Amaya
The invitation to lunch arrived in gold foil and stiff pleasantries — Devreaux style, of course.
I knew it was trouble the second I touched the envelope.
A few minutes later, I was already calling my mother.
"Mom?" I said as soon as she picked up. "What's with the formal invitation? Since when do I need a summons for lunch?"
"Maya, please," she sighed. "Just show up. Your father would be pissed if you didn't."
"When is Dad ever not pissed?"
"Amaya."
I exhaled, softened. "Alright. I'll be there. Love you."
"Love you too."
I ended the call and stared at the envelope a second longer.
Something about it settled uneasily in my chest.
-------
The garden at the Devreaux estate looked like a magazine cover — perfectly trimmed hedges, white roses, pressed linen napkins, crystal glasses sweating under the early afternoon sun.
My father was already seated, wine glass in hand.
And across from him — Christian Knight.
I blinked once, then smoothed my expression into polite indifference.
He looked the same. Impeccable suit. Probably five-figure cufflinks. That aloof, unreadable expression I'd seen a hundred times at galas and charity functions. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Still — despite my better judgment — I noticed him. My eyes took in the cut of his jaw, the cold steel of his eyes, the confidence with which he carried silence.
He was undeniably good looking.
Dangerously so.
Our mothers beamed too brightly. The men didn't even pretend to smile.
"We're glad you both made it," his father began, swirling his wine. "Let's skip the small talk."
"Please do," Christian replied, voice flat and unimpressed.
His mother shot him a look, but my father only chuckled.
"We've come to an agreement."
My head tilted, instinctively. "An agreement?"
"Marriage," my mother said, as if announcing a dress fitting. "Between you and Christian. You've known each other for years—"
I didn't bother correcting her.
I didn't know this man.
"—and our families—"
"—stand to gain quite a bit," my father finished. "The press is already warming to the idea. It's the perfect match."
--------
Christian
This was not how I wanted to spend my Thursday.
I could've been reviewing quarterly reports. Shutting down another acquisition before lunch. Instead, I was here — in a perfectly manicured garden — listening to two families talk about my future like it was a product on a shelf.
I knew what this was the second I arrived.
My father had warned me two weeks ago: my relationship with Ava was becoming... "unpalatable."
The headlines. The drama.
Paparazzi shots of Ava throwing a drink at some heiress during fashion week. It was all becoming too public. Too loud.
Classic Ava.
They wanted order. Quiet. Respectability.
The solution?
They needed Amaya Devreaux.
I looked at her now — back straight, dress pale blue, skin glowing in the light. Calm. Poised.
And God, she was pretty.
Undeniably so.
The kind of beauty that made you stop mid-thought. That made you imagine things you had no business imagining.
But not my type.
Too put-together. Too polished. Too... predictable.
I liked chaos. I liked fire. I liked Ava — with all her flaws and bad decisions.
But I also knew when to take the deal.
"How long?" I asked.
My father didn't blink. "Three years. Public-facing marriage. Shared residence. We keep up appearances."
"If it doesn't work," my mother added, tone smooth and unbothered, "you part ways quietly."
I leaned back slightly, detached. Cool.
"And if I say no?"
There was a pause. Subtle — not tension, not threat. Just weight.
My father met my gaze. Steady. Certain.
"You won't," he said. It wasn't a warning.
Just a truth between men who understood the game.
And he was right.
I wouldn't.
Still, I looked over at Amaya again.
She hadn't looked my way once. Just circling the rim of her water glass with one finger, like this entire conversation was beneath her attention.
"What's in it for her?" I asked, more out of curiosity than concern.
Her father arched a brow. "Security. A fortified brand. The union strengthens both houses."
"She already has power," I muttered. "She's a Devreaux."
That got her attention.
Her voice was calm. Even.
"Yes, Father," she said, eyes on him. "What exactly is in it for me?"
Bold.
I liked that.
"Amaya," her father warned, voice sharpening.
She didn't blink. Just took a sip of her water.
Then, calmly, she nodded.
"Fine," she said. "Three years, then we walk it. Thank you for the offer, Mr. and Mrs. Knight."
Her tone was diplomatic. Her posture didn't shift.
But the message was clear: this wasn't a favor.
It was a contract.
And she'd play her part, on her own terms.
I stood, adjusting my cuffs. "Let me know where I need to be. And when."
I gave her a short nod. "Devreaux."
Then I turned and walked out of the garden without another glance.
By the time I slid into the back seat of the car, I was already calling.
Ava answered on the first ring.
"Hey," I said. "Meet me at the house in twenty."
I didn't wait for a response. Just ended the call and leaned back in the seat.
What I needed right now was simple.
Something loud. Messy. Reckless.
I could use a good fuck.