C22 Sudden marriage

SYDNEY

There are few things in this world more terrifying than a dinner invitation from my father.

It wasn’t really an invitation—it was a summons, the kind that came with a threat wrapped in politeness.

My father, Richard Stallone, was a man who’d built an empire out of steel, money, and manipulation. He wasn’t the kind of man who raised children; he raised investments. My mother had been one of those investments once—a beautiful, tragic secret he kept tucked away from the rest of his “perfect” family.

And I was the result. The accident. The mistake that wore designer shoes.

So, sitting in the backseat of my car as it rolled up the long marble driveway of the Stallone estate, I could already feel my armor locking into place—heels, confidence, sarcasm, and a mask made of indifference.

The house stood like a monument to hypocrisy. Warm lights, expensive art, the illusion of domestic bliss. It was everything I wasn’t.

When I stepped into the dining room, all eyes turned to me.

Heather Stallone —my father’s wife—sat at the head of the table, flawless as always. Her smile was sweet poison, and her diamonds sparkled with smugness. Across from her lounged my stepbrother, Jeff, his sleeves rolled up, his smirk sharp enough to slice glass.

And at the center, at the head of the table, sat my father—silver-haired, dignified, every inch the man the public adored and I resented.

“Sydney,” he greeted, his tone warm enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” I replied, forcing a small, polite smile as I took my seat. “Wouldn’t want to break tradition.”

Jeff snorted softly, muttering something about “attention seekers.” Heather reached out and touched his hand lightly, feigning motherly restraint.

“Now, Jeff, she’s trying her best,” she said sweetly. “We can’t all be born perfect, can we?”

I almost applauded her for the passive aggression. Almost.

“Enough,” Father said, his tone sharp as a knife’s edge. The silence that followed was suffocating. He picked up his wine glass, swirled it, and then looked at me with the kind of calculating interest that made my skin crawl. “You’ve been… busy lately.”

“Work tends to do that,” I said lightly.

“Yes, work,” he repeated, as if the word itself was amusing. “And all those… scandals.”

I stiffened. Of course he would bring that up. The viral “one-minute kiss” was still making headlines.

Heather sighed theatrically. “It’s so hard being in the spotlight, isn’t it, dear? Every mistake is magnified. I can’t imagine what your poor PR team must be going through.”

I shot her a glare, but she only smiled wider, cutting into her steak like she’d just complimented me.

“Let’s not pretend we’re here to talk about my PR,” I said finally, turning to Father. “You didn’t summon me for family bonding.”

He smiled—cold, deliberate. “You’re right.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small photograph, sliding it across the table toward me.

I didn’t even have to look to feel dread settle in my stomach. When I finally did, my breath caught.

Andy.

Dark hair, calm smile, the picture of a perfect gentleman. I’d met him once at a charity event years ago. He’d been polite, charming, forgettable. Until now.

“This,” Father said, “is Andrew Carlisle. Andy. Son of my oldest and most trusted friend. You’ll be marrying him.”

For a moment, I thought I misheard. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll go on dates, build a relationship, make it official,” he continued, his tone even, his eyes unwavering. “It’s time to stabilize your reputation, Sydney. You’ve embarrassed this family enough.”

My pulse quickened. “Embarrassed this family?” I repeated, incredulous. “You mean your family. You’ve spent my entire life pretending I don’t exist unless you need something. Don’t pretend I’m suddenly one of you.”

Heather gasped softly, as if I’d just cursed in church. “Richard, are you going to let her talk to you like that?”

Jeff smirked. “She’s just jealous she’s not a real Stallone.”

My fork clattered onto the plate. I turned to glare at him, fury burning behind my calm expression. “At least I earned my position. You’re still waiting for Daddy to hand you one.”

His smirk faltered. “You think you deserve to be CEO of Stallone Enterprises? You’re a scandal waiting to happen. You don’t belong there.”

“Enough!” Father’s voice cracked through the room like thunder. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked at me, eyes cold, calculating. “You will marry Andy. You will go on dates. You will stop dragging this family’s name through the mud.”

“No,” I said, standing abruptly. My chair scraped against the marble. “You can’t force me into this.”

That’s when his lips curved into that cruel, knowing smile. “Can’t I?”

He leaned forward, voice lowering to a deadly calm. “Do you want me to tell the world who your mother really is? That she wasn’t my wife—that she was my mistress? That you are the living, breathing proof of my infidelity?”

The air left my lungs.

He had me cornered, and he knew it.

My mother, fragile and private, couldn’t survive another scandal. She’d already been through enough—years of being hidden, erased, whispered about.

“You wouldn’t,” I said weakly, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

“Oh, I would,” he said simply. “If it means protecting this family. You’ll do as I say. You’ll date Andy. You’ll marry him. You’ll stop making headlines for all the wrong reasons.”

I stared at him, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to shatter that perfect calm expression he wore like armor. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because I knew he meant it.

“I’ll do it,” I said finally, voice tight. “I’ll go on your stupid dates.”

Heather smiled like she’d just won a prize. Jeff snickered. And Father nodded, satisfied, taking a slow sip of his wine.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll thank me one day.”

I wanted to tell him that day would never come.

When dinner ended, I walked out of that house feeling hollow, my heels echoing against the marble floor like war drums.

Outside, the night air hit me hard, cool and sharp. I stared up at the sky, at the faint shimmer of city lights beyond the trees, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Andy Carlisle —the perfect fiancé. The obedient daughter. The scandal-free life my father wanted so desperately to manufacture.

But my mind wasn’t on Andy.

It was on Alaric.

His stormy eyes. His sharp tongue. The way his presence filled a room. The way he made me feel—alive, infuriated, breathless.

I had no idea what Alaric truly was. I only knew that no man had ever made me feel the way he did.

And that was exactly why I couldn’t stop now.

My father thought he could control me.

Andy thought he could win me.

But Alaric Blackthorne was the one I couldn’t let go of.

I had a bet to win.