From the Street to the Altar: My Savior, My Husband

I don't know how many times I've rolled my eyes since dinner started, but I know I'm on at least the tenth.

Samuel Anders, my father's partner and one of the most talked-about men in the city, has just kissed my hand as if we were in a period movie. His gesture was so exaggerated, so calculatingly elegant, that it made me want to laugh… or maybe gently push him away so he'd stop acting like the protagonist of an old soap opera.

Dad watched him with that usual proud smile, the same one he uses when showing off his "great friend, the man who saved our family." I, on the other hand, could only look at Samuel with a hardened expression. His gaze met mine for a second, and I swear I saw a flash of sadness in those gray eyes before he looked down.

"Alia," my father grunted, "could you be a little nicer?"

"Dad, I just said hello," I murmured, carefully pulling my hand back.

"It's not that, and you know it." He sighed, disappointed. "Samuel is your fiancé. The least you could do is treat him with respect."

Fiancé. The word still sounded so foreign, so imposed, so absurd.

It wasn't my decision. My father and Samuel had a deal, one of those business agreements disguised as romantic destiny. According to dad, "it was what was best for everyone." According to me, it was the most elegant way to ruin my life.

"I can't fake something I don't feel," I said in a low voice, though loud enough for Samuel to hear me.

He didn't reply. He just smiled kindly, that smile that seems rehearsed in front of the mirror. But there was something in his gaze that didn't fit his reputation as a womanizer: a hidden exhaustion, a kind of sad tenderness that I didn't know if it was real or part of the character he played in front of everyone.

The rest of the dinner was a parade of forced conversations. My father's partners talked about mergers, about projects, about investments. I just listened to the silverware clinking against the porcelain and the sound of the clock on the wall, ticking away the seconds left until I could escape.

Hours later, when everyone dispersed, I stood staring from the balcony of the main hall. The city of Livor shined with its cold, white lights. Below, the traffic continued its noisy and perfect dance. Sometimes I thought everything was the same: lights, appearances, programmed movements.

I felt his presence before I heard him. Samuel was behind me, so close I could smell his cologne. Wood, leather, a touch of something bitter.

"You shouldn't stare into the void with that face," he said softly. "People might think you feel trapped."

"Maybe I am," I answered, without turning around.

He barely laughed, a brief, almost nostalgic laugh. "I didn't want it to be this way, Alia."

"And how did you want it to be, Samuel? A love story between a partner and the owner's daughter?" My tone came out harsher than I planned.

Silence. Then, a sigh.

"I just want you to give me a chance," he said. "Not to please your father. To show you that I'm not the man they say I am."

I turned around, and this time I looked him straight in the eye. There was sincerity in his gaze, one I didn't expect. And for an instant, for one single, damn instant, I felt my chest loosen.

But then I remembered the rumors, the parties, the photos in society magazines. No. I wouldn't let myself be fooled by a couple of sweet words and a deep voice.

"Goodnight, Mr. Anders," I said with an icy smile.

I turned around and walked towards the stairs without looking back, though I could feel his gaze following me to the very last step.

The next morning, dad was in his office, reviewing papers. "You acted like a spoiled teenager last night," he said without looking up.

"I am one," I replied with sarcasm.

He lifted his head and looked at me tiredly. "Samuel is not what you think. You'd be surprised if you stopped judging him."

I didn't reply. I didn't want to argue. Although a part of me knew dad was right: Samuel wasn't exactly what he appeared to be. There was something about him… something broken, something that baffled me.

But admitting that meant opening a door I wasn't ready to cross.

In the afternoon, I went to my father's company. Klein Industries always smelled like expensive coffee and new paper. I walked down the hallways with a quick pace, trying to avoid the curious glances of the employees.

"Miss Klein," the receptionist greeted me, "Mr. Anders is in the boardroom."

Right. Of course.

I found him there, talking to Amanda Fox, the head of interior design. Amanda was one of those women who seem to have been born with the word sophistication tattooed on their skin: impeccable, elegant, self-sufficient. And right at that moment, she was looking at him with a mix of professionalism and something else… something that hurt to look at.

"Alia," Samuel said, surprised to see me walk in. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did I," I replied. "But apparently, destiny won't stop crossing our paths."

Amanda smiled politely and stood up. "I'll leave you two alone. I have to review the blueprints for the new headquarters."

When she left, the silence hung between us. Samuel rested his hands on the table and watched me without saying anything.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked.

"I don't know," I answered, and it was true. "Maybe I wanted to see if all this was real."

He stepped closer, slowly, as if he feared I would run away. "Alia, I don't want you to feel forced into anything. But I also don't want you to keep believing I'm the villain of your story."

His voice was soft, almost a plea. And then something unexpected happened: he raised his hand, as if he were going to touch me, but stopped halfway. His fingers trembled slightly, and for a second, the world stopped.

The air smelled of ink, cologne, and something I couldn't describe. My heart was beating too fast, and I hated him for it.

"I don't know who you are, Samuel," I whispered, "but I don't want you to break me."

He smiled, sadly. "I don't plan to. I promise."

I walked out before he could say anything else. Because if I stayed one more second in that room, maybe I wouldn't have wanted to leave.

Samuel

When the door closed, I stood still, staring at the empty space where Alia had been. I could still smell her perfume.

Thomas poked his head through the door. "Another argument?"

I shook my head. "No. This time was worse. She was honest."

He laughed. "Well, at least there's that."

But I couldn't laugh. From the day I met Alia, I knew my fate was sealed. She wasn't the kind of woman you forget; she was the kind of woman who changes you even when she doesn't want to.

I dropped into the chair and ran a hand over my face. Loving her was a mistake. But some mistakes are as inevitable as breathing.

And even though she didn't know it yet, she would soon unders

tand that nothing she did was out of obligation. Everything, absolutely everything, was out of love.