"What do you mean?" the voice said in surprise.
"I don't want to talk about it, WeiWei." Fanny sighed and let her legs dangle freely from the couch.
"Wait a minute. You're telling me Granny Imelda set you up for an arranged marriage with the JACOB VANDERS?" WeiWei paced around the room and suddenly knelt next to Fanny. "I am your best friend, Fan; tell me this isn't real."
"You think I'm going to joke about that? Did you see who's outside? I have two giant bodyguards following me around in case I run away." Fanny rolled her eyes.
"This is so motherfucking serious. I can't believe it. So when is the wedding?"
"Next week."
"What the hell? It has all been planned even before you would say yes or no."
Fanny sighed and sat up. "You can't imagine the dread on my face when I understood what was happening."
"But tell me," WeiWei moved closer to her friend. "What did he look like in person?" She played with her brows.
"What are you? You're supposed to console me. Your only best friend is getting sold off into child marriage and slave labor."
"How is twenty-eight child marriage?" WeiWei asked innocently. "And it's not slave labor either if you're going to be Mrs. Vanders."
"Just shut up; you're not helping." Fanny sank into the chair, scrolling through her phone.
"Fanny… I know this might suck, but let us be real. Granny Imelda has been telling you to settle down for years now. She gave you enough time before making this decision."
"I am doing well in Manhattan. I've got Bertie with me, and work's not so bad."
"That's not the point, Fan. She is getting old, and you've got a huge responsibility on you as the sole heir. You can't keep running away forever." WeiWei said seriously.
Fanny dropped her phone and looked at her friend. "WeiWei, we have been friends since when?"
"Since we were kids."
"And do you think there are no better options than selling her only granddaughter to a beast?"
"A beast, Fan? Jacob Vanders, you say?"
"Oh, you should have seen how he looked in person."
"Breathtakingly and drop-dead gorgeous, right?"
Fanny playfully threw her friend a pillow. "No, idiot."
"But seriously, Fan, Granny Imelda didn't have any choice for her to resort to this option. I know it might seem wicked, especially when you have your plans, but the thought of having all she has worked for go down to the laps of a stranger would be a bad thing for you."
Fanny was quiet, her fingers tracing the hem of her skirt.
"You have stated your terms, and who knows, you might end up falling in love with your beast."
Fanny cackled loudly. "That is never, ever going to happen. Not ever!"
WeiWei shot her a playful side eye and got up. "Let's not sit here brooding. This is your last week as a single lady. Why don't we head to the bar and paint the town red!"
Fanny sprang up happily and jumped around with her friend.
"Bills on me, future Mrs. Vanders." WeiWei bowed.
"Stop that!"
***
One Week Ago,
Jacob Vander's Penthouse.
The storm had started at dusk, a thin silver mist against the glass before it thickened to rain, tapping at the penthouse windows like a thousand impatient fingers. Jacob Vanders ignored it.
He sat alone in the hush of his study, the city sprawling below in glittering submission. The envelope lay in the pool of lamplight on his desk, cream paper heavy with old money pretensions: the Ashton crest embossed in gold, as though anyone still cared about such things.
His fingers brushed the seal, not with reverence but with calculation. He cracked it open and spread the documents flat.
"Transfer of Deeds—Ashton Estate."
The words were a promise. Land, heritage, leverage. He skimmed the inventory: the manor house itself, three parcels of adjacent land, the rights to the private gardens, and even a small slice of waterfront. Priceless in the right hands. His hands.
Until he reached the clause that should have made any rational man pause:
"This agreement shall be contingent upon the legal marriage of Mr. Jacob Vanders to Miss Francesca Dawson within thirty (30) days of signing."
Jacob snorted, amused. "So that old woman wasn't bluffing."
It was absurd, almost laughable. In 2025, people still used marriage as currency?
But the estate… now that was no joke. Owning it wouldn't just increase the Vanders' real estate profile; it would strategically close the territorial gap between their Upper Hamptons property and the Eastern developments he'd been negotiating for six months. The Ashton estate was the missing puzzle piece. Old money, yes. But also smart money—land that couldn't be replicated, heritage buildings that would triple in value once the city pushed their luxury transit plan forward.
Still, that clause.
Marriage.
This was clean. Strategic.
A smirk curled at his lips.
"If this shuts my parents up, it's already worth it."
They'd been at him for years—Gala setups, business brunches with conveniently seated heiresses, veiled hints during family holidays. A Vander must settle down. Carry on the name. Behave like a legacy man.
He would take the estate, and with it, the perfect excuse to end the matchmaking once and for all. A marriage on paper, a contract in every sense of the word. No delusions. No sentiment.
He'd marry the girl. Fulfill the contract. Acquire the estate. Keep it clean, quiet, and on paper. Maybe even fly off to Switzerland for "honeymoon investments." He'd make her sign a prenup so binding even God couldn't dispute it.
