The Meeting

Amira didn’t sleep that night. She sat on the floor of her childhood room, sketchbook open across her knees, the storm rattling the windows outside.

Sharp shoulders. White silk. Gold lining.

A gown for battle, not beauty.

If Giselle thought she was a pawn, Amira would carve her way to queen.

The next morning, Amira’s phone buzzed.

A new photo. Darren’s hand wrapped around Camila’s waist, their smiles smug and matching.

New Beginning, the caption read. Heart emoji. Champagne glass.

Her vision blurred with rage. She looked at her vision board, once filled with dreams and glitter.

“Mom wouldn’t have let them ruin me,” she whispered.

A knock broke the silence.

Softer the second time. Marcus.

When she opened the door, her father stood there, exhaustion etched into his face.

“I saw the photo,” he said.

“I didn’t cry,” she replied.

“You look like your mother when you say that.” His voice cracked.

“She would’ve kicked Giselle out by now.”

“She wouldn’t have let me marry her in the first place.”

A bitter laugh escaped them both. Marcus’s gaze fell to the sketchbook on her desk.

“You don’t even know him.”

“I didn’t really know Darren either.” Her voice was steel. “I’ll build a new version of me—one that can’t be betrayed.”

He said nothing. She placed her hand over his, brief but steady.

“I’m not doing this because I’m weak,” she whispered. “I’m doing it because I’m done being used.”

When Marcus left, Amira picked up her phone and dialed Leon’s number.

“Mercer Estate,” a smooth voice answered. “Whom may I say is calling for Mr. Mercer?”

“His future wife,” Amira said.

A pause. Then a voice like velvet over steel:

“Amira Westwood.”

“You know my voice?” she asked.

“I know a storm when it calls,” Leon said. “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. Bring your father. And Giselle.”

“You’re very sure I’ll come.”

“You’ve already decided,” he replied. “The rest is ceremony.”

The Mercer estate rose like a fortress of glass and shadow. Guards led them through a vaulted hall into a chamber that felt like a throne room disguised as a conference space.

At the head of the table sat Leon Mercer — black suit, cane hooked over his chair, sightless eyes fixed forward.

To his right sat Evelyn Mercer, elegance incarnate: pearls, perfect posture, her manicured fingers resting on a leather folder.

To his left, Richard Mercer, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, radiating quiet dominance.

Marcus, Giselle, and Amira stepped inside, bringing tension with them.

“Mr. Westwood. Ms. Westwood. Giselle,” Richard greeted, his tone polite but edged. His gaze flicked to the folder under Amira’s arm.

“I see we’ve all brought truth to the table.”

“We prefer efficiency,” Giselle purred.

“Efficiency,” Evelyn said softly, “is for factories. This is a marriage.”

Leon inclined his head slightly, as if he could see every expression.

“Let’s begin.”

---

Marcus cleared his throat. “Before anything else, my daughter—”

“—will speak for herself,” Amira cut in, sliding into the seat opposite Leon. “State your terms. Then I’ll give mine.”

Richard’s mouth curved faintly. “She’ll fit right in.”

---

“Two weeks,” Giselle began smoothly. “A fast runway to the wedding will stabilize the markets and satisfy Leon’s board.”

“Aggressive,” Evelyn murmured.

“Necessary,” Leon said. “Doubt grows in the gaps.”

Marcus shifted uneasily. “The date feels… rushed.”

“Speed is leverage,” Leon replied, unbothered.

Evelyn opened the folder with surgical precision.

“Terms: one-year minimum. Public schedule coordinated. No leaks about the nature of this arrangement.”

“And in exchange?” Amira asked.

“Debt relief,” Richard said calmly. “Strategic asset protection. A legal team for your father’s defense. And a united front that makes both names difficult to touch.”

Giselle added with a thin smile, “And, of course, Amira is photogenic, poised—”

“Human,” Amira interrupted sharply. “Write that down.”

Leon’s lips twitched like he was suppressing a smile. “Your counterterms?”

“Three,” Amira said evenly.

