3

Dante's POV

Five minutes have passed already.

Tardiness is one of the things I despise the most. It grates on my nerves.

If I wait another five minutes and she doesn't show, I’m leaving. This time could’ve been spent on work—productive, meaningful work—instead of sitting here like an idiot.

I steal one more glance at the restaurant door where I’ve been waiting for nearly ten minutes. A heavy sigh escapes me as my thoughts spiral back to the chain of events leading to this ridiculous meeting.

At first, I thought it was some kind of joke. Learning about the betrothal and the stipulation that I must marry to inherit my grandfather’s construction company? It felt like some kind of cruel prank.

That old man knew me too well. He knew I’d never willingly get married, so he rigged the system against me. My father, of course, had been conveniently silent about this little arrangement until now. That betrayal still stings.

And yet, no one forced me to be here. I chose to come, perhaps out of curiosity—perhaps to see the woman my grandfather deemed worthy enough to tie me down.

Even though I hate the idea of an arranged marriage, I know I need her. My mother’s enthusiastic praise about her character and charm had been non-stop. "She’s a good girl," she'd said, smiling like she’d already won.

Fine, then. Marriage doesn’t have to be about love. My parents weren’t in love when they got married, and they seem just fine. I could make this work too. Or at least, that’s what I’d been telling myself for the past week.

But the longer I sit here in this empty, silent restaurant, the more irritated I become. And the more irritated I become, the less I want anything to do with this entire charade.

If this is some ploy to force me into marriage, they’ll regret it. I can find someone else—anyone else—to marry and still fulfill the conditions of my inheritance. I don’t need some spoiled, self-absorbed brat who can’t even be bothered to show up on time.

Spoiled and inconsiderate. That’s exactly what she must be. I already hate her attitude, and we haven’t even met.

What’s the point of all this anyway? Why should my inheritance hinge on some outdated tradition? I could pick one of the many women already vying for my attention. This entire situation is complete and utter nonsense.

My patience snaps. Rising abruptly, I grab my phone, ready to leave. But just as I turn toward the exit, the restaurant’s glass door swings open, held by the doorman. A woman steps inside.

Ridiculous isn’t even the word for her appearance.

This… this can’t be her.

My mother described her as sophisticated and beautiful, leading me to assume she’d be another pampered princess. But this?

A matching tracksuit?

I blink in disbelief as she approaches. Who wears a tracksuit to meet the man they’re about to marry?

Everything about her is wrong. Her accessories, her makeup—it all looks absurd. She isn’t beautiful; she looks like a clown.

Am I actually expected to marry this?

My fists clench, and I swallow the urge to storm out. This is insane. My grandfather’s impeccable judgment must have failed him on this one.

“Hi,” she says, giving me a shy wave as she draws closer.

Her voice snaps me out of my stunned silence, but my anger only flares hotter.

I glare at her, my expression undoubtedly giving away my feelings. She doesn’t even flinch, which only convinces me this must be intentional.

She’s not here to impress me. She’s here to make a statement. This is her way of rebelling against her parents and me.

Finally finding my voice, I growl, “What the hell is this?”

Her shy smile fades, replaced by something more confident—defiant, even.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, feigning innocence.

She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Instead of unleashing my fury, I force myself to sit back down. My jaw tightens as I fight to stay calm. This is bigger than my irritation.

I need her.

My mother approves of her. My father will never go against my grandfather’s wishes, even if the old man has been gone for years. This marriage is non-negotiable for them.

No matter how much I hate it, I have no choice.

This girl—this childish girl in a tracksuit—is the key to securing my inheritance.

I shake my head, trying to suppress my growing frustration. But it’s impossible. Her lateness and lack of effort are infuriating. Does she have no pride?

Before I can make sense of her absurd behavior, she sits across from me with a forced smile plastered on her face.

“Hi, I’m Sophia Adams,” she says, extending her hand in greeting. Her tiny purse clatters onto the table between us.

My eyes don’t leave her face. If this were anyone else—my sister, for example—I’d probably laugh. But this isn’t funny. This is the woman I’m supposed to marry.

Her smile wavers slightly when I don’t take her hand. She drops it back to her side, the disappointment on her face just as fake as everything else about her.