Chapter 2: Planning, Pouts, and Pageantry
Leo’s study was a sanctuary of dark wood and old books, the one room in the Stanford mansion where Hana’s dramatics seemed to get swallowed by the sheer gravitas of the oak panels.Currently, she was testing its limits.
“They’re like tiny, terrifying Valkyries in Chanel,” Hana wailed, throwing herself onto the leather chesterfield. “Mother and his mother.A united, florist-obsessed front. I’ve smelled more peonies in the last fortnight than in my entire life. I think I’m allergic now, psychosomatically.”
Leo glanced up from his tablet, a faint smile playing on his lips.“It’s called wedding planning, Han. Normal people do it.”
“Normal people choose things!I am having things chosen for me. The cake, the flowers, the terrifyingly organic, free-range doves that are supposed to be ‘released’ but probably have a GPS tracker and a return-to-sender address. And he,” she spat the pronoun, “is absolutely useless. He just smiles that stupid saintly smile and says, ‘Whatever makes Hana happy.’ Then he vanishes into his tech dungeon and leaves me with the Valkyries! He dumped everything on me!This is emotional warfare, Leo. I’m considering a counter-suit.”
“You don’t have a case,” Leo said calmly, putting his tablet down. “And Ryan’s just smart. Why fight two battles when you can let the mothers win one and conserve your energy?”
“For what? For smirking at me across a dinner table for the rest of my natural life?Ugh.” She buried her face in a velvet cushion.“I’m dying. This is how I go. Smothered by tulle and Ryan Carter’s insufferable condescension.”
Leo just shook his head, the picture of brotherly patience. He knew the script. She would complain, he would listen, and somewhere in the world, Ryan would be checking his watch, a faint, knowing smirk on his face as he anticipated the next skirmish.
The morning of the wedding dawned with a sky so perfectly, insultingly blue it felt like a personal taunt. Hana stood in the center of a sun-drenched suite at The Luxe, a vision of haute couture wrath. The dress was a masterpiece—an architectural wonder of French lace and silk that made her look like a frosted goddess.It weighed a thousand pounds.
Her mother, grandmother, and a small army of stylists had finally been shooed out, leaving only the quiet hum of anticipation. The door opened softly, and Leo slipped in, already impeccable in his morning coat.He stopped dead, his usual unflappable cool dissolving into something raw and tender.
“Wow, Han,” he breathed, his voice uncharacteristically thick.
She turned, the skirt whispering against the floor. “Do I look as miserable as I feel?”
“You look…” He shook his head, blinking rapidly.“You look like my little sister. All grown up and terrifyingly beautiful.”
Tears, genuine and unplanned, sprang to her mother’s eyes from the doorway where she’d reappeared.Her grandmother dabbed at her cheeks with a linen handkerchief. Even her father, who had been examining the minibar with intense concentration, cleared his throat several times and adjusted his cuffs. The room thickened with a love so palpable it momentarily squeezed the air from Hana’s lungs.All the forced arrangements, the corporate merger of a marriage, receded. For this suspended second, it was just her family, overwhelmed by the sight of her. Her heart clenched, a sweet, sharp ache.She swallowed hard.
“Don’t you dare make me cry,” she whispered hoarsely to Leo. “My mascara is waterproof, but my soul isn’t.”
He just grinned, crooked and loving, and offered his arm.
The walk to the altar was a blur of murmured awe and blinding camera flashes. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, a serene mask plastered on her face.Then she saw him.
Ryan Carter, standing at the end of an aisle carpeted in a fortune’s worth of white roses, looked like he’d been sculpted by a artist with a grudge against all other men. The tailored black wedding suit didn’t just fit him; it worshipped him, highlighting the broad line of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist.His dark hair was perfectly, deliberately tousled. And his face… that infuriating, permanent smirk was gone. In its place was an expression of such startling intensity, such focused absorption, that it knocked the breath right out of her.He looked… arrested. Humbled, even.
The hateful, traitorous thought slithered through her mind before she could crush it: He looks incredible.
The ceremony passed in a haze of traditional words and modern absurdity. They had written their own vows—a compromise between the mothers’ romanticism and their own mutual disdain. Hana’s were succinct and barely civil, promising “to tolerate” and “endeavor not to intentionally ruin his life.” Ryan’s were deceptively sweet, layered with enough double meaning to make her eye twitch. He promised “to cherish every single one of her moods,” with a glint that said he especially cherished the tantrums.
