Blackmore Mansion, Santerra Heights.
The house breathes money.
Not just wealth—certainty. The kind that knows there is too much of it to bother counting. White stone, perfectly trimmed cypresses, a fountain murmuring even at night, as if whispering: relax, you're allowed anything. Beyond the panoramic windows, a pool glints—cold, blue, like the eyes of the people who live here.
I am Sofia Blackmore, and I stride through the house after my father, heels striking a sharp rhythm against the marble.
"Why are you running from me, Dad?" My voice slices through the space. "Stop. Now."
Darian Blackmore freezes.
He doesn't turn around.
And that is the worst part.
I come closer, take his arm, and turn him to face me. He looks… compressed. As if before me stands not the owner of Prime Meridian Holdings, not a man before whom markets tremble, but a guilty schoolboy.
"Answer me," I say sharply. In that teacher's tone—the one that knots people up inside. "When am I marrying Andre Cortland?"
A pause.
"You promised me," I add coldly. "And he's ignoring me."
Which is unforgivable.
My father exhales heavily, as if he has replayed this conversation in his head a thousand times already.
I've indulged every one of Sofia's desires my whole life… The thought flickers across his face; I read it without words. Now she's twisting me around her finger, and I don't know how to stop.
"My daughter…" he finally says aloud, gently. Too gently. "My sweet Sofia…"
I feel irritation rise.
Don't start.
"I'm softening, Dad," I interrupt, pretending to smile. "Fine. I'll give you a chance."
He blinks. Hope? Yes. He always hopes I'll change my mind.
"Edward Cortland has already agreed to the wedding," he says quickly. "And Andre… he's an obedient son. He listens to his father."
He nods to himself.
"It's settled. Be patient, sweetheart."
I stamp my foot. For real. Childish—but with enough force that the echo rolls through the hall.
"I'm not going to be patient."
I step closer. Look him straight in the eyes.
"I want it—and you're going to make it happen."
A moment of silence.
"Call Edward," I continue calmly, almost tenderly. "Arrange a meeting with Andre."
I tilt my head slightly.
"On your yacht. This coming weekend."
So he has nowhere to run.
Darian gives in. I see it in his shoulders.
"All right, my little angel…" he sighs. "I'll do anything for my beloved flower."
He pulls out his phone. Calls. Speaks in a confident, businesslike tone. Edward promises that Andre will be there on Saturday.
That's it.
Done.
"I love you, Daddy!" I cry happily, hug him, kiss his cheek—and immediately pull away.
Not because I'm cold.
Because the goal has been reached.
I run down the corridor almost skipping, my dress whispering like a secret.
"Mom!" I call out. "Where are you hiding?"
Why do parents always disappear when I need them?
"Mom, don't hide!" I laugh. "I'll find you anyway!"
Images already flare in my mind:
The yacht. The evening. The sea. Glasses clinking…
Andre.
Handsome. Reserved. Mine.
I smile to myself.
This meeting will be perfect.
And if Andre happens to think otherwise…
Well.
He simply hasn't had the chance to get to know me yet.
And somewhere deep inside, a sweet anticipation stirs—
before the meeting,
before the victory,
before the moment when someone very soon understands
that no one walks away from me.
**
I am Andre Cortland, stretched out by the pool, letting the sun do whatever it wants with me.
The water is still trembling from my last swim. My skin is warm, my thoughts slow and lazy. A rare state—when my head is empty and inside there is almost peace.
Almost.
"Andre! Where are you? Come here immediately!"
My father's voice slices through the air like an alarm siren.
I wince.
Of course. Five minutes of happiness—and that's it, the shop is closed.
Edward Cortland doesn't like waiting. And he doesn't like being ignored. Especially by his own son, who, in his opinion, spends far too much time "thinking about nonsense instead of the future."
I jump up from the lounger, throw on a robe, and head into the house. Drops run down my forehead and legs, leaving wet marks on the marble—a small act of rebellion no one will notice.
My father stands by the panoramic window. Back straight. Hands clasped behind him.
The posture of a man who is about to say something that will make everything inside you shrink.
"I have good news for you," he says without turning around.
Already terrifying.
"Your fiancée, Sofia, wants to meet you. On Saturday. On their yacht."
A pause.
"Prepare yourself properly. And try not to disappoint her."
My heart drops straight to my heels.
Literally. I almost check to see if it's still there.
Sofia.
Intrusive. Controlling. Too perfect.
The kind of woman beside whom I don't feel like a man, but like a project in urgent need of improvement.
God…
I won't survive this.
"Dad," I begin carefully. "I have exams at the university. You said yourself that my studies come first."
He finally turns around. Looks at me as if I've just said something naïve and very stupid.
"One doesn't interfere with the other," he replies coldly. "You should be able to manage everything."
He steps closer.
"This is not up for discussion. You will meet Sofia. End of story."
I clench my jaw.
"She is the guarantee of the future of my company, Solaris Dominion Group," he continues. "And of your inheritance."
There it is.
Not "you will be happy."
But "you will be useful."
A picture flashes in my mind instantly:
Me on the yacht. Sofia beside me. Her gaze—sticky, possessive. She is already planning our wedding, our children, my life… without me.
"She'll drain me dry," I imagine. "And I'll become a zombie. Rich. Polished. Miserable."
I try to smile, but it comes out crooked.
"All right, Dad," I say. "I'll be ready."
Liar.
He nods. For him, the conversation is over.
For me—it's only just beginning.
I return to the pool, but the sun no longer warms me. The water feels colder. My thoughts, louder.
How do I get out of this?
How?
Panic rises inside me, tangled with irony.
I almost laugh.
Saturday. A yacht. Sofia.
If I survive, it'll be a miracle.
And somewhere at the edge of my consciousness, a crazy, almost saving thought flickers:
What if… I don't go alone?
I freeze.
My heart starts racing.
No.
Or… yes?
The thought hooks in, refuses to let go.
And I realize—
if I don't find a way out,
on Saturday, I'll be officially buried.