"You're offering me a rose?"
"Aren't roses a way of saying I love you?"
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In which [Y/N's] noble and honored family's money starts to decline and they find the only way of staying out of the ruins is to fix their daughter an arranged marriage.
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Phillip looked worried as he stood over me, tall and composed, his presence filling the room like a shadow I couldn't escape. I sat stiffly on the living room couch, my hands folded in my lap, eyes focused on a loose thread along the armrest—anywhere but on him.
Dinner had passed in tense silence, his usual visits now feeling more like invasions. I knew we had to talk. I had no choice.
Only hours ago, I'd pushed him away mid-kiss, the taste of bile still clinging to my tongue from the contact. The memory made my skin crawl.
It didn't matter how handsome he was—how perfect his posture or how soothing his voice. Every detail that once might have charmed someone else only ignited more rage in me. I despised him. I despised the plan he had made with my mother behind my back. As if I were livestock at auction. As if love could be bought with money and paperwork.
I kept my gaze low, refusing to meet his eyes. I didn't trust myself if I did.
And worst of all, I hated the truth: I would marry him. I would stand at that altar and chain myself for life to a man I couldn't stand to be near.
But in the silence of that moment, my heart tugged elsewhere. Tewkesbury. The boy I still couldn't forget. His soft, affectionate letters. The way he used to cradle my face as if it were a fragile treasure. His whispers of flowers, my love, spoken like poetry meant only for me. I hated him too—for leaving me. But somehow, missing him hurt more than hating Phillip.
Phillip finally spoke, his voice smooth and deliberate, that charming accent like a cloak over something far uglier.
"Forgive me," he said, settling beside me, a little too close. "If the way I acted this morning upset you."
I turned to face him at last, expression neutral, hollow.
"No," I replied flatly, forcing composure. "You forgive me."
I had a role to play now. A mask I had no choice but to wear.
He smiled faintly, tilting his head as he studied me. "I know you like me a lot, [Y/N]." His voice dropped slightly, as if trying to read my reaction. "But... you're not in love with me."
I barely blinked. The way he said it—so certain, so calm—only fueled the storm inside me. But I stayed still, unreadable.
"Maybe everyone's right," he went on. "Maybe we are rushing into this."
That caught me off guard. My eyes flicked to his in surprise, studying him now.
"We should've waited," he continued thoughtfully. "Given ourselves more time to understand each other. To adjust."
His words were gentle, even reasonable. But all I could think was: Now you say this? After sealing the deal with my mother like I was something to be traded?
