8
Christian
As the door swung open and I walked into the office, the familiar scent of expensive whiskey and aged leather hit me like a wave. The room hadn't changed much—dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, stacked with books no one ever read. A vintage globe bar stood in the corner, and the grand floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the trimmed gardens outside. A massive oil painting of my grandfather, scowling like he'd swallowed nails, still hung behind the desk like a goddamn relic.
Dante looked up from the papers scattered across his polished desk, his expression unreadable.
"Well, I was just about to wonder who would have the balls to enter my office without knocking," he drawled, his eyes gleaming with subtle amusement.
"Father," I said, voice dry as sandpaper, moving to sit on the velvet sofa across from him. "Always a pleasure."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the desk with slow rhythm. "I was just reviewing some of the acquisitions in Milan. The Rosetti merger is going smoothly. Your reports were thorough, as always. And we need to finalize the Shanghai expansion within the quarter. I already sent you the documents."
I sighed and leaned back, arms stretched over the sofa's edge. "I really hope you didn't summon me to fly all the way to Maryland just to talk about business. All of this," I gestured to the stack of papers, "could've been covered in a two-minute phone call. I'm ahead of all of it.If you don't have anything important to say. I suggest I take my leave now."
A glint flickered in his eye. "Yes, I do have something important to talk to you about," he said smoothly. "But I was hoping we could discuss it over dinner."
"No," I replied flatly, no hesitation.
Dante tilted his head slightly. "It's been a long time since we spent any time together."
"Like you actually give a damn about father-son bonding," I shot back, bitterness coating every syllable.
Dante studied me for a long moment, his sharp eyes piercing through the silence between us. He didn't see me as his son—not really. To him, I was an heir, a necessary tool to carry on the family business, a legacy to pass down. That's all I was. A means to an end.
The truth stung, but I was used to it by now. In his eyes, Damian was the son he could never have. The one who could carry on the Royal name the way it was meant to be—pure, untainted.
I could almost hear Dante's voice in my head from years ago. Damian is my blood. You are not.
The bitterness flared in my chest again, but I kept my expression neutral, staring at the floor. The memories of when Damian and his mother had first moved into the townhouse flooded back. I remembered being just a kid, seeing Damian's smug, spoiled little face. He'd always been his mother's golden child, and Dante had treated him like royalty. Meanwhile, I was left to watch from the sidelines, ignored and pushed aside.
Damian, the brat, had always known how to manipulate Dante. He was the one who wore the mask of perfection, while I was the outsider.
I could feel Dante's gaze on me again. "I was going to address this softly, but it seems you don't have the patience for that." His tone was steady, but there was a hint of irritation in his voice.
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. He already knew how I felt.
He sighed, the sound almost tired. "You already know you're the one who's earned the CEO position. Your numbers have skyrocketed. The business is thriving under your leadership. The growth has been far beyond anything Damian could achieve. This whole competition was just for formality's sake. You're my heir, Christian. You're the one who will carry on the business."
His words fell heavy in the air, but they didn't ease the weight in my chest. Because I could see right through him. "I wouldn't give this company to anyone who isn't my blood," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Not someone who doesn't have the Royal name."
A scoff left my lips before I could stop it. The Royal name—a name that felt more like a chain than a crown to me.
Dante let out a long, tired sigh before lifting the half-filled glass of whiskey from his desk. He took a slow sip, the silence stretching between us like a loaded gun. His eyes locked on mine, serious—too serious.
"When you've lived in this world as long as I have," he started, his tone heavy, "you learn that high society is cruel. Ruthless. Judgemental. They don't care how much money you make, how many companies you build from the ground up, or how many boardrooms you dominate. No. They only care about appearances."
I stayed silent, jaw ticking, arms folded.
Dante leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "They whisper behind your back if you don't fit their mold. They look at a man like you—unmarried, powerful—and they start asking questions.
Dangerous questions. 'Is he unstable? Can he be trusted? Is he committed?' That's the world we live in, Christian. One wrong move and they tear you apart like vultures dressed in silk."
I scoffed internally. Same old speech.
He kept going, completely undeterred. "They don't want power if it's not presented in a pretty little package—married, settled, respectable. They don't just want an empire; they want an empire with a queen."
I finally let out a breath. "Where the hell are you going with all this bullshit?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared me dead in the eye and said, "You need to get a wife, son."
My entire body went still.
"You're joking."
"It's no secret that I'm not getting any younger," he said, placing his glass back down with a soft thud. "And frankly, my health isn't what it used to be. The board is watching. Our partners are watching. You may have the numbers now, but trust me—they will respect you more with a wife by your side. You look stronger with one. Stable."
I felt the heat rise in my chest. My fists clenched.
"I don't need a wife to run the company," I snapped.
"Yes, you do," he said, without missing a beat. "And deep down, you know that."
I turned away from him, pacing once before stopping at the edge of the window. I hated this. All of it.
Marriage? I never intended to marry. Ever. It was a game, a transaction, a leash. One I refused to wear.
"Women these days are a distraction," I muttered. "They want your name, your wealth, your power—but they don't want you. They're either gold diggers, fame-chasers, or emotional messes who will eat away at you until there's nothing left but regret and a fat divorce settlement."
He said nothing. Just watched me unravel.
I turned back to face him, every muscle in my body tense. "This is bullshit."
I pushed back from the chair and stood. I'd had enough.
I was already at the door when his voice cut through the room like a blade.
"The company would go to Damian."
I froze.
Slowly, I turned around, my jaw tight. My gaze locked onto his, and I could feel the sharp pulse behind my eyes. "What did you just say?"
Dante didn't even blink. He rose to his feet, walked around his desk with the same calm arrogance he always wore, and lowered himself onto the armchair like he hadn't just tossed a bomb at my feet.
"If you're not engaged in two months," he said, steepling his fingers, "the CEO seat goes to Damian."
I laughed. A cold, hollow sound that didn't reach my eyes. "You're bluffing."
"I'm not."
"He's married. So what?" I shot back. "That doesn't qualify him to run Royals Crest."
"I know," he said bitterly. "I'd rather give the seat to you—you've earned it. You built it higher than I ever expected. But if you leave me no choice…" he exhaled sharply. "Damian may be a fool, but I won't die with this empire rotting in my grave."
I stared at him, trying to wrap my head around how serious he looked. "You and I both know he'll crash everything. He already fumbled the deal with the foreign investors. He cost us over sixty million in a two-week span, and it's only going downhill from there."
Dante's eyes darkened. "Exactly. But at least he's married. He fits the image—even if barely. And in this game, perception is everything."
I stepped closer, pointing a finger at him. "You're willing to risk seven billion dollars just to force me into a marriage?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
Behind him on the liquor shelf, I spotted a framed photo—him and Damian at some gala years ago, smiling like a perfect father-son duo. Funny. He never kept one of me.
"You'd actually give Damian control? Him and that toy wife of his, Bianca? You'd burn this place to the ground just to prove a point?"
"If you refuse," he said quietly, "I'll take everything from you. With one snap of my fingers."
My blood turned to ice.
I didn't say a word.
I just stared him down.
He didn't need to say another word. The message was clear: Marry or lose everything. And I wasn't sure which felt more like hell.