Unbelievable

I exhaled sharply, dragging my fingers through my hair before pressing them against my temples.

I had to find a way out of this fucking arrangement. Out of her.

Turning away from the door, my gaze landed on the bed, sheets tangled, indented where Isabelle had sprawled across them like she belonged there. Her perfume still clung to the air, thick and cloying, an unwelcome stain on the space that was supposed to be mine.

And in the middle of it all, like a taunt, lay my shirt. The one she had draped over herself in some pathetic attempt at seduction.

My lip curled in disgust. She couldn't even be bothered to put things back where she found them.

Snatching it up, I flung it into the trash without hesitation. It landed with a muted thud, its presence still lingering like a stain I couldn't scrub away. No fucking way was I wearing that again.

Truth be told, this wasn't just about her.

It was about them. My father. The council. The entire suffocating web of so-called purity, their hypocritical righteousness wrapped around my throat like a noose. Isabelle was just another piece in their carefully arranged puzzle, dressed in silk and lace, acting like the game had already been won.

I moved to the window, resting my hands on the sill, fingers digging into the cool wood as I stared out at the estate grounds bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.

If only I could—

A knock at the door interrupted my thought. I refused to move. Didn't even bother to answer it.

Then the knock came again, this time louder, and more insistent.

"What?" I snapped.

The door creaked open, and a voice as familiar as it was unwelcome filled the space. "You tell me."

I turned just enough to see him—my father, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression set in stone.

Not again. Don't tell me she ran straight to him.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, shutting the door behind him like he owned the damn place. His eyes flicked to the trash can, lingering for just a second before settling back on me, hard and unyielding.

"Why was Isabelle crying downstairs?"

His voice was sharp and precise, like a blade cutting through the air. He spoke with control, but tension coiled beneath the surface, like a storm held back by sheer will. His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring just slightly, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They burned with restrained fury, a quiet wildfire waiting for the right spark to break free.

I didn't answer at first—because how the hell am I supposed to respond to a question like that?

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled against his arms, knuckles paling. "Don't ever ignore me when I'm speaking to you boy."

I met his gaze, unwavering. "I don't know why she was crying. She wasn't crying when she left my room."

His scoff was quiet, almost amused, but there was no humor in it. He took a slow step closer. "I heard you chased her out." His voice dropped a fraction, steady and firm, the kind of tone that wasn't meant to be questioned. "Care to explain why, when we've made it very clear that you are to spend time with your future wife?"

I resisted the urge to laugh. Future wife? What a fucking joke.

"Because," I said flatly, "when I walked into my room, I found her lying on my bed. Wearing nothing but my shirt."

I expected some reaction, disapproval, annoyance, even anger. He didn't so much as blink.

My chest tightened. Of course, he doesn't care.

A bitter laugh scraped up my throat. "And you're asking me why I wanted her out of my room? I was uncomfortable, obviously."

His expression remained infuriatingly blank, as if I'd just said something completely irrelevant. "And what's wrong with that?" he asked.

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. But it never came.

Wait… he's serious?

The air between us grew thick, heavy with something cold and suffocating. A lead weight settled in my stomach.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Are you been serious, right now?" My voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

His lack of response told me everything.

A slow, sickening realization crept in, he didn't see the problem. Or worse, he did and just didn't care.

My jaw tightened as my fingers dug into the windowsill, the rough wood biting into my skin. Unbelievable.

"Because we're not married yet," I said, my voice stretched thin with barely contained frustration. "That's the problem. You don't actually expect me to bed her before we've even tied the knot… do you?"

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, cold. The silence stretched between us, suffocating, pressing in on my ribs like a vice.

Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, like I was the one being unreasonable.

"I don't see why you insist on making things so difficult for Isabelle," he said, his voice level, but laced with irritation. "You two are going to be married. If she wants you now, what difference does it make whether it's before or after the wedding?"

Something in me snapped.

I stared at him, a bitter laugh clawing its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down. This is the man who raised me? This is the logic he expects me to accept?

I ran a hand down my face. Oh, Lord, I'm out of here.

Without another word, I brushed past him, my entire body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. If I stayed a second longer, I'd say something we'd both regret.

"Malcolm," he barked, his voice sharp like the crack of a whip.

I didn't stop.

I heard the shift of his stance, the rustle of fabric, a second later, he reached out, fingers aiming for my wrist. But I saw it coming. I slipped past him before he could grab me, my steps purposeful, my body thrumming with barely restrained fury.

Straight for the door.

I grabbed the handle and slammed it open, the hinges groaning under the force. Then, just for good measure, I yanked it shut behind me—hard.