Chapter 5

“We need to talk.” He stood in front of me, voice disturbingly calm—like he was announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before. Talk? My brain instantly began filtering keywords. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Or was he proposing some sort of… “long-term sexual partnership”? Definitely not a proposal. That only happens in soap operas written by people with chronic romance brain. Was he worried I’d cling to him? After all—it was me who started this. I was the one who dragged him out of the bar. I was the one who opened the hotel door. I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought. “Look,” I said, adopting the most adult, accountable tone I could muster, “last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but… undeniably enjoyable mistake.” I tried not to look at his shoulders. Not at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his clavicle, tracing the path over sculpted muscle. “I’m not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won’t call you crying about emotional trauma. I’m not that kind of girl.” He didn’t say anything. Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door—cue graceful exit, complete with closure monologue. But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine. I froze. Slowly turned around. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t place—somewhere between surprise and… seriousness. “You don’t remember me?” he asked softly. I blinked, thrown. I answered quickly, almost defensive: “Of course I do. You’re my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night.” Technically true. Totally accurate. What I didn’t say—and never would—was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him. That face was unforgettable. Or, to be more precise, that face, standing in front of me in just a white towel, with water dripping down those abs… yeah. Not something easily erased from memory. I swallowed hard. The trick was: don’t look directly at him. Like an eclipse. Too bad that strategy had completely failed. Worse still, even though I was fully dressed and he was practically naked, somehow under his gaze, I felt like the one completely exposed. I tried to speak—say something, anything to shift the attention. But he didn’t ask again. He just stood there, watching me, as if waiting for the moment my real reaction would finally arrive. The silence stretched. Then he said, “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.” I blinked. What? “Can I go now?” I asked, my voice dry. His hand still hadn’t moved. He looked at me again, then—unhurriedly—said: “Will you marry me?” … WTF?! “You’re not serious.” I finally found my voice. “I’m completely serious,” he replied, like he was announcing a quarterly investment plan. “I just returned to the country. My parents want me to get married as soon as possible. In their eyes, a married man means stability. And only a stable man can inherit the family business.” I fell silent. Two days ago, I swore I’d bring home someone better than Rhys. Someone impressive enough to shut my parents up. And now, the universe had delivered an answer—just with a thick layer of irony. But I knew. Marriage shouldn’t be like this. I’d already lived through a love-less engagement once. What it left behind was a house full of silence, intimacy that felt hollow, and a slow, brutal erosion of my self-respect. I opened my mouth to say no. But at that moment, my phone rang. The sharp ringtone sliced through the quiet like a knife. I glanced at the screen—and felt like a bomb had gone off in my chest. Caroline Vance. My mother. Katherine was back. She must’ve called to announce the beginning of something. I looked at that face—familiar yet foreign—then back down at my phone. And finally, I said the words: “I can’t accept.” I walked out of the hotel suite, the ringtone still shrieking behind me. I answered not because I wanted to, but because I needed—desperately—to sever this umbilical cord that kept dragging me back into the past. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Were you trying to give me a stroke?” My mother’s voice came rapid-fire, like a machine gun. “I thought you were dead in a ditch or kidnapped by some maniac! Get home. Now. We need to talk.” “I’m already on my way,” I said coldly, and hung up before she could launch into round two. I gave the driver my parents’ address and collapsed into the backseat, like someone bracing for a colonoscopy without anesthesia. Okay. Let’s get this over with. My neighbor—aka my one-night stand—was probably insane. But while I still had a drop of alcohol-induced courage left in my bloodstream—while the old Mira, desperate for love, hadn’t crawled back in and taken over—I had to move fast. I had to throw this shattered mess back in their perfect little faces. The Vance family estate sat in the kind of suburban enclave that didn’t welcome anyone who couldn’t afford a BMW. No subway stops. No bus routes. Just an elegantly phrased “keep out, poor people.” At the wrought-iron gate, I inhaled deeply. I felt like a boxer walking into the ring. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Emotional armor locked and loaded. The moment I stepped into the living room, I could smell the ambush. My father—Franklin Vance—sat alone in his leather chair, wearing the same expression he probably used to fire underperforming hedge fund managers. Beside him, my mother, Caroline, with her flawless hair and perfectly aligned pearl necklace, smiled the way a doctor does when saying, “The cancer’s spread.” To their left, Rhys sat on the sofa, all solemn and brooding, as if waiting for a divorce lawyer to direct his next pose. And on the right? Katherine, obviously. All we were missing was a gavel and a court reporter. This was a trial. I was the defendant. And the verdict had already been written. Mother struck first. “What took you so long? I called you hours ago.” She crossed her arms, her tone colder than the AC. “Traffic,” I lied. If I told them I’d just escaped from a man in a towel, they’d have me institutionalized. “So? Why am I here?” My tone was sharp, iced over. No one answered. Not until Rhys stood, bandage still across his forehead. The sight of him looking vaguely wounded brought me the tiniest flicker of grim satisfaction. “You left this at my place,” he said slowly, holding something in his hand. “Your bear alarm clock.” I stared at it. A cheap, scuffed electronic clock shaped like a cartoon bear, its plastic face scratched and faded from over a decade of use. And now, this relic was their opening move? Rage crawled up my throat, but I forced it down. “Thanks,” I said flatly. “That’s… thoughtful.” I snatched the ridiculous little clock and turned to leave. Come on. No one calls a full-blown family meeting just to return a damn alarm clock. I knew better. This was about humiliation. About putting me in my place. They were the real family. I was always the outsider—invited in only when they needed a benchwarmer. “Wait,” my mother said, her voice even colder than before. I paused. Didn’t turn around. She folded her arms again and smiled—that tight, poisonous kind of smile you only see when a doctor says “Stage four.” “Now that Katherine’s back,” she said, “and since you and Rhys have broken up, we believe it’s time—he and Katherine should be engaged.” I gave a short, humorless laugh. Turned around slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from my mouth. “By all means. Plan whatever you want. Not like you’ve ever asked for my opinion before.” “We used to ask,” she said, voice turning sharp, “back when you were still the sensible daughter. The one with potential.” She stepped closer. “You’re too emotional, Mira. Your insecurity made you paranoid—accusing Rhys, trying to control him. You didn’t trust him, and that’s what destroyed the relationship.” Her words were blades. Featherlight in tone. Ruthless in effect. “So this is on you. And you’ll make that clear in the press. Tell them you fell for someone else. That’s why you ended the engagement.” I froze. Something tore inside my chest—like they’d ripped it open with their bare hands. I looked at them, all of them—my parents, Rhys, Katherine. So calm. So calculated. Like a script they'd rehearsed for weeks. What had I done to deserve this? Where had I gone so wrong? I was ready to explode. To storm out. But that’s when my father finally stood. Like a judge preparing to read the sentence. “You don’t have to worry about finding someone new,” he said with absolute finality. “We’ve already made arrangements—”