Chapter 1
Sheikhana
The first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was regret. And then the pounding headache. And then the overwhelming urge to throw up everything I’d ever consumed since birth.
The second thing I felt was dread.
My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating on my nightstand. I groaned, flung my arm over my eyes, and tried to remember whose apartment I was in.
Oh, right. Mine. Shockingly.
Another vibration. Then a call. "Mom" flashing across the screen in aggressive, neon disapproval.
I slid the phone across the mattress and pressed it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Sheikhana,” she said, her voice tight with something I didn’t care enough to decipher yet, “your father wants to see you. Now. It’s important.”
I sat up like I’d been yanked by a ghost. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” A pause. “He has something to tell you. Be here in thirty.”
Click.
No explanation. Just orders.
Still reeking of tequila and poor decisions, I dragged myself to the bathroom and stood under the shower until my skin turned pink. I couldn’t scrub the hangover out of me, but I could pretend. I put on slacks, a tucked-in satin blouse, a blazer, my hangover disguise. I was good at pretending to be fine. I'd had enough practice.
When I got to my parents’ house, Mom handed me some pills and a steaming cup of tea like, ahe always knows when I'm hungover. “Drink this. And don’t argue.”
I didn’t. I couldn't. I was too busy trying not to gag on whatever herbal crap she insisted cured “toxins.”
Then I heard the familiar click of polished shoes against marble.
Dad stepped out of the conference room in his tailored navy suit like a man who didn’t just lose his billions and in debt. He smiled at his business guests, shook their hands, patted a shoulder.
And then he came to sit across from me in the lounge, next to Mom, like this was Sunday brunch and I know it's a trap.
“Sheikhana,” he began, hands folded neatly. “You know the company hasn’t been doing well.”
“Yeah, I read the headlines.” I lifted the tea cup to my lips, mostly to avoid looking at him.
“It’s worse than we’ve let on. The losses are... crippling. Tens of millions. Irrecoverable. We’re hanging by threads.”
My stomach tightened.
“But,” he continued, voice steady, like this was just another quarterly report, “there’s been an offer. Or rather, I made one. To the Suttons.”
He paused.
That name rang bells. Loud, corporate, old money bells.
My fingers clenched around the cup. “What kind of offer?”
His eyes met mine. Unflinching. “You’ll marry their youngest son, Percival Sutton. In return, they’ll bail us out. Clear the debt. Save the company.”
I laughed. A dry, humorless thing. “You’re joking.”
He didn’t even blink.
“You’re not joking,” I whispered. “You’re actually selling me off like I’m part of the inventory. I have a life here, a business. Does non ot it matter to you? It sure does to me”
He flinched. Mom reached out, touched my knee, but I pulled away.
“It’s not like that,Sheikhana.”
“It’s exactly like that!” I snapped, standing up. “You made a deal about me without even asking me? What am I, leverage?!”
Mom looked like she wanted to disappear into the couch. Dad stayed calm. Too calm.
“We did what we had to do. For the family.”
“I didn’t have to do anything,” I hissed. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I wanted to live not play house with some posh oil prince who probably thinks sweatpants are a sin!”
I stood. My voice cracked. “I’m only twenty-three.”
“And we didn’t have a choice,” he said, eyes tired.
“No, you didn’t. I do.” I grabbed my bag, my coat, whatever dignity I had left. “And I’m choosing to leave.”
I walked out before they could say anything else. I didn’t even wait for the driver. I ordered a ride like any normal broke adult and cried the whole way back to my apartment. Cried until I couldn’t see straight. Cried like something had been ripped out of me.
Because something had.
I cried that night. I drank water, then wine, then nothing. I sat on the floor with my knees tucked to my chest, watching a loop of everything slipping out of my hands.
The smell of food woke me the next morning. I already knew who had the tendency to barge into my apartment to feed me. That, and the beep of the microwave.
I walked into the kitchen, hair a mess, skin dry, eyes probably swollen.
“Morning, Mom,” I murmured.
She turned, coffee already in hand. She handed it to me without a word, then took out the food she brought rice, stew, and fried plantains. My comfort meal. Always.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” she said softly, warming up the stew. “But it’s what everybody needs.”
I said nothing. Just held the coffee like it might hold answers.
