Hermione

Hermione’s apartment felt hollow when she returned.

She kicked the door shut and stood there, standing at the neatly stacked wedding gifts lining the wall. Boxes she would never open.

She grabbed a bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, and took a long drink straight from the bottle. The burn scorched her chest, but at least it dulled the pain.

Taking another sip, she walked onto the balcony of her luxury apartment. She’d already terminated the lease, convinced she’d be moving in with Cole tomorrow.

Now she would be homeless too.

The city sprawled beneath her, glowing in the night. She leaned against the railing, staring out blankly. Any moment now, her father would call, demanding answers.

She had none.

He would take control, just as he always did.

Her father was a traditional man who believed a woman had no business remaining unmarried past twenty-five. Hermione’s twenty-fifth birthday was rapidly approaching. He had been strict with her mother before her death, and afterward, all that rigid control had transferred to Hermione.

He had drilled perfection into her — how to dress, how to speak, how to carry herself.

And yet, even with all that, she had failed to secure a husband without his intervention.

Hermione sighed, her gaze drifting down toward the ground below.

‘What if I end it all?”

The thought startled her. She quickly shook her head. The headlines would be unbearable.

{Spoiled Windsor heiress jumps to death over jealousy.}

She refused to give them that satisfaction.

“What are you doing?” A voice cut through the night, low and unhurried.

Hermione spun around, heart jolting.

Standing at the balcony entrance was the last person she wanted to see.

Rhys Huxley.

He was shrouded in shadows but she would recognize his voice anywhere.

“How did you get into my apartment?” She snapped.

“I rang the bell,” he replied coolly, stepping into the light. His hands were in his pockets and his posture was relaxed as if he owned the space. The city lights cast sharp angles across his face, shadowing his eyes, making them unreadable and impossibly dark.

He continued.

“But I suppose you were too busy drowning in misery to notice. And really — your birthday as a passcode? I expected better from you.”

She clenched her jaw.

He looked infuriatingly handsome in his tailored suit, dark hair perfectly styled, and sharp green eyes. Under his gaze, she suddenly became painfully aware of her disheveled state. Her throat tightened.

“So, did you come here to gloat?”

After an incident years ago, they’d despised each other openly. Despite his flawless appearance, he was trouble and untrustworthy. They avoided each other at social events whenever possible. Seeing him here, in her apartment, felt unreal.

“Were you actually planning to jump because of that man, Hermione?” He asked quietly.

Her name slipped from his lips like velvet. She exhaled slowly. The alcohol was definitely affecting her.

Anyone would misread the scene. She was holding a whiskey, leaning against a balcony railing with tears stained face. She definitely looked like she was about to end it all.

She turned away.

“Why are you here, Rhys? Don’t you have a multibillion-dollar company to run? Leave me alone. You should go while I’m still being polite.”

She raised the bottle to her lips again, but before she could drink, Rhys yanked it from her hand and hurled it aside. It shattered against the floor.

Her glare was piercing, but his was murderous.

“You don’t get to destroy yourself, Hermione. Not before I do.” His eyes burned into hers. “Remember what I told you all those years ago? I’m the one who gets to break you. No one else.”

She laughed bitterly, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

“You’re too late. If I’m not married by tomorrow, my father will ship me off to whoever he pleases. You missed your chance.”

“Not if I intervene,” he replied smoothly. “I have a proposal.”

Her brows arched. “Let me guess, another insult?”

“Marry me.”

Silence reigned between them. Hermione stared at him, waiting for the smirk, the punchline. There was none.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this a joke? Do you think this is funny? You can’t toy with me like that.”

“I’m serious. You need a husband. I’m single. It’s either me, or whatever nightmare your father has planned.” His expression was sharp, intense, and dangerously sincere.

A chill ran through her. Compared to her father’s choice, Rhys Huxley was the lesser evil.

But he was her enemy for a reason.

“You’re being awfully generous,” she said slowly. “What do you want in return? A share of my father’s company?”

Rhys raised an incredulous brow. His empire was far greater than anything her family owned. His gaze flicked to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.

“A lifetime with you,” he replied. There was no warmth in his voice, only sharp sarcasm. “That’s all a man could ask for.”

His hatred was still there. Good. Because hers hadn’t faded either.

“You’re making a mistake. This won’t be pleasant,” she warned.

Rhys leaned closer, voice dropping. His mouth curved into a smile.

“I’ll take my chances.” Then he stepped back, giving her one last assessing look. “Tomorrow. Marriage office. Eight a.m. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Hermione alone on the balcony, wondering what kind of disaster she had just agreed to walk into.