Chapter 3

Sebastian

There were many things I was willing to tolerate in life. Bad weather, incompetent employees, family dinners that lasted three hours longer than necessary, and even my father's increasingly creative attempts to convince me that marriage was not a disease. What I was not willing to tolerate was another blind date. Unfortunately, that was exactly where I found myself on a Thursday evening, sitting across from a woman who had spent the last twenty minutes staring at my watch as though she was trying to calculate how many months of rent it could cover.

Her name was Amelia. Or Amanda. I had stopped listening somewhere between her explanation of why she deserved to be treated like a princess and her subtle inquiry about whether my apartment had a private elevator. I was fairly certain it was Amelia, but there was a possibility I had mentally renamed her Expense Account Number Fourteen. It seemed more appropriate.

The restaurant was one of those unnecessarily expensive places where the chairs were uncomfortable on purpose, apparently to remind customers that suffering was part of the dining experience. Everything around us was polished marble, dim lighting, and waiters who appeared whenever someone so much as thought about touching a glass. My father had chosen the restaurant, naturally. He had also chosen the woman sitting across from me. At this point, I suspected he was conducting an experiment to determine exactly how much nonsense his only son could endure before committing a felony.

I picked up my glass of water and watched Amelia smile at me. It was a beautiful smile. Perfect teeth, perfect lipstick, perfect angle of the head. The sort of smile that probably came with its own tax bracket. "So, Sebastian," she said, drawing my name out as though we had already been married for fifteen years and she was about to ask me to increase her allowance. "Your father said you have several properties."

"Several."

"How many?"

I took a slow sip of water. "Enough."

She laughed, probably thinking I was being mysterious. I wasn't. I simply had no desire to explain my financial portfolio to a woman who had been sitting across from me for twenty-three minutes. There were certain things a man should not discuss on a first date, such as his net worth, his family holdings, or the exact number of properties he owned. Apparently, Amelia had not received that particular memo.

"Oh, come on." She leaned forward, resting her chin lightly against her hand. "You can tell me. I won't tell anyone."

Of course you won't.

Because the moment you know, you'll tell your mother, your best friend, your hairdresser, your neighbour, the woman who does your nails, and probably three people you haven't met yet.

I smiled politely instead of saying any of that.

"Why do you want to know?"

She blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "I'm just curious."

"Naturally."

That earned me another smile. She didn't notice the sarcasm. I was beginning to suspect sarcasm required an entrance f*e, and Amelia hadn't brought enough money.

The waiter arrived with our next course, and Amelia barely glanced at the food before returning her attention to me. "Your father also mentioned that you spend quite a lot of time travelling."

"Sometimes."

"I love travelling."

"I gathered."

"Paris is my favourite. I've been twice."

"Impressive."

"I'd love to go to Switzerland next. I've heard the hotels there are incredible."

There it was.

The first financial missile had been launched.

I leaned back in my chair and studied her with renewed interest. There were patterns to these things. Women who wanted romance asked about your favourite book. Women who wanted companionship asked about your childhood. Women who wanted to know whether you were emotionally available asked what you were looking for in a relationship.

Women like Amelia asked about Switzerland.

"Do you ski?" I asked.

"No."

"Then why Switzerland?"

She smiled brightly. "The scenery. And the shopping."

Ah.

There she was.

The real Amelia had finally arrived.

I almost felt relieved. At least now we could stop pretending this was a date.

"So," she continued, "what kind of woman do you normally date?"

"None."

Her eyebrows lifted. "None?"

"Not successfully."

She laughed. I didn't. Apparently, I was going to have to explain my own joke. "I don't have a type."

"Surely you must."

"I don't."

"What about appearance?"

"Breathing helps."

She stared at me for a moment before laughing again. "You're funny."

I considered correcting her.

I wasn't funny. I was tired.

There was a difference.

My father had been arranging these dates for almost a year. Every few weeks, another woman appeared across a table from me, each one apparently handpicked by some mysterious committee whose qualifications involved being attractive, unmarried, and sufficiently impressed by the Blackwood name. My father insisted he was only trying to help me find someone suitable. I suspected he was trying to ensure the Blackwood family name survived another generation.

The problem wasn't that I hated women. I didn't. I simply disliked being presented with them like items on a catalogue and expected to choose one.

This particular catalogue had apparently come with a luxury travel section.

"So," Amelia said, reaching for her wine, "what do you do when you're not working?"

"Sleep."

She laughed.

"Seriously."

"Work."

"You don't have hobbies?"

"Not particularly."

"That's boring."

I raised an eyebrow. "You asked."

"I mean, don't you have anything you enjoy?"

"I enjoy quiet."

She smiled. "I could get used to quiet."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Interesting.

She had somehow managed to turn my dislike of noise into an invitation.

I took another sip of water and decided that perhaps this date deserved to end sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, Amelia seemed to have decided otherwise.

"I think marriage should be about comfort," she said suddenly.

There were many ways to interpret that statement. Unfortunately, I had a feeling hers involved a penthouse.

"Comfort?"

"Yes. Two people taking care of each other. A husband should provide security for his wife. She shouldn't have to worry about anything."

There it was again.

The word provide.

It floated between us like a warning sign.

I had met women who wanted love. I had met women who wanted companionship. I had even met women who wanted my family name because they liked the prestige that came with it. At least those women had the decency to be honest.

Amelia wanted a lifestyle.

And apparently, I was the lifestyle.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I've been thinking about starting something."

"Something?"

"Maybe a fashion business."

"Do you know anything about fashion?"

