Chapter 1: The Unwanted Toast
Hana Maximillian stood at the winter gala, looking like a picture-perfect blonde heiress while sipping champagne. The crystal flute was cold in her hand, a small anchor against the warm swell of orchestra music and chatter that filled the vaulted ballroom. Ice-blue silk hugged her frame, a calculated choice for a night that was, like every other, a performance. She was executing her role with precision: a slight smile here, a polite nod there. The peace ended when Damian Hearth approached, his 190cm frame carving a path through the glittering crowd and finally towering over her.
He didn’t even look at her face at first. His gaze swept the space just above her head with mock confusion. “There you are.” His voice was a low, dry baritone, meant for her ears only. “Did you forget your heels, or are you just shrinking?”
Hana didn’t flinch. She took another slow sip, letting the bubbles burn just a little on her tongue before she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. They were the color of storm clouds, and just as friendly.Her expression remained ice-cold. “It’s a shame none of the oxygen up there reaches your brain, Damian.” She offered a thin, lifeless smile to a passing couple before continuing, her voice never rising above a pleasant murmur. “Did you leave your boring spreadsheets just to annoy me? I thought you had a spreadsheet to calculate the optimal time for being a pest.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.“I came to admire the decor. The ice sculpture is particularly brittle and lifeless tonight.It reminded me of you.”
“How creative. Did you practice that in the mirror, or does banter just come naturally when your personality is set to ‘corporate drone’?”
They stood side-by-side, facing the room, their body language a masterpiece of polite discord.To anyone watching, they were two scions of allied families exchanging pleasantries. No one could see the frigid war in their eyes, the way Hana’s knuckles were white around her glass, or how Damian’s fingers curled slightly, as if imagining wrapping around a stress ball shaped like her head. Their lifelong childhood rivalry, a saga of stolen toys, sabotaged school projects, and mutual, profound annoyance, simmered perfectly beneath the surface.
The friction shattered, violently and publicly, twenty minutes later.The orchestra fell silent. Hana’s father, Charles Maximillian, beaming and rosy-cheeked, tapped a silver knife against his glass. Damian’s parents stood beside him, a united front of parental glee. A knot formed in Hana’s stomach.This was unexpected.
“Friends!” Charles boomed, his arm slung around Jonathan Hearth’s shoulders.“For decades, our families have been more than allies. We have been brothers, sisters.” He gestured grandly. “And tonight, we take the final step to permanently unite our legacies!”
Hana’s champagne flute stopped halfway to her lips. Damian went preternaturally still beside her.
“We are thrilled,” Charles continued, the smile wide and unwavering, “to announce the engagement of our children, Hana and Damian!”
The roar of applause was instantaneous, a crashing wave of delight and approval.Camera flashes popped like starbursts, blinding them. Someone shoved a fresh glass of champagne into Hana’s numb hand. Damian’s hand landed on the small of her back, a gesture that felt less like support and more like he was preventing her from bolting—or keeling over.
“Smile,” he muttered through his own frozen grin, the word barely moving his lips.
“I’ll smile when I’m at your funeral,” she whispered back, her face aching with the force of her counterfeit joy.
They stood there, propped up like dolls, as a stream of well-wishers descended.Hana’s cheeks hurt. Damian’s back was rigid. They accepted hugs and handshakes, the congratulations washing over them in a nauseating tide. Hana caught her mother’s eye across the room; Margaret Maximillian gave a tiny, implacable shake of her head, a silent command to keep playing the part. The final guest lingered, the last photographer was shooed away, and the great doors of the ballroom finally clicked shut, leaving only the six of them in the sudden, echoing silence.
The polite masks evaporated.
Hana stalked across the marble floor, her silk dress whispering with fury, and pushed open the heavy oak door to the private study. Damian was right behind her, his long strides easily keeping pace.Their parents filed in after, looking infuriately calm.
“Are you insane?” Hana’s voice, so carefully controlled all night, cracked through the wood-paneled room.“What was that?A joke? A psychotic break?”
Damian didn’t shout.His voice was colder, more dangerous, aimed like a scalpel at his father. “This is absurd.You cannot possibly expect us to agree to this.Call it off. Now.”
Charles Maximillian sighed, as if dealing with toddlers refusing to eat their vegetables. He poured four fingers of amber whiskey, the clink of crystal loud in the tense quiet. “The arrangements are made, Hana.Contracts are signed. Announcements are being prepared for the morning papers.”
Hana stared, disbelief curdling into rage.“Contracts?You contracted me?Like a merger? I’d rather marry a cactus! A particularly prickly one that doesn’t speak!”
Jonathan Hearth looked at his son, his expression one of mild disappointment.“It’s done, Damian. This is for the future of both families. For stability.”
“My future is not a corporate asset to be consolidated!” Damian shot back.
Margaret Hearth, Damian’s mother, finally spoke, her tone gentle but utterly unyielding. “We understand it’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Hana laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “It’s a nuclear bomb dropped on my life!”
“You will both adapt,” Charles said, taking a slow sip. “You have everything in common.”
“We have nothing in common except a mutual desire to be on different continents!” Damian roared, his composure finally shattering.
It was Hana’s mother, Evelyn, who delivered the final blow.She placed her own glass down with a soft, definitive click. She looked at Hana, then at Damian, her gaze utterly devoid of negotiation. “The choice is simple. You will marry each other in six months, in a ceremony that befits our families…”
She paused, letting the weight of the room settle onto their shoulders.“…or you will be entirely cut off. No trust funds.No shares.No positions within the companies. No access to any family resources, properties, or names.You will walk away with the clothes on your backs and nothing else. Marry, or lose everything.”
The heavy silence that followed was absolute, suffocating. The crackling fire in the hearth was the only sound. Hana looked at Damian, seeing her own stunned, trapped reflection in his wide, storm-grey eyes. The lifelong rivalry, the petty insults, the deep-seated aversion—it all collapsed under the sheer, monumental weight of that ultimatum. They weren’t just being forced together.
They were being buried alive.