Her last whisper silenced the air and his heart pounded with a mix dread and desire. His lips parted, but before the words could escape, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment.
One of the maids is rushing forward, bowing her head respectfully. "Pardon me, Madam Seraphine, Sir Callum," she said, her voice almost apologetic. "The tailor has arrived. He awaits you."
Callum clenched his jaw, letting his supposed words to be dissolved. Sera's expression shifted instantly—composure restored.
"Tell him we'll be there shortly," she replied, her tone a smooth command.
The maid bowed again and withdrew, leaving the moment ajar for a moment before totally disappearing.
Sera's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Darling." She whispered, stepping past him. "Let's go."
And with that, she led the way to the tailor, Callum following a meter away from her.
---
The door opened, and the tailor greeted them, flanked by assistants carrying boxes of fine fabrics and measuring tools. Their faces were marked with amusement. Callum exhaled sharply, and smiled as his answer.
Sera straightened, her expression smoothing. "Begin with him," she instructed, her voice calm, as though nothing had passed between them moments before.
The tailor approached Callum, tape measure in hand. Callum stood stiffly, though confused with thoughts, he can clearly feel Sera's gaze on him, those stares that spells him to obedience.
When the tailor moved to Sera, Callum's eyes betrayed him. He watched as fabric was draped across her shoulders, the light catching the curve of her neck. She stood regal, untouchable, yet her faint smile epics a wife.
"These clothes," she said softly, her words meant for him alone, "are not just garments. They are armor. When you wear them, you will belong to this family."
Callum's chest protested, he desires to tear the fabric away. The room's silence swallowed his defiance.
The fitting continued, each measurement a reminder of the invisible chains tightening around him. When the tailor finally packed his tools, Sera dismissed him with a nod. The door closed, leaving them alone once more.
Her lips curved faintly, eyes flickered. She stepped closer, her voice soft. "Shall we invite Dahlia? She can be one of my bridesmaids."
The words struck him cruelly. It sounds as a dangerous softness that blurred the line between mockery and sincerity. Callum's emotions burst, colliding in his chest.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice breaking.
---
By the time the official announcement broke, the country was already burning with curiosity.
**"Virell Group Heir to Wed Elion Commander's Daughter — Ceremony Set in Three Days"**
**"From Childhood Engagement to Sudden Marriage: The Power Union Everyone's Talking About"**
**"Everyone is Invited?"**
News spread like wildfire—Callum's stern profile beside Seraphine's icy beauty. The headlines were carefully crafted. There was no mention of the rooftop proposal. No trace of Dahlia. No hint of the truth.
Exactly as Seraphine requested.
The press room was suffocating with anticipation. Reporters crowded shoulder to shoulder, cameras flashing like lightning against the pale walls. The air buzzed with questions sharpened into weapons, pens poised to carve headlines before the ink could dry.
Sera stood beside Callum's father, her pale ivory suit gleaming under the harsh lights. Her braid pulled tight against her head, accentuating the hard line of her jaw. She looked every inch highlighting her identity as the commander's daughter.
A reporter from the military press raised his voice first. "Miss Elion, why is there no statement from the groom? Shouldn't the heir of Virell Group speak for himself?"
Sera's gaze swept the room, cool and deliberate. "My fiancée is busy arranging the wedding," she said evenly. "But let this wedding be known in every home, from this province to the borders beyond. This is a legacy marriage between two families who have shed blood and built empires. We honor those before us… and those who will come after."
Her words fell like steel. The room quieted, but another voice rose—this time from a business columnist. "Is this union purely strategic? Some say it's a merger disguised as matrimony."
Sera's lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained cold. "Every marriage is strategic. Some are built on love, others on legacy. Ours is built on both."
The reporters scribbled furiously, but none dared press further. The weight of her authority silenced them. Even Callum's father, standing beside her, seemed content to let her words dominate the narrative.
Another flashbulb burst, capturing her profile. Callum's absence was noted, but not questioned. The headlines were already forming, carefully crafted under her command.
There was no mention of the rooftop proposal. No trace of Dahlia. No hint of the truth.
By evening, the world knew.
And Callum hadn't said a word.