She gave me a slightly offended look. "I know what looks good."

I nodded thoughtfully.

"An essential qualification."

She didn't catch that either.

"I just need someone to invest in me."

"Someone?"

She smiled.

"Perhaps my future husband."

I nearly choked on my water.

For the first time that evening, I genuinely looked at her.

She was serious.

This woman had managed to skip dating, courtship, emotional connection, and every other unnecessary obstacle standing between her and my bank account. Efficient, I had to give her that.

"I see."

She smiled sweetly. "I'm very ambitious."

"I'm beginning to understand."

What I didn't say was that ambition usually involved building something yourself. Amelia's version appeared to involve finding a man who had already built it and then asking for the keys.

The worst part was that I wasn't even angry.

I was fascinated.

It was almost impressive how little effort she was making to disguise herself.

Then again, perhaps she didn't think she needed to.

The Blackwood name had a reputation. My family's wealth wasn't exactly a secret, and my own face had appeared in enough business magazines for people to know who I was. Women often approached me differently once they learned my surname. Some became suddenly softer. Others became suspiciously interested in my schedule. A few developed an extraordinary ability to laugh at jokes that weren't funny.

Amelia had skipped all of those stages.

She had gone straight for the property portfolio.

I respected the efficiency.

Not the motive.

Before I could find a polite way to escape, my phone vibrated against the table. I glanced at the screen.

Father.

Of course.

I answered. "Yes?"

"How is dinner?"

I looked across the table at Amelia, who was now examining the dessert menu with the concentration of a woman selecting the next item on her future husband's credit card.

"Educational."

There was a pause.

My father's voice lowered. "Sebastian."

"I've learned a great deal tonight."

"About Amelia?"

"About Switzerland."

He sighed.

I could practically picture him rubbing his forehead.

"Give her a chance."

"I have."

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

"At least stay until dessert."

I looked at the menu.

Then at Amelia.

Then back at the menu.

"Why?"

"Because you're not getting any younger."

I closed my eyes.

There were moments when I wondered whether my father genuinely loved me or simply wanted grandchildren badly enough to sacrifice my happiness.

"Goodnight, Father."

"Sebastian—"

I ended the call.

Amelia looked up. "Was that your father?"

"Unfortunately."

"He must really want you to settle down."

"He does."

"I think that's sweet."

I said nothing.

She smiled and returned to her dessert menu. "Do you know what I think?"

"Probably."

"I think we would make a very good match."

I almost admired her confidence.

Almost.

"What makes you say that?"

"We have similar lifestyles."

I looked around the restaurant.

Then at her designer handbag.

Then at the menu.

Then at her.

"I wasn't aware we had discussed my lifestyle."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Your father told my mother enough."

Of course he had.

My father had apparently become my unofficial publicist.

"And what exactly did he tell your mother?"

She smiled. "That you're successful, responsible, wealthy, and the heir to a very respected family."

There it was.

The four qualities every gold digger needed printed on a business card.

I leaned back and folded my arms. "And which of those qualities impressed you most?"

She didn't hesitate.

"Responsible."

I waited.

She smiled.

"Because responsible men make good husbands."

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, I nodded slowly. "Naturally."

By the time the waiter brought the bill, I had already decided this would be the last date my father ever arranged for me.

I reached for my wallet, but Amelia spoke first.

"You don't mind paying, do you?"

I paused.

"No."

She smiled with relief.

Then she added, "I just don't think couples should be too particular about money."

I stared at her.

There were moments in life when silence was the only appropriate response.

This was one of them.

I paid the bill, said goodbye, and left the restaurant with one conclusion firmly established in my mind: marriage was an excellent institution, provided one never had to participate in it.

Unfortunately, my father had other plans.

I had barely reached my car when my phone rang again.

This time, it wasn't my father.

It was my mother.

"Sebastian."

"Mother."

"How was your date?"

"Terrible."

She laughed softly. "You say that about every woman."

"Because every woman you and Father choose is terrible."

"That's not fair."

"One asked me if I owned a private island."

"Maybe she was making conversation."

"She asked whether she could name it after herself."

My mother laughed harder.

I leaned against the car and stared at the city lights. "I'm serious. I'm done."

"You can't keep avoiding marriage."

"I can try."

"Your father spoke to the Blackwoods' old business associates today."

I frowned. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Nothing yet."

There was something about her tone I didn't like.

"What does that mean?"

She hesitated.

"There's a family we've known for years. Your father believes their daughter might be someone you'd actually get along with."

I laughed.

It was the first genuine laugh I'd had all evening.

"Mother, unless she's allergic to money and has a personal hatred for luxury, I doubt it."

"Her name is Neveah."

My smile disappeared.

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then I remembered her.

Of course I remembered her.

Neveah.

The only woman in existence who could turn a perfectly civilized conversation into a competition within five minutes.

The girl who had beaten me in an academic competition in high school and spent the entire celebration reminding me about it.

The woman who had once told me, to my face, that my ego needed its own zip code.

The same woman who had spent years competing with me over everything from grades to internships, business presentations, and even who could arrive first at family events.

I hadn't seen her in years.

But apparently, fate had decided my life was not chaotic enough.

"You cannot be serious."

"I'm very serious."

"Mother, I would rather marry a stranger."

Her voice became suspiciously amused.

"That's the thing, darling."

I frowned.

"You already know her."

I stared into the night, suddenly certain that my peaceful life had just been sentenced to death.

Because if my mother was suggesting Neveah, then somewhere in the universe, someone had a truly terrible sense of humour.

And apparently, that someone was in charge of my future.