"A merger of dynasties, they call it. The perfect match." I face the crowd, hundreds of eyes burning into me like lasers. "But that's what we do, isn't it? Package lies in pretty boxes and call it tradition."
"Ares." My father's voice slices through the air like a steel blade. He steps forward, bourbon abandoned, each footfall heavy against the marble floor. A vein pulses at his temple, his face flushing dark with rage. "That's enough."
"I won't do it." The words taste like freedom on my tongue, sweet and terrifying. "I won't marry someone I don't love for the sake of stock prices and social alliances. I won't live my life by someone else's script anymore."
Jessica recovers first, her social training taking over. Her laugh rings out, musical yet menacing, like wind chimes in a storm. "Oh, darling." She places a hand on my chest, each finger splayed like a claim of ownership. Her eyes glitter with venom. "You'll regret this little tantrum," she hisses, her breath hot against my ear.
"Less than I'd regret marrying you."
Bull's-eye. Her smile shatters, pure fury bleeding through the cracks of her perfect façade. A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks with blotchy red. Before she can retaliate, my mother materializes beside us, her smile carved from ice, her eyes flat and dangerous.
"A word," she says, each syllable clipped and precise. Her fingers dig into my arm, not quite hard enough to show in photographs. "Now."
My father joins us in a quieter alcove, his presence a storm of contained rage. Security guards flank us, providing the illusion of privacy. Behind them, reporters' fingers fly across their phones, recording every moment. By morning, this will be everywhere. Exactly as planned.
"Have you lost your mind?" Mother's voice trembles with rage, her manicured hands curling into fists at her sides. A single strand of hair has come loose from her updo, dangling by her ear like a surrender flag.
I lean against the wall, a strange calm settling over me now that I've crossed the line. The weight I've carried for years seems to float away, leaving me lighter than I ever felt before. "No. I've finally found it."
"You think this is about rebellion?" Father's voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his breath sour with bourbon as he leans in close. "Wake up, Ares. This merger isn't about social standing—it's about survival. The Westwoods' global reach, their technology... we could dominate Asia, Africa, South America. Without this deal, Saint Industries falls behind. Is that what you want? To watch everything crumble because you're too selfish to do your duty?"
I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze. "The merger's a bandaid on a bullet wound. My renewable energy proposal alone would triple our market cap in five years. But you'd rather sell us off than admit your son might actually know something about the future."
Father's laugh is sharp and dismissive. "Those pet projects of yours? Unproven, untested fantasies. This is business, not one of your idealistic daydreams."
"You've never even looked at the projections," I counter, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "The market research, the potential partnerships—all of it sitting on your desk for months. Years. You talk about survival, but you refuse to evolve."
"I built this company from the ground up," he snarls, jabbing a finger into my chest. "I know what works. I know what's necessary."
"The merger is about control, not progress," I say. "The Westwoods want the same thing you do—power concentrated in fewer hands. That's not change—it's consolidation. It's fear disguised as strategy."
"Ares, please..." Mother moves closer, her voice honey-sweet with practiced concern. She reaches up to brush imaginary lint from my shoulder, her touch light but possessive. "You're our only son. Everything we've sacrificed has been for your future. This merger secures your destiny, your chance to lead this company to greatness." Her eyes shimmer with calculated tears, one perfectly timed drop sliding down her cheek. "Would you destroy your children's legacy before they're even born?"
Their expectations crush down—decades of grooming, of calculated preparation. For a heartbeat, I feel it all: duty, guilt, the terror of disappointing them. Then I remember the price I've already paid—endless empty smiles, hollow promises, the suffocating weight of living someone else's life.
"I won't do it." My voice holds steady against the hurricane inside. "I won't be your pawn, not even for Saint Industries."
Father's face turns to stone as he invades my space. His cologne—sandalwood and power—surrounds me like a threat.
"This isn't a fairy tale where you follow your heart, Ares. This is business." He spits the word like venom. "And I won't let you destroy it."
"How will you stop me?" I nod toward the crowd of socialites and reporters devouring every word, their phones raised like weapons. "Planning to drag me back by force? That should make an interesting headline."
His nostrils flare. We both know I've won. Any show of force now would destroy them in the press.
I find Ethan by the exit, coiled and ready. His hazel eyes are alert, scanning for threats even as his lips quirk up in that familiar half-smile that's gotten us through a dozen tight spots before. He straightens his tie—a deliberate signal that our escape route is clear.
"Ares!" Cameras flash like lightning as I shoulder past Father, capturing every moment of my rebellion. Each photo hammers another nail in my gilded cage.
The crowd parts, their scandalized whispers following me like a trail of breadcrumbs:
"Can't believe he'd dare—"
"The Saint legacy—"
"What a disgrace—"
Their judgment should crush me, but each step toward freedom feels lighter, like shedding chains I've worn so long they became part of my skin.
