Chapter 5 Chapter 5 Proposal

"We need to talk."

He stood in front of me, his voice disturbingly calm-as if he were announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before.

Talk?

My brain instantly began sorting through possibilities. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Was he proposing some kind of... "long-term sexual partnership"?

Definitely not a proposal. That sort of thing only happens in soap operas written by people with hopelessly romantic minds.

Was he worried I'd cling to him?

After all-it was me who started this.

I was the one who dragged him out of the bar.

I was the one who opened the hotel door.

I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought.

"Look," I said, adopting the most mature, responsible tone I could muster, "last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but... undeniably enjoyable mistake."

I tried not to look at his shoulders. Nor at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his collarbone, tracing over sculpted muscle.

"I'm not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won't call you crying about emotional trauma. I'm not that kind of girl."

He didn't say anything.

Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door-aiming for a graceful exit, complete with a closure monologue.

But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine.

I froze. Slowly, I turned around.

He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't place-somewhere between surprise and... seriousness.

"You don't remember me?" he asked softly.

I blinked, caught off guard. I answered quickly, almost defensively: "Of course I do. You're my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night."

Technically true. Totally accurate.

What I didn't say-and never would-was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him.

That face was unforgettable.

Or, more precisely, that face standing in front of me in just a white towel, with water dripping down those abs... yeah. Not something easily erased from memory.

I swallowed hard.

The trick was: don't look directly at him. Like an eclipse.

Too bad that strategy had completely failed.

Worse still, even though I was fully dressed and he was practically naked, somehow, under his gaze, I felt like the one who was completely exposed.

I tried to speak-to say something, anything to shift the focus.

But he didn't press further. He just stood there, watching me, as if waiting for the moment my real reaction would finally come.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, "It's fine. Doesn't matter."

I blinked. What?

"Can I go now?" I asked dryly. His hand still hadn't moved.

He looked at me again, then-unhurriedly-said:

"Will you marry me?"

...

What?!

"You're not serious." I finally found my voice.

"I'm completely serious," he replied, as if he were announcing a quarterly financial report. "I just returned to the country. My parents want me to get married as soon as possible. In their eyes, a married man means stability. And only a stable man can inherit the family business."

I fell silent.

Two days ago, I vowed I'd bring home someone better than Rhys.

Someone impressive enough to silence my parents.

Now, the universe had sent an answer-just with a thick layer of irony.

But I knew.

Marriage shouldn't be like this.

I'd already lived through a loveless engagement once.

All it left was a house full of silence, hollow intimacy, and a slow, brutal erosion of my self-respect.

I opened my mouth to say no.

But at that moment, my phone rang.

The sharp ringtone cut through the quiet like a knife.

I glanced at the screen-and felt like a bomb had exploded in my chest.

Caroline Vance.

My mother.

Catherine was back.

She must have called to announce something important.

I looked at that face-familiar yet distant-then back down at my phone.

And finally, I said the words:

"I can't accept."

I walked out of the hotel suite, the ringtone still shrieking behind me.

I answered, not because I wanted to, but because I needed-desperately-to sever the tie that kept dragging me back into the past.

"Why didn't you pick up your phone? Were you trying to give me a heart attack?"

My mother's voice came rapid-fire, like machine-gun fire.

"I thought you were dead in a ditch or kidnapped by some maniac! Get home. Now. We need to talk."

"I'm already on my way," I said coldly, hanging up before she could start round two.

I gave the driver my parents' address and collapsed into the backseat, like someone bracing for a colonoscopy without anesthesia.

Okay. Let's get this over with.

My neighbor-aka my one-night stand-was probably insane.

But while I still had a drop of alcohol-induced courage left in my blood-while the old Mira, desperate for love, hadn't crept back in-I had to move fast.

I had to throw this ruined mess back in their perfect little faces.

The Vance family estate sat in the kind of suburban enclave that didn't welcome anyone who couldn't afford a BMW. No subway stops. No bus routes. Just an elegantly worded "keep out, poor people."

At the wrought-iron gate, I took a deep breath. I felt like a boxer entering the ring. Shoulders squared. Chin up. Emotional armor locked in place.

The moment I entered the living room, I could sense the ambush.

My father-Franklin Vance-sat alone in his leather chair, wearing the same expression he probably used to fire underperforming hedge fund managers.

Beside him, my mother, Caroline, with her perfect hair and perfectly aligned pearl necklace, smiled the way a doctor does when saying, "The cancer's spread."

To their left, Rhys sat on the sofa, all solemn and brooding, as if waiting for a divorce lawyer to direct his next pose.

And on the right?

Catherine, obviously.

All we were missing was a gavel and a court reporter.

This was a trial.

I was the defendant.

And the verdict had already been written.

Mother struck first.

"What took you so long? I called you hours ago."

She crossed her arms, her tone colder than the AC.

"Traffic," I lied.

If I told them I'd just escaped from a man in a towel, they'd have me hospitalized.

"So? Why am I here?" My tone was sharp, iced over.

No one answered.

Not until Rhys stood, a bandage still across his forehead.

The sight of him looking vaguely wounded brought me a small, grim satisfaction.

"You left this at my place," he said slowly, holding something in his hand.

"Your bear alarm clock."

I stared at it.

A cheap, scuffed electronic clock shaped like a cartoon bear, its plastic face scratched and faded from over a decade of use.

And now, this relic was their opening move?

Rage rose in my throat, but I swallowed it.

"Thanks," I said flatly. "That's... thoughtful."

I snatched up the ridiculous little clock and turned to leave.

Come on. No one calls a full-blown family meeting just to return an alarm clock. I knew better. This was about humiliation. About putting me in my place.

They were the real family.

I was always the outsider-invited in only when they needed a benchwarmer.

"Wait," my mother said, her voice even colder than before.

I paused. Didn't turn around.

She folded her arms again and smiled-a tight, poisonous smile you only see when a doctor says "Stage four."

"Now that Catherine's back," she said, "and since you and Rhys have broken up, we believe it's time-he and Catherine should be engaged."

I gave a short, humorless laugh. Turned around slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from my lips.

"By all means. Plan whatever you want. It's not like you've ever asked for my opinion before."

"We used to ask," she shot back, her voice sharp, "back when you were still the sensible daughter. The one with potential."

She stepped closer.

"You're too emotional, Mira. Your insecurity made you paranoid-accusing Rhys, trying to control him. You didn't trust him, and that's what destroyed the relationship."

Her words were blades.

Light in tone.

Ruthless in effect.

"So this is on you.

And you'll make that clear in the press.

Tell them you fell for someone else.

That's why you ended the engagement."

I froze.

Something ripped open inside my chest-like they'd torn it apart with their bare hands.

I looked at them-all of them-my parents, Rhys, Catherine.

So calm. So deliberate.

Like a script they'd rehearsed for weeks.

What had I done to deserve this?

Where had I gone so wrong?

I was ready to explode. To storm out.

But that's when my father finally stood.

Like a judge preparing to read the sentence.

"You don't have to worry about finding someone new," he said with absolute finality.

"We've already made arrangements-"