“You may now kiss your bride.”
Ryan’s hands came up to cradle her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes held hers, that intense look returning, and for a dizzying moment, she saw no mockery in them.Then he leaned in. The kiss was not what she’d braced for—not a dry, perfunctory peck for the cameras. It was soft, lingering, just deep enough to feel the promise of something behind it. A current, hot and startling, shot straight through her core.When he pulled back, his smirk had returned, but it seemed softer at the edges. Her lips tingled.She wanted to wipe the feeling away. She also, hatefully, wanted to do it again.
The after-party was a masterclass in luxury, a whirlwind of champagne towers, caviar mounds, and a live orchestra playing songs that cost more per note than most people’s monthly rent. During the obligatory first dance, Ryan’s arm was a firm band around her waist.
“You’re stiff as a board,” he murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her skin.“Relax, Princess. The hardest part is over.”
“The hardest part is living with you,” she shot back, smiling sweetly for the circling photographers. “Which starts tonight. I want the master bedroom.”
He spun her gracefully, his laugh a low rumble against her.“You’re moving into my penthouse.My rules. My master bedroom.”
“Fine. You can take the guest room.”
“Not a chance.”
“It has an en-suite!And a view!”
“So does my room.And it already has my stuff in it. Like my bed.” His grin was predatory. “Our bed, now.”
Indignation flared white-hot. With perfect timing as the music swelled, she shifted her weight and brought her spiked heel down, not too hard, but with definitive precision, onto the polished toe of his Italian leather shoe.He didn’t flinch. He just tightened his grip and dipped her suddenly, deeply, drawing a gasp from the audience and from her.His face hovered inches above hers. “Points for creativity,” he whispered, the amusement in his eyes undimmed. “But you’ll need better tactics than that.”
Later, swirling on a cloud of Veuve Clicquot and resentment, Hana was accosted by a flock of her friends, their eyes glittering with champagne and romance.“We knew it!” squealed Chloe, clutching her arm. “All that bickering?The chemistry was insane. We had a bet, like, two years ago, that you’d end up married.Enemies to lovers! It’s the best trope. You two are, like, disgustingly sweet.”
Hana’s smile felt welded to her face. She wanted to scream, to shake them and detail the cold, contractual nightmare of it all.Instead, she giggled airily and said, “Oh, stop! He’s just lucky I said yes.” Inside, she was reciting a litany of curses.
Across the room, Ryan was holding court with his friends, laughing at something, his head thrown back. The honeyed light from the chandeliers caught the sharp line of his jaw, the confident ease of his posture.Snake.Scammer.Smug, arrogant, tailor-made suit-wearing scam artist. She repeated it like a mantra, a protective chant against the memory of that kiss.
Finally, mercifully, the last guest was waved off, the last photographer paid and dismissed. A strained, silence descended between them as they walked through the now-deserted, glitter-littered ballroom. They didn’t speak in the gilded lobby, or as they waited for the private elevator to the presidential suite—her parents’ final, traditional gift.
The elevator doors slid open with a hushed ping. They stepped inside, the mirrored walls reflecting infinite versions of them, standing apart in their wedding finery, a chasm of velvet and tension between them. The doors closed, sealing them in a silent, moving box. The air was thick with the scent of her jasmine perfume and his sandalwood cologne, and the unspoken, overwhelming reality of the night that lay ahead.
The air was thick with the scent of her jasmine perfume and his sandalwood cologne, and the unspoken, overwhelming reality of the night that lay ahead. The elevator doors opened directly into the suite’s foyer, revealing a cavern of muted gold and cream.
Hana stepped out first, her silk train whispering across the floor.Then she saw it. The massive queen-sized bed dominated the room, its duvet meticulously littered with a hundred crimson rose petals. “Oh, for the love of—” she began, her voice cracking.
“Charming,” Ryan drawled from behind her, his tone flat. “Your mother’s handiwork, I assume. She does have a flair for the literal.”
“Shut up.” Hana stalked further into the room, the weight of the day settling squarely on her shoulders. She eyed the plush velvet sofa positioned by the window, then the bed, a battlefield of petals. Turning sharply on her heel, she faced him. “As the gentleman,” she stated, forcing sweetness into her words, “you should take the sofa.”