“One: your legal team prioritizes my father’s defense, not publicity.

Two: I launch my fashion line without interference.

Three: separate rooms. Public performance, private freedom.”

Richard chuckled, low and sharp. “Room assignments? We’re negotiating empires.”

“Empires begin at doors that lock,” Amira shot back.

A charged silence followed. Leon tilted his head, listening to more than just words.

“One and two: agreed—with oversight,” he said at last. “Three: granted. With this addendum—after one year, either party may end the arrangement cleanly. No obstruction.”

Evelyn’s gaze cut to her son. “Leon—”

“We don’t cage allies,” he said, voice like a blade.

Giselle leaned forward, eyes glittering. “And the narrative of an heir?”

Amira’s chair scraped loudly as she rose. “Absolutely not.”

“The press expects a trajectory,” Giselle pressed smoothly.

“The press can expect a meteor,” Amira snapped. “My body isn’t a headline.”

Leon’s voice turned cold. “Strike the heir language. This agreement is not a womb.”

Evelyn’s mouth tightened. “Leon—”

“Legacy crumbles when women are made hostages,” he cut in. “Next clause.”

For the first time, Amira’s fury wavered into curiosity. Maybe Leon wasn’t the monster she’d been told to fear.

---

Evelyn pushed a second document forward. “Public calendar: joint interviews, one charity gala, one foundation appearance. Amira will have a media tutor. Leon, etiquette refreshers—”

“—focused on navigating rooms blind,” Richard finished, tone wry.

Leon didn’t react. “Add a clause for her company: full creative control stays with Amira. I’ll finance it through a clean vehicle.”

Richard raised a brow. “From your personal portfolio?”

“Strategic,” Leon said simply.

Marcus cleared his throat. “And after the wedding?”

Leon turned toward his voice. “She moves into the estate. Security increases. Travel is coordinated.”

“I won’t be guarded like a prisoner,” Amira snapped.

“You’ll be guarded like something valuable,” Leon said calmly. “That’s the difference between cages and vaults.”

Her lips parted, caught off guard. “And if I refuse to be handled?”

Leon’s answer was soft, almost intimate. “Then don’t be. Handle me back.”

The room went very still. Even Giselle’s sharp gaze flicked between them, calculating.

“Two weeks,” Richard said briskly. “Bridgewater Hall. Limited guests. Exclusive magazine rights. Press release tomorrow: ‘A union of resilience.’”

“Make it ‘A partnership of vision,’” Evelyn suggested, smooth as silk.

Giselle’s smile was razor-sharp. “Delicious.”

Leon didn’t smile. “Finalize it.”

Evelyn slid the pen to Amira. “Initial here.”

Amira hesitated. “One more condition.”

Richard sighed. “Of course.”

“When the world turns ugly — and it will — you don’t leave me to face it alone. You stand beside me. Publicly. No matter what your board whispers.”

Leon didn’t even pause. “Done.”

“Leon,” Evelyn warned, her tone sharp.

“Done,” he repeated, firmer.

Evelyn’s crystal stylus slipped from her folder, rolling toward the edge of the table.

Leon’s cane tapped once, perfectly timed, stopping it before it fell.

With measured precision, he hooked the stylus and set it back on the table.

The move was smooth, confident — a man utterly in control, despite his blindness.

Evelyn exhaled slowly. Giselle’s smile didn’t waver, though her eyes glimmered with calculation. Marcus remained silent, dwarfed by the weight of it all.

Leon turned toward Amira. “Sign,” he said gently. “We’ll argue about the rest later.”

Amira initialed: M.W. The letters burned like a brand.

Chairs scraped. Plans were murmured — florists, venues, spin.

Leon rose last, fingers curling around his cane.

As he passed, he paused close enough for only her to hear.

“Two weeks,” he said. “You’ll walk in white.”

“War white,” Amira replied.

Leon’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

Her pulse skittered. “Do you really know what that means?”

He didn’t answer.

He simply walked away, leaving Amira with the signed document and the heavy realization that her life now belonged to a game far bigger than she’d imagined.