper story, considering your daughter and I have never so much as been seen in public together before.”

My father’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need a month to come up with a story,” he snapped.

“Two weeks,” my father countered. “We’ll announce the weekend Eliana moves into your house.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

Move in?

I blinked, caught off guard. I turned to Alexander, searching for any sign that this was news to him, too.

It wasn’t.

He calmly sipped his wine without comment, as if my relocation to his home had already been carved into stone.

The nausea curled low in my stomach. I was moving in with a stranger—a cold, calculating man who looked at me not like a person, but a proposition.

“I’m sure your family would like the announcements to go out sooner rather than later as well,” my father said.

Alexander finally looked up. “Two weeks it is.”

“Excellent. We’ll work together to draft—”

“I’ll draft it,” Alexander interrupted. “Next.”

My father’s glare was swift. But Alexander didn’t care. His confidence was surgical, dispassionate, cutting without blood.

Something wasn't right between them.

Talk turned to guest lists and press contacts, but I barely heard it. I was too busy steadying my breathing, rebuilding the mask of composure I’d worn since I was fourteen, the year my mother died, and silence became a second language.

I reached for the only shield I had: charm.

“How was your flight?” I asked Alexander, polite and poised.

“Fine.”

His answer was clipped, indifferent. I forced a smile.

“I appreciate you taking the time to fly in when we could’ve met in New York. I know you must be busy.”

He didn’t respond.

I tilted my head. “I also heard the more zeroes one has in their bank account, the fewer words they’re capable of speaking. You’re proving the rumour correct.”

His eyes finally met mine. Cool. Calculating.

“I thought a society heiress like yourself would know better than to discuss money in polite company.”

“The keyword is polite.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his features—brief and razor-thin.

“It’s not polite to speak to a guest that way,” he murmured, reaching for the salt. His sleeve brushed mine. I didn’t move.

“What would your father say?”

“He’d say guests should adhere to social niceties as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation.”

“Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing like you stepped out of a Fifth Avenue Stepford Wives factory?”

The comment landed with surgical precision.

My outfit was classic—a pale skirt suit, pearls, clean lines designed to communicate elegance and power- my father-approved wardrobe. It was deliberate. Strategic. But the way he said it, laced with derision, turned it into a costume.

“No,” I said, smile sharpening. “But they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy. You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Grayson. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.”

His lips quirked, the faintest suggestion of approval.

My father rose. “I’ll go see if dessert is ready.”

He left the dining room, taking his wine with him.

Silence hovered between us.

Alexander  stood, chair scraping. “Excuse me.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I sat in the too-silent dining room, staring down at the half-full glass of wine I no longer wanted. The air still carried the bitter taste of control, of my father’s manoeuvring, of Alexander’s amusement. Of the way I’d once again become an asset, not a person.

The heels of my shoes echoed down the marble hallway as I stood and walked away from the table. I didn’t need directions. I knew where he’d gone.

There were only a handful of places in this house that offered any true privacy.

Of course, he’d choose that one.

I found him exactly where I expected—in my father’s office, leaning back in the chair like he’d always belonged there, smoke from a cigar curling toward the coffered ceiling.

I stepped through the doorway, spine straight, voice cool.

”What are you doing?” 

”Enjoying a smoke break”, he took another lazy drag as he scanned my face.

“In my father’s office?” I asked from the doorway.

“Obviously,” he said.

I walked across the room, plucked the cigar from his hand, and dropped it into a glass of water without taking my eyes off his. It hissed violently.

“You’re clearly used to doing whatever you want,” I said, my voice even. “But it’s exceedingly rude to sneak off during a dinner party and smoke in your host’s office.”

“That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Please rejoin us in the dining room. Your food is getting cold.”

“Why don’t you join me for a break?” he drawled. “I promise it’ll be more enjoyable than your father’s hand-wringing over floral arrangements.”

“Based on our interactions so far, I doubt it.”I snapped.

He moved around the desk, casual, slow.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” I said. “You’re clearly unhappy about the arrangement. You don’t need the money or the connection with my family. And you can have any woman you want.”

He paused. “Can I?”

“What if I want you?”

My heart skipped. I hated that it did.

“You don’t.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” He said as he stood in front of me, so close I could practically feel his breath fan my face. His eyes darkened as he lifted his hand and grazed his thumb over my bottom lip. 

My breathing shallowed, but I didn't move away.

 I held my ground as his gaze lingered on my lips.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “Perhaps I saw you at an event and was so enamored I asked your father for your hand in marriage.”

“Somehow, I doubt that’s what happened.”

“What kind of deal did you make with him?” I finally asked.

He stilled, then stepped back.

“You should ask your dear father that question,” he said. “The details don’t matter. Just know that if I had any other choice, I damn well wouldn’t be getting married. But business is business, and you…” He gave a careless shrug. “You’re simply part of the deal.”

The words landed like a slap. But I didn’t show it.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yes, I am.” His smile was all pearly white teeth. “Better get used to it, because I’m also your future husband.”

He walked out, the scent of smoke and arrogance lingering long after the door shut behind him.