Ryan didn’t even blink. He just loosened his tie, pulled it free with a single smooth motion, and tossed it over a chair. “No.”
“No?”
“No. I paid for this suite—well, our merger paid for it—and I’m sleeping in that bed. If you’re so morally opposed to sharing, the sofa is all yours.” He began unbuttoning his cuffs, his movements infuriatingly casual. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”
“You are such a jerk.” The words burst out of her, sharp and immediate.
“I agree,” he said, smiling that infuriating saint’s smile.“Enjoy the sofa, Princess. I hear it’s very… supportive.” He walked toward the bathroom, then paused, looking back. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer the bed? I promise not to hog the covers.”
Hana’s glare could have frosted the champagne bucket in the corner. “I don’t mind sharing the bed either,” she snapped, lifting her chin in defiance.“It’s a big bed. I’ll just imagine you’re not there.”
“Delightful. A mutual phantom.” He nodded toward a small, ribbon-tied box placed pointedly on the nightstand on her side. “I believe that’s for you. A wedding gift, perhaps from your delightful gaggle of friends.”
Curiosity briefly overruled her fury. Hana picked up the box, untied the silken ribbon, and lifted the lid.A shriek tore from her throat. Nestled inside was a wisp of black lace and sheer mesh, a lingerie set so transparent it was practically theoretical. She held it up, the fabric dangling from her finger like a condemned spiderweb.
Ryan glanced over, let out a low, appreciative whistle, and smirked.“Well. For formality’s sake, you probably should wear it. Might be in the fine print of the merger documents.”
With a shriek of pure rage, Hana balled the offending garment and launched it at his head. “You wear it!”
He caught it deftly, laughing—a real, deep, unguarded laugh that transformed his face for a split second.He tossed the lace back onto the bed. “It wouldn’t suit me,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he finally disappeared into the bathroom. The lock clicked softly behind him.
Hana stood there, trembling with a volatile cocktail of rage and deep, cringing humiliation.The shower started running. She stared at the bed, the petals, the stupid black lace. With a violent sigh, she began the arduous process of dismantling herself from the wedding dress, each hook and zipper feeling like a surrender.
She was fumbling with the final clasp when the bathroom door opened again.Steam billowed out, followed by Ryan. He emerged with only a white towel slung low around his hips, another damp one in his hands as he rubbed it through his dark, wet hair.Hana’s breath caught. She’d seen him at the pool, playing soccer with Leo and his friends, but that had been a distant, sun-drenched spectacle.This was up close. The water droplets trailed over the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his stomach, the vicious scar a faint silver line along his ribs. The towel hung precariously, hinting at the powerful lines of his hips and thighs.
A blush, hot and uncontrollable, surged from her chest to her hairline. She snapped her gaze away, busying herself with the dress draped over a chair. “Done hogging the hot water?” she asked, her voice impressively steady for someone whose heart was trying to batter its way out of her ribcage.
“All yours.” He padded past her, the clean scent of soap and warm skin replacing the steam. He didn’t even look at her.
As soon as he was across the room, examining the minibar, she bolted for the bathroom, a sanctuary still foggy with his presence. She shut the door and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her flaming cheeks. “Get a grip,” she whispered to her panicked reflection in the misty mirror.The shower helped. The hot water scoured away the makeup, the hairspray, the lingering feeling of a thousand watching eyes. She let it calm the frantic rhythm of her pulse, the weird, jumpy feeling in her stomach. She washed her hair, rehearsing cool, dismissive things to say when she went back out.
It was only as she turned the water off and reached for a towel that she realized her catastrophic error.In her furious escape, she had brought nothing.No pajamas, no robe. Nothing but the plush, oversized towel she now wrapped tightly around herself. She stared at her discarded dress, a sodden heap on the floor.It was not an option.
It was not an option.She stood there, dripping onto the cool marble, trapped. The towel was a flimsy fortress.Stepping out now, wrapped in nothing but terrycloth, felt like a declaration. He would smirk.He would make some unbearably witty comment about post-wedding traditions. He might even think she’d planned this, that the heiress was attempting some clumsy, transparent seduction.But he’d walked out half-naked first!The absolute audacity.
A soft knock on the door shattered her frantic spiral. “Hana?” Ryan’s voice was close, muffled by the wood.“You’ve been in there forty minutes. Are you alright, or do you intend to sleep in the tub tonight? The pillows are better out here, I’m told.”
