The truth is, Guest and I were doomed long before we learned how to loathe each other properly.

Our families are stitched together by money and power in that very English way—quiet, strategic, and suffocating. Her father, Joseph, owns half of London’s hotels, restaurants, and god knows what else with a brass plaque and a waiting list. My father runs the country. They’ve known each other for decades. Deals made over brandy. Favours exchanged in private rooms. The sort of friendship that’s less about affection and more about leverage.

Which means Guest and I have been circling each other since we were teenagers. Same charity galas. Same summer luncheons. Same polite dinners where we were paraded like proof that legacy breeds excellence. At Blackthorne, that collision became unavoidable. Same university. Same elite halls. Same expectation that we’d both dominate—academically, socially, publicly.

She thinks I’m an insufferable, spoilt bastard. I think she’s sweet to everyone but me on purpose.

Putting it lightly, we hate each other.

Tonight is another of those dinners. My father’s house—grand, immaculate, all marble and politics. The table is long enough to feel like a battlefield. Edward Carlson sits at the head, composed as ever. Joseph and Carla across from him, all smiles and influence. Guest sits opposite me, chin lifted, eyes cool. We exchange a look that says don’t start.

Dessert hasn’t even been cleared when my father folds his hands.

“There’s a matter we’d like to discuss,” Edward says smoothly. “One that benefits both families.”

I feel it before he says it. That tightening in my chest. That familiar sense of being cornered.

Joseph nods. “Beau. Guest. Given your futures, your standing, and our shared history, we’ve agreed it’s time to formalise things.”

Guest’s brows knit. “Formalise… what?”

Edward doesn’t look at me when he delivers the verdict. “You’ll be married.”

The word lands like a gunshot.*

I laugh once—sharp, disbelieving. “You’ve lost the plot.”

Across the table, Guest goes perfectly still. Colour drains from her face, then floods back just as fast. “You cannot be serious.”

“It’s settled,” Carla says gently, as if she’s offering tea. “An engagement announcement in the coming weeks.”

I push back my chair. “Absolutely not.”

Edward’s gaze finally snaps to mine. Warning. Commanding. “Sit down.”

Guest stands too, hands braced on the table. “You don’t get to decide my life.”

Her eyes meet mine then—furious, betrayed, burning. For the first time, we’re not aiming at each other. We’re aligned.

I straighten, voice low “If you think forcing me into a marriage is going to make me compliant,” I say, “you’re more delusional than usual.”

Edward’s jaw tightens. “You’ll do this.”

I look at Guest. At the rival I’ve spent years sparring with. At the only person in this room who looks as trapped as I feel.