“You’re the only one who can save us now,” she whispered. “And you can hate us. I know you probably will. But if we lose everything, our company, our people, our name; your father won’t survive it. Not the fall. Not the shame. This is what your grandparents built. This is our legacy.”
I stared at her. And hated that she made sense.
Still, I said, “I just need some space.”
She nodded. Kissed my forehead. Then left me in the quiet of my own apartment.
By sunset, my suitcase was half full. I didn’t even know what to pack to meet the man I was being sold to. Maybe my pride. Maybe my rage.
I didn’t hear the door until the knock came a second time.
I opened it. My father stood there, unshaven, weary.
He didn’t wait to be invited in.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This isn’t what I wanted for you. It’s never what I wanted. But there’s no other choice. I hope someday you’ll understand.”
I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. My throat was closing up again.
So I just nodded. “It's fine.”
Because what else was there to say?
I surrendered.
It took less than two hours of pacing and an embarrassingly large glass of red wine for me to do the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t:
I Googled Percival Sutton.
I expected old money arrogance. Maybe a receding hairline, a beer gut, the ghost of three divorces behind his eyes. But no. Life, apparently, liked to throw curveballs. The man was; Well, okay. He wasn’t ugly. Not even a little.
Sharp jaw. Dark hair that looked permanently windswept, like he lived inside a GQ photoshoot. Eyes too serious for someone only 30. Six foot three, because of course he was. He had that clean, effortlessly powerful look rich men were practically born with. Button-ups that fit like they were tailored from the womb.
One article said he coached underprivileged kids’ football on weekends. Another mentioned he donated anonymously to women’s shelters and funded literacy programs for kids in poorer districts.
Oh. And half the gossip columns speculated he was gay.
Apparently, four years of being single in high society was enough to make people suspicious. But every rumor ended the same way, he was private. Untouchable. Cold. Calculated.
The kind of man who didn’t need to say a word to control a room.
Great. I was being married off to a sexy, emotionally unavailable philanthropist with a possible God complex.
And a jawline that could probably slice diamonds.
The flight to England was a blur of champagne I didn’t drink and scenic clouds I barely noticed.
But the drive from the airport to the hotel? That I felt.
We passed lush green countryside that looked like they’d been painted in oil pastels. Stone cottages with ivy-covered walls, sheep scattered in perfect postcard formation. Then came the sweeping curves of small towns, flower boxes in every window, cobblestone streets polished by time.
London eventually gave way to the soft charm of the countryside again, the farther we drove into what felt like a Jane Austen novel.
The car finally pulled into the circular driveway of Cavendish Hotel, a castle-turned-luxury-stay tucked into rolling hills. The air smelled like rain, lavender, and secrets.
Inside the suite, I peeled off my coat, let my suitcase slump near the closet, and threw myself onto the cloud-soft bed like a human corpse.
Then I FaceTimed Steven.
My best friend. My lifeline. My resident, no-bullshit, gay fairy godfather.
He answered in two rings, already shirtless with a green juice in one hand and a silk bonnet on his head.
“Girl. You look like betrayal and British humidity.”
I groaned. “That’s because I am betrayal and British humidity.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Did you see him yet?”
“No. But I Googled him.”
“And?”
I sighed. “He’s hot.”
“Like, how hot?”
“Like, tall-dark-and-I’m-in-trouble hot. Six-three. Brooding eyes. Smolder. Silent wealth. You know the type.”
“Oh, so an emotionally unavailable billionaire with a savior complex. A dream and a nightmare wrapped in a tailored blazer.”
“Exactly.”
He took a slow sip of his green juice. “And you’re gonna marry him…why, again?”
I stared at the ceiling. “Because if I don’t, my family’s company will crash. Everything my grandparents built gets buried in lawsuits and shame. My dad falls apart. My mom breaks up with him. The end.”
Steven was quiet.
Then he said, gently, “She…you don’t owe anyone your freedom. Even if they’re family.”
“I know,” I whispered.
But sometimes guilt is louder than reason.
He sighed. “Okay, listen. Play the game. Keep your boundaries. Don’t fall for the prince. And if he turns out to be an emotionally constipated control freak, I will fly to England and physically un-wed you.”
That made me laugh, which I didn’t realize I needed.
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Anytime, love. And hey, if he’s hot, at least your suffering will be aesthetically pleasing.”.
