The Binding Dilemma

Aaron's Pov

The dull thud of heavy footsteps, then a sharp, feminine gasp, sliced through the evening quiet. I'd been on my usual perimeter check, a habit I'd never shed, even within the supposed safety of the mansion grounds. My ears, trained for years to pick up the slightest anomaly, registered the urgency in that sound, a desperate, frantic rhythm that didn't belong.

Celeste.

A cold dread coiled in my gut. I moved, a blur of dark clothing against the manicured hedges, cutting through the sprawling gardens towards the unfamiliar wing of the palace where the sound originated. Instinct took over. Not logic, not the simmering resentment, just instinct honed by years of protecting this family.

I rounded a corner, my eyes instantly zeroing in on the scene: three hulking figures closing in on a smaller, fleeing shape. Celeste. Her red dress a flash against the dim stone. Fear, stark and raw, was etched on her face, even from this distance. Goon scum. How did they get in?

Anger, swift and hot, surged through me. My training kicked in. No time for questions. I launched myself forward, a silent projectile. The first man, caught off guard, grunted as my shoulder slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling. His head hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. He wouldn't be getting up for a while.

The other two reacted, turning, but I was already moving. A swift kick to the knee of the second sent him buckling, his yelp cut short by a hard punch to his jaw. He crumpled. The third, bigger, pulled a knife, his eyes widening as he saw me. He lunged, but I was faster. A block, a twist, and his own momentum sent him stumbling. I swept his legs, heard the knife clatter as he went down, and then I was on him, pressing my forearm against his throat, pinning him.

"Who sent you?" My voice was a low snarl, barely a whisper but laced with lethal intent.

He just gurgled, eyes bulging. I tightened my grip, enjoying the desperate struggle.

"Aron!" Celeste's voice, shaky but clear, pierced through the red haze.

I looked up, letting go of the man's throat just enough for him to gasp for air. She was standing a few feet away, clutching her chest, her eyes wide, staring at me, then at the fallen men. Shock, fear, and something else – a fragile vulnerability – painted her face. She looked like a ghost, a traumatized, terrified ghost. My earlier resentment, the frustration, the cutting words... they felt petty in the face of her genuine terror.

The men started to stir. I pulled out my comms, a quick, terse order for security. "Three hostiles, West Wing. Get them."

"Are you hurt?" I asked her, my voice clipped, professional, burying the ripple of concern that had just snaked through me. I didn't wait for an answer, instead turning back to the men, making sure they wouldn't move until security arrived.

Within minutes, the palace security team swarmed the corridor, efficient and silent. The goons were cuffed, questioned, and dragged away. Dad and Casper arrived moments later, their faces grim.

"Celeste! Aron!" Dad's voice was sharp with fear. He immediately went to her, checking her over, his hands hovering, visibly relieved when she assured him she was unharmed.

Casper's gaze met mine, a silent acknowledgment of the immediate danger. "How did they get in?" he muttered, already barking orders into his comms.

The incident sent a ripple of heightened alarm through the mansion. The security perimeter, already tight, was quadrupled. Every shadowed corner, every distant murmur, became a potential threat. And the easy, if strained, rhythm of the household was shattered.

Later that night, the call came. Dad wanted to see me in his study. My stomach tightened. It wasn't about the security breach. Not just that. I could feel it. The air around him since Celeste's return had been thick with unspoken tension, a different kind of urgency.

I found him behind his desk, looking older, wearier than I'd seen him in years. Casper stood by the window, his back to us, his posture rigid.

"Aron," Dad began, his voice gravelly, "thank you for your quick thinking tonight. You saved her life."

I merely nodded. "It's my duty."

He sighed, pushing a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Yes, it is. And I need to ask you for another, greater duty." He paused, his gaze fixed on mine, heavy with a weight I couldn't quite decipher. "You know the conditions of King Alexander's will. Celeste inherits the estate only when she turns twenty-five, and is married. If something happens to her before then, everything passes to a trust. And the people who attacked her tonight… They know this. They know she's alive. And they will stop at nothing to get their hands on what is rightfully ours."

My jaw tightened. This was it. The undercurrent of impending doom.

"We need to secure the inheritance, Aron. Secure the Sinclair line. We need to lock them out of their claim, permanently." His voice dropped, becoming a strained plea. "I need you to marry Celeste."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Marry Celeste? The thought was absurd. Her? The runaway princess? The one who vanished for seven years, leaving us to shoulder the burden, while she lived a life free of the "real impact"? The one who still made my blood boil with her accusations of my ignorance?

My mind reeled. Duty. Legacy. And her. The girl who infuriated me, who stirred something primal in me with her presence, yet represented everything I resented about her past. It was a dizzying contradiction. The thought of being bound to her, tied to her life, for eternity, felt like a punishment. Yet, the word "duty" echoed in my ears, a lifetime of training demanding my compliance. I hated it. Every fiber of my being recoiled from the idea of this forced union.

"Think about it, son," Dad urged, sensing my turmoil. "It's the only way to protect her, to protect everything. To ensure the Sinclair legacy endures."

I needed air. I needed to think. Not here, under Dad's desperate gaze. "I... I need a moment."

I left the study, the weight of his request pressing down on me. Marry Celeste. It was madness. But the goons tonight, the escalating threat… it wasn't just about my bruised ego. It was about survival. Her survival. And the survival of everything we had built.

My feet carried me, almost unconsciously, towards her room. I needed to talk to her. To see her. To understand. Or maybe just to yell. What did she think about this insane proposition? Was she even aware of it?

As I approached her room, I heard voices. Her voice. And Jayden's. The door was slightly ajar.

"Jayden, you don't understand!" Celeste's voice, strained and sharp, pierced the quiet. "Marry Aron? I just got back here! I barely know him anymore! He hates me! And after everything, to be trapped like this, in a marriage I don't want... I swear to God, Jayden, I'd rather die than marry him!"

The words landed like a fist to my gut. Rather die. The casual disdain in her tone, the vehement disgust. It hit me harder than any physical blow. All the anger, all the resentment I had bottled up for seven years, solidified into a hard, cold knot in my chest. So that's how she truly felt. My ego, already raw from her presence, shattered into a million pieces.

Fine. If that's how she felt, then fine. I would marry her. I would walk into that absurd union with my head held high, and she could choke on her disdain. It would be my duty. And her punishment.

I spun on my heel, a cold, hard rage burning within me. I stalked back to Dad's study, my footsteps deliberate, echoing my fury.

He looked up as I entered, his eyes still weary. "Aron?"

"Yes," I stated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, a dangerous calm. "I'll marry her."

Dad let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, relief washing over his face. "Thank you, son. Thank you. You've no idea what this means."

"I think I do," I muttered, my gaze distant, already imagining her face when she was told, the revulsion that would contort her features. Little did I know, she had already heard what she needed to hear.

The next morning was chaos. Dad had gathered us all for breakfast: Casper, Elara, Jayden, even Nancy, though she was quickly ushered away. The plan was clear. We would sit Celeste down, explain the dire situation, and formally present the marriage as the only viable solution.

But when Nancy returned to the table, her eyes wide, a new, unsettling silence fell. "Aunt Celeste isn't in her room," she announced. "Her bags are still there. But she's gone."

My blood ran cold.