Humiliation burned through her. She cracked the door open just enough to peer through, hiding her body behind it.His scent, clean and sharp, mingled with the steam. “My clothes,” she demanded, her voice strained.“From the closet. Can you just… hand them in?”
She heard his quiet footsteps retreat, then return a moment later. “Closet’s empty. There’s a suitcase stand, but it’s bare.”
“That’s impossible.” She squeezed her eyes shut.“Check the dresser drawers.The armoire. I specifically told my assistant to have everything laid out.She’s never forgotten before.”
There was a pause. A long, knowing pause.She heard a soft, dismissive sound, almost a chuckle. Then it clicked.The lingerie on the bed.The rose petals. The singular, monogrammed suitcase they’d arrived with, which only held their wedding day essentials.
It wasn’t her assistant’s mistake.It was their mothers’ final, shameless act.
“Oh,” she breathed, the word dropping like a stone.The reality washed over her, cold and complete. No pajamas.No practical cotton.Just a towel and a thread of black lace. A choked sound escaped her throat.“Just… never mind.I’ll sleep in here. It’s fine.”
She tried to sound resolved, but it came out devastated, small. She turned from the door, her vision blurring.The vast, empty bathtub looked like a porcelain sarcophagus. She could curl up in it.She would. She took a shaky step toward it, willing the tears not to fall.
“Stop being dramatic.” Ryan’s tone was brisk, cutting through her descending misery.“You can wear the top of my pajamas.They’re in my bag. Hang on.”
Hope, sharp and embarrassing, pricked her.“Why?” she whispered to the door.
His sigh was audible. “Because I don’t want my wife dying of hypothermia in a hotel bathtub on our first night.The scandal would be terrible for the merger. Hold on.”
She heard the rustle of his bag, the soft thud of fabric. A folded bundle of dark blue silk appeared in the gap of the door. She snatched it, her fingers brushing his for a searing instant.The door clicked shut.The pajama top was enormous. It swallowed her.The silk was cool and smooth, smelling faintly of his cologne. She pulled it on. It fell to mid-thigh, a modest enough length, but the sensation of bare skin underneath the slippery fabric was intensely vulnerable.There were no bottoms.This was it. She took a deep, steadying breath, finger-combed her damp hair, and opened the door.
The main room was mostly dark, save for a single lamp on his side. Ryan was already in bed, propped against the headboard, reading something on a tablet. He wore only a pair of black sleep pants. His glasses, thin wire frames, were perched on his nose, refracting the blue glow of the screen.He didn’t look up.
Hana moved to the desk where her meticulous skincare routine was laid out, a small island of normalcy. She focused on the ritual, the slap of toner, the smooth glide of serum. Her reflection in the dark window showed a ghostly girl drowning in blue silk.
She had regretted her bold “I don’t mind sharing the bed” claim the moment she’d made it.Her ego, however, was a fortified castle. She would not retreat. She finished her routine, padded to the left side of the bed, and peeled back the duvet, scattering a few stray petals. She slid in, keeping rigidly to the edge, and pulled out her phone.The glow illuminated her studied nonchalance.She scrolled, seeing nothing.
“You planning to stay up all night?” His voice, quiet in the dimness, startled her.She didn’t look over.“Maybe. Why?”
“I’d like to turn this light off.” He gestured vaguely with his tablet. “Unless you need it.”
She shook her head, then realized he might not see.“No. Go ahead.”
He placed the tablet on his nightstand, removed his glasses, and clicked off the lamp. Darkness, deep and complete, swallowed the room. She heard the rustle of him settling, the shift of weight on the mattress.Her body tensed, waiting for the next dig, the boundary-testing move.
It didn’t come.
After a minute, the faint blue light of his tablet flickered back on, muted and low.He was working.Or pretending to work. The soft tap of his fingers on the screen was the only sound.
The adrenaline of the day, the champagne, the sheer emotional whiplash, began to ebb.The silk of his pajamas was soft against her skin. The bed was profoundly comfortable.Her defiance softened into exhaustion, then into a heavy, unavoidable tiredness. Her breathing deepened, syncing with the quiet rhythm of his tapping. Her phone slipped from her loose fingers onto the duvet.
In the dark, guarded only by the thin glow of a screen, Hana Stanford fell asleep.