The Unwanted Groom

"Francine, this is our only chance to save the company!" Her father's voice cracked through the dining hall of the Winter mansion, bouncing off the cold walls. It wasn't just loud—it was desperate, the kind of desperation that scraped at her nerves. Francine Ellis Winter's fingers tightened around the glass in front of her. Water trembled inside it, threatening to spill as her knuckles turned pale. "You can't be serious," she said, forcing her tone into something steady, though her chest churned. "You actually want me to marry him? A stranger?" Her father exhaled as if the air itself was too heavy to carry. "Not just any stranger. Soren Lucius Draemir." Francine laughed, short and bitter. It echoed sharper than she meant it to. "How convenient for you to dress up madness in a name." "This isn't madness—it's survival!" His hand slammed the table once, the sound hollow in the cavernous room. "If we lose him, we lose everything. Our home, our name, your brother's future. Tell me, how can I face your Abuelo if I let it all slip away?" The look on his face—pleading, almost broken—should have softened her. But it didn't. If anything, it made her feel smaller, trapped. They were gambling with her life just to keep the Winter name alive. A name that was already bleeding out. And then there was that name. Soren Lucius Draemir. It wasn't just a man's name—it was practically a warning. Billionaire. Draemir International. A figure people whispered about at parties with a mix of awe and fear. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of man whose smile could be mistaken for a threat. And somehow, he was to be her husband? Her mother's voice broke into the silence, shaky. "Francine, please. We don't have a choice. Without him, we'll lose the business, the house... everything." Francine's throat tightened, but no words came. She knew the truth—her family's empire had been crumbling for years. But to sell her off like some last-ditch asset? That wasn't saving anything. That was surrender. The double doors creaked open. The noise was soft, but it sliced the moment in half. He walked in. Soren Lucius Draemir. He didn't just enter—he filled the room. A tall figure in a suit tailored so precisely it almost looked alive, clinging to him like it had no choice. Dark hair slicked back, features sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes—calm, steady, but carrying something dangerous, like a fire that could burn without moving. He didn't smile. Didn't greet. His gaze locked onto her as if no one else existed. "So," he said at last, voice low, velvet smooth yet edged with something sharp. "Here sits the desperate daughter." Heat rushed to her face. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." He slid into the chair opposite her with infuriating calm. "I don't waste time with games, Miss Winter. Your family is drowning, and you... you're the price they've set." Francine straightened, anger prickling through her veins. "And what makes you so certain I'd ever marry a man like you?" That smirk. It wasn't warm, not even close. It was the sort of smile people wore when they already knew the ending. "Because, Francine Ellis Winter... you don't have a choice." She leaned forward, fire sparking in her chest. "You don't know me." Something flickered in his expression, quick and dark, before he tilted his head. His eyes studied her, not with affection but with the careful patience of someone decoding a puzzle. "No," he murmured, the smirk curling again. "But I intend to."