Chapter 1: The Marriage of Empires

The sharp rhythm of Celeste Montaire’s heels echoed through the marble corridor of Montaire Luxe Headquarters – precise, furious, and loud enough to announce her arrival. Generations of Montaire men stared down at her from gilded frames, their eyes like judgment frozen in oil paint. They embodied empires. They embodied legacy. They embodied the cage she had been born into.

Celeste did not slow down when she reached the boardroom doors. She didn’t second-guess. She pushed the doors open and walked in as if she owned the place – because technically, she was supposed to.

Her father, Arthur Montaire, stood at the head of the sleek glass table, expression frozen in the cool, polished authority he wore better than his tailored suits. Turning toward her, he didn’t smile. He never smiled unless it benefited him.

“You’re late,” Arthur said.

“I didn’t know I was summoned,” she replied, voice steady, chin high. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

A ripple of discomfort shuddered through the executives seated around the table. They looked everywhere except at Celeste. Arthur’s mouth tightened.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She remained standing. “Say what you need to say. I have a meeting to get to.”

“With your… charity project?” he said, dripping disdain. “Celeste, please. That hobby of yours isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s not a hobby,” she snapped. “It’s a sustainable fashion brand. And it’s mine, something I built instead of inheriting.”

Arthur opened a folder and slid it toward her. “No,” he said coldly. “This is what you built.”

Confused, she glanced at the papers, then froze. Headlines glared up at her from yesterday’s newspapers.

“Montaire Luxe Exposed: Labor Violations Spark Outrage.”

“Stock Value Plummets After Scandal.”

“Employees Speak Out: ‘We Were Invisible.’”

Her stomach dropped.

“What… what is this?” she whispered.

Arthur didn’t soften. “The scandal broke overnight. Half our investors pulled out. Our stock fell twenty-eight percent by morning. Employees were complaining that they were just exploited in the company and not considered.”

She tried to steady herself. “So, fix it. You always do.”

His eyes hardened. “I can’t.” A beat of silence. “Not alone.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

Arthur clasped his hands behind his back. “De La Vega Holdings is facing a crisis of their own. Their Dubai expansion collapsed. Investors are deserting them too.”

Celeste frowned, trying to piece it together. “Okay… and?”

“And,” Arthur said slowly, “their resources combined with ours could save both empires.”

She stared. “A merger?”

“A union,” he corrected. “A binding one.”

Her pulse stilled. “No.”

“Celeste—”

“No,” she repeated, louder. “You’re not doing this!”

Arthur stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You will marry Arrow De La Vega.”

She actually laughed – a wounded, disbelieving sound. “I’m sorry? What century are you living in?”

“Our families’ futures depend on this,” he snapped. “On you.”

“No. You don’t get to trade me off like cattle. I’m not a bargaining chip, Father—”

“You are my heir!” The words cracked through the room. “You were born into this empire. You will save it whether you want to or not.”

Celeste’s eyes burned. “And what about what I want? My life? My dreams? You’d sacrifice your daughter for the company?”

“Legacy requires sacrifice,” he said coldly.

She shook her head. “I don’t believe this. You can’t force me.”

Arthur stared at her with frightening calm. “If you refuse, I will withdraw your inheritance. All your accounts. Your trust fund. Your access to Montaire assets. Everything!”

Her breath hitched.

“You will walk out of here with nothing,” he said. “Not even the brand you’re building. That, too, is funded with my money.”

“Not anymore,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I won’t let you—”

“It’s done.” Arthur picked up a gold envelope and handed it to her. “The engagement will be announced tonight at the gala. De La Vega has already agreed. They’re bringing their son.”

Her fingers curled around the envelope, crushing it. She stared at the man who had raised her and realized, with crushing clarity, that he had never seen her. Not really.

She was an asset. A pawn. A Montaire. Nothing more.

“Everything you have,” Arthur said softly, “is because of this family.”

Celeste swallowed hard. “Then I’ll start over. With nothing.”

“No,” he replied. “You won’t. You can’t.”

Her heart froze.

He turned to the board. “Meeting adjourned.”

Celeste walked out before anyone could see her break.

The Montaire Gala that evening gleamed with impossible luxury – golden chandeliers, crystal flutes overflowing with champagne, and gowns shimmering under the soft amber lights. Paparazzi spilled across the steps like vultures in borrowed diamonds.

Celeste stood at the top of the grand staircase in a gown of white satin – beautiful, unapproachable, furious. Every camera pointed at her. Every whisper followed her like poison.

But when she saw the man waiting below, her anger turned to something darker.

Arrow De La Vega.

Tall, poised, and devastating in a black suit that looked like power tailored into fabric. His jaw was sharp. His posture, impeccable. His expression? Unreadable.

She descended the steps with deliberate grace.

He extended his hand. “Miss Montaire.”

“Mr. De La Vega.”

His eyes flicked over her face – assessing, unreadable, almost annoyed. “You don’t look thrilled.”

“Oh? Could you tell?” she said sweetly.

“I’m not thrilled either,” he replied, evenly.

She stiffened.

“My father cornered me too,” Arrow added quietly. “Told me I’d marry you or lose the company I’ve spent a decade building.”

Celeste faltered. “So, you’re trapped too.”

He let out a low, humorless breath. “Welcome to the alliance.”

The emcee’s voice thundered across the ballroom. “Tonight, we celebrate the union of two empires, Montaire Luxe and De La Vega Holdings!”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Arrow leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “Smile for the cameras.”

She smiled. But she felt like she was being devoured alive.

The flash of bulbs drowned out her heartbeat. To the world, they were picture-perfect. To each other, they were two hostages dressed in silk and steel.