He tapped the document with one long finger as if to punctuate the thought.
His phone buzzed against the leather blotter, jarring the moment. A notification slid across the screen
Email: Subject—Dawson dossier complete.
Jacob opened it without ceremony, scanning the first lines:
Francesca Dawson.
Age: 28. American.
Creative Director.
Westbridge University Graduate
Guardian: Imelda Ashton (maternal grandmother).
Birth parents: Alive.
Primary residence: Manhattan.
No criminal records.
Public social media: Limited.
Private accounts: Unknown.
Known friends: Weiwei Tang.
No major scandals. Minor protest involvement in 2022.
Subtle online sarcasm.
Appears emotionally reactive.
"Emotionally reactive." He almost smiled.
He clicked the attachments—photographs taken by his investigator.
One showed her standing on a street in the Lower East Side, coffee cup balanced in one hand, phone in the other. She wore a tailored black coat belted tight at the waist, her
hair tumbling in dark waves over one shoulder. Her mouth was caught mid-laugh. She looked stubborn. Alive in a way that didn't suit someone raised by old money.
Another picture, from an art exhibit. Red lipstick. Eyes that dared the camera to find her wanting.
Not what I expected, he thought.
He wasn't sure what he'd pictured—something softer, maybe. Someone who'd agree to a marriage of convenience without raising her voice.
But this woman? She looked like she'd have opinions.
The kind that made things…complicated.
He felt a flicker of something he refused to name—curiosity, perhaps, or a premonition of trouble. He dismissed it with a slow exhale.
She'll say yes, he told himself. They always do.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Clarke, his best friend.
Clarke: You alive? Drinks tonight. How's it going? Gonna become a married man?
Jacob arched a brow, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Jacob: You assume too much. I haven't accepted yet.
The reply came seconds later.
Clarke: Bullshit. You will. You never walk away from a deal you can win.
He didn't answer. Because Clarke was right.
This wasn't about the estate alone. It was about proving to his parents and to himself that he could control every variable. Even marriage.
Especially marriage.
He looked back down at the file, at Francesca Dawson's face staring up at him in defiant pixels.
A solution, he thought. Nothing more.
Still, when he finally picked up his phone and called his assistant, his voice was quiet, clipped, and precise, like a blade sliding into its sheath.
"Confirm my attendance at Imelda Ashton's birthday dinner," he said.
There was a pause on the line as if she hadn't expected him to comply so quickly.
"Very good, sir. Anything else?"
"Yes," Jacob said. He rested his hand on the deed, pressing it flat. "I want a complete psychological profile on Francesca Dawson by Monday. I don't like surprises."
***
Present Day—Friday
The club throbbed with bass, a decadent hive of bodies and neon. Clarke had insisted, dragging him from the sanctuary of the penthouse.
"You need to be reminded what freedom feels like," Clarke shouted over the music, grinning as he signaled the bartender for another round.
Jacob watched the swirl of dancers, the glossed lips, and eager eyes. The predictable spectacle of a Friday night.
"Freedom," he echoed, voice dry. "That's what you call this?"
"Hell yes," Clarke said. "And you're about to give it up for an address and a last name."
Jacob turned his glass in his hand, watching the way the ice caught the strobe lights.
"Freedom had always been an illusion," he said to Clarke.
Even before this.
He looked up, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Let's drink to illusions, then."
They clinked glasses, the sound swallowed by the music.
He didn't notice the woman entering the club's side door, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Didn't see the way she hesitated on the threshold, scanning the crowd for her friend.
A shoulder brushed past him, spilling the drink he was holding on his shirt. The woman turned back to apologize, her hair covering her face as she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
She looked up at him, and he could tell the expression of horror on her face.
Her name was Francesca Dawson.
And in less than a week, she'd become his greatest inconvenience.
And perhaps—though he would never admit it—his most dangerous temptation.
***
She turned too fast, her elbow clipping a lowball glass and sending golden liquid flying.
"Shit!"
The drink soaked into someone's shirt.
She looked up, already breathless with apology until she saw him.
Jacob Vanders.
Of course. Of all the bars in New York, of all the nights to wear a red dress and pretend to be fine, the universe had served her the one man she wanted to scream at.
He blinked once, slowly, then looked down at his soaked shirt and back at her.
"I should've known you'd make a mess," he said, voice like velvet-dipped venom.
Her pulse kicked. "You're the one who's a walking disaster."
"Yet here you are. Crashing into me again." His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you missed me."
"Missed you?" she hissed, stepping into his space. "I dream of drop-kicking you."
Jacob smiled lazily. "Funny. I dream of you too. But I'm usually not wearing a shirt in those."
That was it. That was the moment the temperature shifted.
The hate was still there—palpable, electric—but threaded with something hotter, more dangerous.
And when he stepped closer, she didn't move away.
"We're so sorry about that!" WeiWei came to the rescue, pulling Fanny away.
