Once the door to my father's office clicked shut behind them, Grayson turned back to me.
"This arrangement is acceptable to you, I assume?"
His tone was dry as dust. No room for emotion, not even a flicker of curiosity.
"Yes," I answered, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the tightening in my throat. My palms were slick with nerves.
I gestured toward the living room. "Shall we sit?"
He gave a curt nod.
I sank into the couch, the cushions swallowing my weight, while Grayson lowered himself into the armchair opposite me. Not beside me. Not near. There was a careful, deliberate distance between us—a quiet reminder that we were still strangers in every way that counted.
Apart from that kiss to my hand, he hadn't touched me. Not even by accident. Maybe it was a gesture of respect. Or maybe the idea of closeness unsettled him.
"I assume your father told you the wedding is scheduled for January fifth," he said, voice as smooth and impersonal as a boardroom announcement.
"He did," I replied, my hands twisting in my lap. I fought the urge to fidget. He didn't need to see me unravel.
"I understand that's not even a full year since your husband passed. But my father is stepping down, and when I take his place, I'm expected to be married."
Not a single waver. No hesitation. No apology. Just cold, clean facts laid bare.
The pressure in my chest made it hard to breathe.
Jason hadn't been a real husband, but he'd been my friend. I'd known him since we were kids. That's why I'd said yes.
I thought I could help him. Protect him.
Being gay in our world wasn't just taboo—it was a death sentence. Jason had begged me for a way out, and I'd given it to him. Foolishly, I'd believed I could fix things. That one day, maybe, he'd come to love me.
But that day never came.
And when he died… some small, shameful part of me had felt relief. That part whispered that I was free now. Free to be wanted. To be chosen.
I buried that voice deep, deeper than grief.
"If this timeline is too soon," Grayson said suddenly, his eyes steady on mine, "we can call it off."
Mamma would throw a glass through the window. Papà might have a stroke.
"No," I said too quickly. "It's fine. I was just… remembering."
He didn't answer. He just stared, that same cool, calculating stare that seemed to strip away layers I wasn't ready to expose.
"Very well," he said at last. "We'll need to begin planning. Two months isn't long, but the wedding won't be extravagant, so it should suffice."
I nodded, swallowing down the silence. A modest celebration was appropriate. A lavish one would feel… disrespectful.
Still, somewhere deep inside me, something ached. Would I ever have a wedding that was about love? About joy?
"Can I ask something?" I said, my voice softer now, but firm. "Why me? You could've chosen anyone."
Grayson's expression didn't flinch.
"My father suggested your cousin Nicole," he said plainly. "But she's too young. Most women in their twenties are
already married. Widows are older or have children. Both are unacceptable in my position. I'm sure you understand."
I did. And I hated that I did.
His world had rules. Mine did too. And they didn't care about feelings.
"So, you were the only logical choice," he finished. "You're young enough. That's all."
The words struck like a slap.
Not pretty. Not desirable. Not interesting.
Just… young enough.
I stared at him, stunned into silence.
No kindness. No courtesy. No attempt to soften the blow.
This was what I'd been chosen for.
"I'm twenty-three," I said, managing a calm tone despite the storm rising in my chest. I sat straighter, meeting his cold stare with one of my own. "That's not exactly young in terms of marriage where we come from."
"Twelve years younger than me," he replied, tone flat. Detached. "More than I would have liked."
His late wife had been closer to him in age—just two years apart. Married twelve years before cancer took her.
And here I was, a replacement bride. A name on a list. A solution to an equation.
The way he said it, it was as if I'd forced him into this. As if I should apologize for not being more suitable.
Meanwhile, men like him took mistresses the minute their wives turned thirty. And yet I was apparently too young for
him.
"Well, maybe you should've picked someone else then," I snapped before I could stop myself. The words burned on
the way out, and my eyes went wide. "I didn't ask you to marry me."
The moment I heard myself, I slapped a hand over my mouth. What was I doing? My heart pounded in my chest, loud and unforgiving.
I glanced at Grayson, bracing for the infamous temper I'd heard about in hushed stories. But he didn't shout. Didn't
flinch. Just stared.
Stoic. Unreadable.
"I'm sorry," I murmured, lowering my hand. "That was rude. I shouldn't have said that."