---
He buried himself in the high-rise office of Virell Holdings, drowning beneath numbers and silence. Whiskey bottles littered the corner of his desk. Cigarette smoke curled through the windows like ghosts. He hadn't smoked in years—not since Dahlia wrinkled her nose at the habit.
But cigarette had become part of him.
He stared at the untouched glass in front of him, the whiskey burning his eyes more than his throat.
"Two days," he muttered. "They built a kingdom in less time."
Behind his lashes, he saw Sera's face again—so calm, so still, like she had already accepted the weight of the storm.
He hated her for it.
He hated that she walked through the fire without flinching while he clawed for air.
Somehow, there's a part of him hoping that she didn't want this either, that she might run away again, for love.
Thus, he dialed his assistant's number.
Three beeps and someone answered, "Sir?"
"Vernon, can you look for Lior Damare. Before the wedding, you must find him, and if ever, he needs help, give it."
"Yes, sir."
Callum stood after the call and drank his whiskey slowly, attempting to burn the pain.
---
By the time the second night fell, Callum didn't make it home.
He left the office in a haze of liquor and unfinished thoughts, drifting through the streets like a ghost in tailored clothes, lost in a city built on his name.
The streets were wet from earlier rain, the pavement catching the low hum of neon lights.
He wasn't sure how far he had walked. Or why.
His tie hung loose against his chest, his shirt collar unfastened, and a spent cigarette lay dormant between his fingers. His head pounded, and his mouth felt as dry as the desert. He leaned against a cold stone wall, breathing hard as fragments of memory tried to piece together how he'd ended up here.
That's when he heard her.
Boots.
Not the click of Seraphine Elion's usual battlefield stilettos—this was something different: clean, unadorned black boots that marched slowly and purposefully toward him.
He looked up.
There, in the dim light, she stood. Her hair drawn into a low, practical knot; a long coat draped around her like a suit of armor; rain pooling in her lashes, testament to the unyielding downpour.
"You were scaring people," she said, her tone clipped yet inexplicably warm.
Callum laughed bitterly as he tried to push himself off the wall, but his legs betrayed him, buckling beneath the weight of his shattered composure. As she reached out to steady him, he recoiled, shoving her hand away with trembling defiance.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
Her voice remained low and steady, an anchor in the storm of his disarray. "Then don't fall."
He stumbled regardless—and she caught him anyway.
He couldn't fathom how she held him upright. She wasn't tall, but her strength seemed to be built to carry a man broken to the core.
He looked at her as she helped without complaint, as if her strength had always been meant for moments like this. Gently, she slung his arm over her shoulder and began to walk.
Maybe, he needed her, her unspoken comfort. Thus, he let himself hang onto her, anger leaving its space.
They exchanged no words as she half-dragged him toward the waiting car. The driver offered a silent acknowledgment as he opened the door.
Callum slumped into the seat, his hand pressed over his eyes as if to stifle the surge of emotion. Sera slid into the seat beside him in silence.
The car moved away, the only sounds were the soft hum of tires on rain-slicked roads and the strangled rhythm of his restrained, broken breathing.
Later, when they reached the estate, she helped him out again. This time, he made no protest. At the doorstep—just before the door opened—his voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper:
"Why are you doing this?"
She met his gaze—steady, clear—and replied, "Because my father and I made a vow. And I intend to keep it."
"I also made a vow with her. And I also intend to keep it." He nearly laughed, but the sound died in his throat. "But you win, as unlike you, I cannot save her mother. You get the marriage. The legacy and power. But not a child. NEVER."
A long pause followed. In that stillness, something fragile passed over her face—not anger, not pride, but something delicate and unspoken.
"I never wanted to win, Callum," she murmured. "I just stopped waiting to lose."
Then, as if the weight had been lifted entirely from her, she turned and walked away into the dark, leaving him standing in the doorway—alone, with nothing but the echo of her resolve.
Then, in the midst of the heavy silence, he murmured, "Sera, I can help you find Lior." His words, barely audible over the muted hum of the departing night, carried a fragile desperation.
But by that time, every spark of hope had already withered into ash.
The promise—once a lifeline—now lay dormant in the stale air, a bargain that no longer resonated with her. Without a backward glance, she turned away, leaving his earnest bargain suspended in the darkness, as if it were nothing more than a broken promise fading into oblivion.