She shot him a look that felt like a well sharpened katana and looked away, following her friend.
The bass blasted from the speakers, a pulse that climbed up Francesca Dawson's spine and settled somewhere she didn't care to name. She shouldn't have let Weiwei drag her out, not tonight, not when the wedding ultimatum was still ringing in her ears.
But here she was—one tequila shot in, another balanced in her hand—telling herself she deserved at least one night of pretending she wasn't about to be bartered like livestock.
She tilted her head back, ready to drink, when she felt it.
A shift in the air.
That watchful, predatory heat.
Her gaze snapped sideways—and there he was.
Jacob Vanders.
Again.
Sitting at the end of the marble bar like he owned the place. One arm draped over the back of his leather stool, an untouched tumbler of something expensive in front of him.
He wore dark slacks and a charcoal shirt, cuffs undone just enough to look careless. His eyes, cold and assessing slid over her like he was cataloguing her flaws.
She felt her pulse trip. Was he trying to blame her for spilling the drink on him?
"You have got to be kidding me," she hissed under her breath.
Weiwei followed her stare and let out a low whistle. "Wait! Is that— Was that–?" her brain jolting back to what happened earlier.
"Yes," she snapped. "That's Jacob Vanders. The asshole my grandmother wants me to marry."
Weiwei's eyes danced. "He's hotter than you described."
"Shut up," Fanny groaned, tipping the shot glass into her mouth. The liquor burned, but not as much as the knowledge that he was watching her. Judging her.
Jacob freaking Vanders.
His presence pressed on her skin like static, even from across the room. She wanted to ignore the fact that he was in the same place with her. She'd felt him the moment she walked into the club, like a shift in the air, too sharp to ignore.
Her jaw clenched. She hated that he could do this to her; make her pulse trip, make her stomach knot, make her doubt every step she took like she was walking across glass and he was waiting to watch her bleed.
She reached for another shot. Tipped it back. Swallowed hard.
One more.
Another.
She didn't care about the burn now. The tequila seared down her throat, fierce and fast, but it didn't hurt enough. It wasn't enough to drown the fire inside her, the anger, the humiliation, the helplessness.
Her hand shot out again. Another glass. She didn't even wait for the lime.
She wasn't drinking for fun. She wasn't drinking to celebrate. She was drinking like a dare to herself, to him. As if every shot could carve away the memory of his smirk, his voice, his calculated silence.
Her head began to swim, but she didn't stop.
The music pulsed louder. The club lights blurred. Her limbs buzzed with heat. Her thoughts started to slip, not quietly, but in pieces like papers snatched by the wind.
She laughed, too loud. She didn't care. If she couldn't be in control, then fine she'd unravel on her own terms.
Because if she was going to fall apart tonight, it would be because she chose to. Not because Jacob Vanders had the power to break her with just one look.
She threw back another shot, smiling like a woman on the edge of a cliff.
"Fanny…" WeiWei's voice was cautious now. But Fanny didn't want caution. She wanted noise. Motion. Chaos. Anything but the cold truth that the man who'd forced her into marriage was standing somewhere in this club, and her body still knew he was near.
Her chest ached, and not from the liquor. She hated him. God, she hated him.
And yet… her hands were still trembling.
She set the glass down with more force than necessary and turned to face him fully.
He lifted his brows, as if to say Well?
She stalked over before she could talk herself out of it.
"Is this your idea of a sick joke?" she demanded, her voice low and furious over the music.
His gaze moved lazily from her boots to her lips. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. I'm involved in so many things."
Heat flashed in her cheeks. God, she hated him. The smug composure. The way he sat there like she was an inconvenience, not a person.
"You think you can just,what…show up here and what, convince me this is normal?"
His mouth twitched. "No. I think you're here for the same reason I am."
"And what's that?"
"A reprieve," he said simply. "From pretending we're not already entangled."
Something in her chest went tight. She hated that he was right.
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, even as she felt the edges of her control fraying. "This—whatever this is—isn't going to happen."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping until she felt it in her bones.
"You're right," he murmured. "It already has."
Her heart slammed so hard she thought he might see it in her throat.
They stared at each other, the air thickening.
Somewhere in the background, Weiwei watched with wide eyes, but Fanny couldn't look away.
It was stupid. Reckless. A collision she'd been warning herself against since she'd read his name on that legal document.
And yet—She didn't turn when he stood.
Didn't stop him when he took her empty glass from her fingers, setting it on the bar like it belonged to him.
Didn't move when he leaned in, his breath warm against her temple.
"You hate this," he murmured. "I can see it all over you."
Her nails dug into her palms. "Then why are you here?"
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, a deliberate, mocking caress.
"Because you hate it," he whispered. "And you still can't walk away."
Something inside her cracked.
And before she could think, before she could remember all the reasons this was the worst idea she'd ever had, she closed the last inch between them and kissed him.