Lyla Monroe (Nova Kingsley)
“Can you believe it?” I groaned, pacing around my room like a lunatic. “I’m going to have an arranged marriage. An arranged marriage, Delilah.”
Delilah, the housemaid who had known me since I was twelve, stood near the bed folding linens. She just gave me one of her usual soft, knowing smiles. “I don’t know if I should congratulate you or tell you I’m sorry,” she said with a chuckle. “But I’ll say congratulations, because marriage is a beautiful thing.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, flopping onto the edge of my mattress, “a love marriage. The kind where you choose your person. Where you fall in love, share secrets, cry under the stars, not… not this business merger my father cooked up with someone I’ve never even met.”
Delilah raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t met him?”
“Nope.” I popped the ‘p.’ “Dad says it’s a surprise. Like, the whole getting-married-out-of-nowhere wasn’t shocking enough.” I ran a hand down my face. “I always dreamed of a fairytale wedding. You know… slow dancing under twinkling lights, kissing someone because I want to, not because my last name demands it.”
Delilah came over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
I laughed bitterly. “It’s going to be horrible.”
Still, I sighed. The doctor said not to stress Dad out. And… he was sick. His days were numbered, and this was the one thing he was asking from me. His final wish.
So I had to do it.
Even if it crushed me.
I turned to the outfit laid out on my bed. A pale blush Dior two-piece suit, tailored to perfection. The blazer hugged my waist, and the pencil skirt ended just below the knee. It was classy. Powerful. And screamed billionaire’s daughter.
I slipped it on, styled my cascading dark hair into a sleek bun with a few loose waves framing my face. My earrings were tiny Chanel pearls, and my shoes—Manolo Blahniks—matched the soft pink of my outfit. I looked… perfect.
But I didn’t feel perfect.
I felt like I was heading into a courtroom, not a brunch.
When I headed downstairs, Jonathan was already waiting by the car. My father was dressed in a navy suit, surprisingly cheerful for someone dragging his daughter into a mystery marriage.
“Dad,” I said as the car pulled away, “can you just tell me who it is?”
He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, like he was actually enjoying this. “No, honey. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
I turned to Jonathan with a glare. “You really don’t know?”
He raised both hands. “Don’t look at me. I’ve been kept in the dark too.”
The car ride was silent after that. My nerves built with every passing minute.
We pulled up to the Rosegate Hotel, a luxury hotel that practically whispered private and powerful. Inside, the staff guided us through a side entrance and into a private dining room. Gold trim. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet seating. The kind of room that saw million-dollar deals and secret power moves.
I grabbed a mimosa the second I spotted a tray.
God, I needed this.
I took a deep breath and sat down, trying to keep my spine straight and my heart from jumping out of my chest.
And then… I saw him.
Across the room.
No. No, no, no, no, no—
What the actual hell is Luca Steele doing here?
I blinked. Once. Twice. But there he was. The same cold expression. The same perfectly combed hair. Dressed in charcoal gray, crisp and commanding.
My father stood and walked toward him with open arms.
I stood too, slowly, confused and still sipping my mimosa like it would explain the situation.
My dad gave Luca a firm handshake, grinning like the cat who just caught a mouse.
And then… they both walked toward me.
I stared at them, at the two men who had shaped my life in ways they’d never know.
My father turned toward us both.
“Luca, meet my daughter,” he said with pride. “Nova Kingsley.”
I stared at him, my hands turning cold.
“And Nova…” he said, placing a hand on my back, “meet your future husband… Luca.”
30
