Rule 9

For hours, Aaron had been staring at the marriage contract. His mind had yet to recover from his earlier encounter with Ms. De Armas. He hadn't expected her to be beautiful. He certainly hadn't expected her to stand her ground.

Shocked at her audacity was certainly an understatement.

His father, Mr. Alejandro Martinez, entered the home office to find his son already seated, his head buried in the contract.

"By the look of things, it seems like your dinner with Eduardo De Armas' daughter went well," his father said as he took his seat across from him.

Aaron tore his gaze away from the contract, rolling his shoulders in quiet frustration, "I find it surprising that you would take the approach of an arranged marriage when it came to me. I don't dislike Montserrat. Beautiful woman she may be, but I have no interest in getting married."

Alejandro let out a measured sigh, the slightest hint of disappointment crossing his face. With a subtle wave of his hand, he dismissed the staff lingering in the office. One by one, they bowed their heads and quietly filed out, shutting the doors behind them.

"The engagement announcement is in forty-eight hours."

"Father—"

"A joint press conference has already been scheduled."

"Father."

"Immediately all demands are met and the contract has been signed by both parties, the wedding shall commence."

"Father!"

Alejandro's hand came down firmly on the mahogany desk with a sharp thud that silenced the room. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet Aaron's, his expression unreadable, commanding the respect that had built the Martinez empire.

"Son," he said firmly, "I want to believe you haven't forgotten who you are seated with." His voice, though controlled, carried a weight that could silence an entire boardroom.

"I don't wish to marry her. I'm not ready. If I'm forced, I could spend years resenting her. No woman would want that," Aaron said, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

"You aren't marrying her because you love her," Alejandro replied evenly. "You are marrying her because I said so."

"Shouldn't love be the foundation of marriage? You allowed Sofia to marry for love. Why does mine have to be different?" Aaron asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

"Love has never built an empire, Aaron. Sacrifice has. Every generation of this family has done what was necessary to protect the Martinez name. Now it's your turn. This marriage isn't about your happiness—it's about securing our future. Whether you accept that willingly or not changes nothing."

"But you married Mother for love. Why does mine have to be different?" Aaron pressed, refusing to let the matter rest.

For the first time that evening, Alejandro fell silent. His jaw tightened ever so slightly as his gaze drifted toward the framed photograph resting on the bookshelf beside him—a younger version of himself standing beside Aaron's late mother, both smiling as though the world belonged to them. The sternness in his eyes softened for a fleeting moment before he quietly looked away.

"You and I both know that your mother was the exception," he said at last, his voice lower than before. "Not the rule."

The softness vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"You and I know that you love no one but yourself. Settling down with Montserrat will be the only way to force some responsibility into your life. Besides, this is business, and I would prefer you consider this your first contribution to the family business, since all you do is spend and refuse to work." Alejandro straightened the cuffs of his suit before turning toward the door. Without another glance at his son, he walked out, leaving the office in complete silence.

The office felt unusually empty after the door clicked shut. Aaron remained seated, motionless, staring at the contract spread across the desk. His father's words echoed in the back of his mind, but it was Montserrat's voice—calm, cold, unwavering—that lingered the loudest.

He reached into his pocket and took out his Montblanc. Twisted the cap off. Then put it back on.

​

He couldn't do it.

He pushed himself up and walked to the tall windows overlooking the city. Forty-eight hours. That was all the freedom he had left. Forty-eight hours before his face would be next to hers on every blog, every business page. Before every choice he made would have to be cleared, explained, performed.

​

Rebecca would see it in the morning. She would cry. She would call him a coward, and she wouldn't be wrong.

He thought about Sofia, who got to marry for love because she was the daughter. About his mother's photo on the shelf. About the fact that no matter how many women he dated or how much money he burned through, this desk, this name, this house always pulled him back.

​

Love has never built an empire. Sacrifice has.

His father was right. He hated that he was right.

​

He walked back to the desk. Exhaled once through his nose. And this time, he didn't hesitate.

He twisted the cap off, looked at her neatly typed Eight Commandments, and with a slow, humorless smile, wrote beneath them in deliberate, elegant handwriting:

Rule Nine: You will not fall in love with me. I won't return the favor.

Only then did Aaron sign his name beneath the contract, the ink drying almost instantly against the expensive paper.

The De Armas' sprawling mansion was partly lit, while the other half lay in darkness. Montserrat's car was guided into the driveway as she arrived.

Montserrat still bore the irritation Aaron had managed to ignite. She admitted she couldn't stand him in the thirty minutes they had spoken. She already could tell three whole years would be nothing short of a nightmare.

She entered the foyer, Isabella De Armas, her mother, already waiting while going through styles of wedding gowns alongside the wedding planner.

"I'm home," Montserrat said, ditching her heels to the side as she walked barefoot toward her mother, collapsing against her. "I'm so exhausted."

"Aaron, I hear, can be a pain in the neck," Isabella chuckled softly.

"You have no idea!" Montserrat groaned dramatically. "I left the office at exactly seven so I wouldn't keep him waiting, but he would rather waste an hour of my time, and worse, he refused to apologize for being late. He is awfully rude, arrogant, conceited, insufferable... Mum, words can't describe how unbearable he truly is, and I say this as someone who genuinely hates his guts. The media did underreport him."

Her mother took her hand into hers. She tucked a strand of her daughter's hair behind her ear before gently cupping her face.

"Then hate him if you must. But never let that hatred become greater than your sense of duty. Sometimes we don't marry the person we want—we marry the future our family needs." Isabella said gently.

Montserrat held her mother's gaze as the smile on her lips gradually disappeared.

Montserrat took in a bitter swallow. "I understand. The numbers already do not tally. I know everything. Father already briefed me. I also know the engagement will be announced in forty-eight hours."

"Don't ever feel because your father and I put you in this position—"

"No, no, Mum. I'm the first daughter. The responsibility of the family is also mine to bear. I will do everything for our family's name to last another century," Montserrat said with quiet conviction, despite the ache hidden beneath her words.

"That is my strong daughter. I know nothing can break you." Her mother smiled. "It must be hard on you, but it's good you moved on, dear. If not, the Martinez family would have found out, and they wouldn't have proceeded with this arrangement."

"Yes. I will also make sure they never do." Montserrat embraced her mother once more and kissed her cheek. "I'll take a shower and join you in picking out my wedding dress. I'm so excited."

She picked up her heels and hurried upstairs to her room.

The moment she got inside, she stripped off everything she had been wearing and stepped beneath the shower, turning the temperature into its coldest setting, until it numbed her skin. Anything was better than feeling.

She sealed the bathroom door. The water ran relentlessly over her trembling body, loud enough that no one downstairs would hear.

After three months of holding everything in, she finally let herself cry.

"It would've been you."