Submitting To The Bad Boy

Lydia POV

“You’re getting married to Dave Ashton tomorrow by eight a.m.”

Those were the words that ended my life as I knew it.

One sentence.

One Tuesday evening.

One announcement delivered with the same emotional weight my father would have used to ask someone to pass the salt.

For a moment, I honestly thought I had heard him wrong.

The living room blurred around me.

My father stood by the liquor shelf, one hand resting against the polished wood, his expression flat and bored, like this conversation had already exhausted him before it even started.

My mother sat elegantly on the cream sofa, her ankles crossed, fingers folded in her lap like she was hosting a charity luncheon instead of participating in the destruction of my future.

And then there was Iny.

Sweet, delicate, polished Iny.

My younger sister.

The family’s favorite investment.

She sat there in a pale yellow dress with her glossy lips parted in what looked suspiciously like excitement.

Excitement.

For my arranged marriage.

To a stranger.

Tomorrow.

By eight a.m.

Nobody looked nervous.

Nobody looked guilty.

Nobody even looked like they expected me to protest.

That was what hurt the most.

Not the marriage.

Not even the timeline.

Just… the ease of it.

The quiet confidence of people who had clearly discussed my life in detail and somehow never once considered I should be present for the conversation.

I looked from face to face, waiting for the punchline.

No one laughed.

My father picked up his glass.

My mother said my name softly.

And I ran.

I didn’t say a word.

I just turned and ran upstairs so fast I nearly missed my footing on the landing.

By the time I got to my room, my chest was on fire.

I slammed the door shut behind me, twisted the lock, and stumbled forward two more steps before my knees gave out.

The carpet caught me hard.

A sound tore out of me before I could stop it.

Then another.

Then another.

I folded into myself on the floor and cried so hard my body shook with it.

Not pretty crying.

Not the soft, elegant tears actresses managed in movies.

This was ugly.

This was years of humiliation, disappointment, invisibility, and rage finally clawing their way out of my chest with nowhere else to go.

“Why me?” I whispered into my palms.

My voice cracked so badly it didn’t even sound like mine.

Then louder.

“Why is it always me?”

The room gave me nothing back.

It always did.

I sat there on the floor of the room I had slept in for years but never really owned, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel all of it.

Because this wasn’t just about the wedding.

That was the thing.

If I was being honest, the wedding was only the final insult.

I had never been anyone’s first choice in this house.

Never.

Not my father’s.

Not my mother’s.

And definitely not beside Iny.

The pretty one.

The one who got birthday dinners at rooftop restaurants and surprise gifts “just because.”

The one whose good grades were celebrated like national victories.

The one whose photos stayed framed in the hallway long after everyone else’s had been taken down.

I was the practical one.

The dependable one.

The one people remembered when something needed to be done.

Even when I got into the best university in the country, the celebration lasted less than a day.

And even that had only happened because the admission letter had arrived in front of guests.

Otherwise, I was almost certain my father would have just nodded and moved on to the evening news.

I got in on scholarship.

I fought for every inch of that future myself.

Meanwhile, Iny was attending the same university with tuition paid in full, a private apartment off campus, a monthly allowance that could have fed a small village, and enough “wardrobe upkeep” money to sponsor a fashion week.

I still remembered the day my mother told the tailor to keep my old dresses because they could “still manage one more year.”

Three days later, Iny got a new wardrobe for no reason at all.

And now somehow, somehow, I was the one being married off.

Like an item from a family deal that had finally reached its delivery date.

A knock landed on the door.

I ignored it.

Then the handle turned.

Of course.

Privacy had never really applied to me in this house.

My mother stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

She took one look at me on the floor and sighed.

Not with concern.

With inconvenience.

“My princess,” she said softly.

I almost laughed.

That title only came out when she wanted obedience.

I wiped at my face with the heel of my palm and looked up at her.

“What?”

She ignored the tone and crossed to the bed, sitting delicately at the edge like she was here for tea instead of emotional damage control.

“I know this is sudden,” she said, “but I need you to understand that this is a very good thing.”

I stared at her through swollen eyes.

She continued like she hadn’t just announced the funeral of my freedom.

“Dave Ashton is one of the most respected young men in the country. He is successful, disciplined, and from an excellent family.”

“And a stranger,” I said.

Her smile flickered but didn’t fall.

“He is also the youngest billionaire in the country.”

There it was.

The real selling point.

Money.

Always money.

I let out a dry laugh and pushed myself up from the floor.

“Okay,” I said. “Then give him to Iny.”

That hit.

Her face tightened for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over.

I stepped closer.

“No, seriously,” I said. “If he’s so perfect, why am I the one being thrown at him? We both know if he was truly the best thing to happen to this family, you would have gift wrapped him for your favorite daughter.”

“Lydia,” she said sharply.

“What? Am I lying?”

Her expression hardened.

For a second, the softness dropped and I saw the real woman underneath it.

Then she fixed it again.

It would have impressed me if it didn’t disgust me.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Then what is it like?”

“This was arranged years ago,” she said.

I blinked.

“What?”

“Your grandmother and his grandmother made an agreement a long time ago. They decided that when both of you came of age, this marriage would happen.”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

I looked at her harder, like maybe if I stared long enough, the lie would crack on its own.

“Why am I just hearing this now?”

She said nothing.

I took another step toward her.

“You have all known about this for years?”

Still nothing.

“And not one of you thought I should maybe know I was apparently promised off like property before I was old enough to vote?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she snapped.

There she was.

Finally.

I let out a small laugh and turned away from her before I said something that would have gotten me slapped.

I walked to the window and braced both hands against the frame.

Outside, the Grey estate looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago.

Behind me, my mother softened her voice again.

“This is not a punishment, Lydia.”

I turned and looked at her.

“It feels a lot like one.”

She exhaled slowly, as though I was the exhausting part of this conversation.

“The wedding gown will be delivered in a few hours,” she said. “The ceremony is tomorrow morning. The driver will leave by seven.”

I stared at her.

I should have been screaming.

Instead, all I felt was hollow.

I had plans.

That was what kept circling in my head.

I wanted another degree.

I wanted to build something for myself.

I wanted a career in public relations, human relations, crisis management, anything that involved people and strategy and fixing what other people broke.

I wanted a life that belonged to me.

And now all of that had been folded up and put away by people who had never once asked what I wanted in the first place.

“I need to be alone,” I said.

My mother stood.

For a second, I thought she might say something that sounded remotely human.

She didn’t.

“Try to sleep,” she said. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Then she left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And I stood there in the silence for a long time.

Then I crossed the room, sat at my desk, and opened my laptop.

If I was being sold into a marriage, the least I deserved was to know what the buyer looked like.

I typed his name into the search bar.

Dave Ashton.

The internet loaded almost instantly.

Articles.

Interviews.

Magazine covers.

Award ceremonies.

Business headlines.

And photographs.

A lot of photographs.

I clicked the first one and froze.