I Belong To Him

Promises Made, Promises Torn

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The following weeks passed like a fever dream, soft, slow, yet heady with a kind of warmth Rose had never dared believe she deserved. Rose and Larkan had crossed the point of no return, though they never said it aloud. There were no grand declarations, no dramatic confessions.

It was subtler than that, an offering of a sandwich during a late study night, Larkan instinctively holding her hand when the train rocked too hard, Rose memorizing the slope of his back as he cooked breakfast. Love lived in the quiet. It breathed in the pauses, and bloomed in every glance.

Despite the relentless demands of finishing his degree and steering his family’s company through rapid expansion, Larkan never let Rose slip from his priorities. Between dawn‑break strategy sessions and late‑night study marathons, he carved out moments, quiet breakfasts in her sunlit kitchen, surprise midday texts, shared glances across bustling campus quads, reminding her (and himself) that love wasn’t a luxury but his greatest source of strength.

Under his calm, decisive leadership, the business thrived, new partnerships forged, profits climbing, yet it was Rose’s unwavering belief in him that fueled his ambition more than any boardroom victory. Their bond became a steady heartbeat beneath the chaos of contracts and coursework, propelling them both forward: she to dream bigger, he to build a legacy worthy of her love.

Rose graduated from high school on March 30th. The sky was brushed in muted gold, the kind of light that softened edges and made even the ugliest buildings look beautiful. She wore a white uniform that hugged her frame and medals that clinked softly as she walked across the stage. Her name was called. Applause. Flash of cameras. Somewhere in the crowd, her friends cheered.

But Rose was only searching for one person.

Larkan stood at the farthest edge of the campus field, arms crossed, leaning casually against the old acacia tree. He wore a black collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and in his hand was a tiny bouquet of sunflowers—her favorite. The moment their eyes met, the world faded to white noise.

After the ceremony, Rose didn’t hesitate. She ran—past the stage, past the congratulations, past the whispered curiosity of onlookers—and threw herself into his arms. He caught her, steady as always. A friend of hers took a picture just as Larkan smiled against her hair, holding her like he’d never let go. It would become her most treasured photo: her in cap and gown, barefoot on the grass, arms looped around the man everyone said she shouldn’t love—but did.

“Proud of you, little rose,” he whispered into her ear.

“I wouldn’t have made it without you,” she said.

Later, they sat under the same tree, her head on his shoulder, eating ice cream from a nearby vendor like nothing else mattered. In that moment, it didn’t.

Larkan’s own graduation came quietly two months later. He had been studying part-time for years, unknown to most, quietly pushing himself through sleepless nights and early shifts. It wasn’t a big ceremony—just a departmental gathering at a university function hall. Rose showed up with a ridiculous banner that read “You Did It, You Overachieving Cinnamon Roll!” in red glitter. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the grin.

They celebrated in his tiny apartment with takeout pizza and soda. That night, Rose sat on his lap, tracing his jawline with her thumb.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked.

“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to impress you.”

“You impress me even when you’re quiet.”

He looked at her like she was the only answer he’d ever needed. And then he kissed her—not hurried or shy, but slow, deep, aching. The kind of kiss that makes time irrelevant. The kind of kiss you remember when the world falls apart.

They spent that summer like thieves of time, stealing whatever moments they could: dancing barefoot in her kitchen, whispering stories on the rooftop, watching midnight films with fingers entwined. They would lie beside each other, hearts tangled, wondering aloud about things like:

“What kind of house do you want someday?”

“One with wide windows and a crooked bookshelf.”

“How many dogs?”

“Four.”

“And kids?”

Larkan paused, then said, “As many as you want… if it’s with you.”

Her heart bloomed like it had never been hurt before.

But the dream cracked when Rose received an invitation—an ornate, handwritten note from her grandmother, summoning her to a private family dinner. The air felt colder that night. Larkan offered to go with her, but she said no. He insisted on waiting outside in the car.

The estate was old, hauntingly beautiful, draped in velvet and legacy. Her grandmother sat at the end of a long table, poised like a queen. And beside her—Levine.

He stood as Rose entered, tall and stately. The sharp lines of his face mirrored someone she couldn’t quite place at first. He took her hand and kissed it politely.

“I’ve come home,” he said, voice smooth as silk.

“For you.”

At first, she thought it was a joke. A forgotten cousin, maybe? But then the truth was laid out in well-practiced words: long ago, her parents and his father had arranged an engagement—a political and financial alliance meant to bind legacies. After her parents’ death, the arrangement was shelved, but not forgotten. Now, with Levine back from years abroad, the deal was being called back to life.

It felt like betrayal wrapped in tradition.

Rose walked out of that mansion dazed, a hurricane spinning behind her ribs. Larkan stood up the moment she stepped outside. She didn’t speak, just walked into his arms and held on tight.

“I’m… supposed to marry someone,” she choked out.

He tensed. “Who?”

“His name is Levine.”

The name hit like a bell tolling. But when she showed him the photo later that night—his face froze.

Because he recognized him.

They shared the same father. Larkan’s half-brother. The polished son of a man who had abandoned Larkan’s mother long ago. The one who had been groomed for power while Larkan scraped his way through life alone.

The jealousy that rose wasn’t about status, it was about history.

Levine entered their lives like a storm dressed in fine suits and good intentions. He was too charming, too precise. He brought flowers to Rose’s house. He flattered the elders. He treated Larkan with forced civility, each word a blade behind a smile.

“You’re not what’s best for her,” he said one afternoon in private.

“And you are?” Larkan replied.

“She deserves someone with a future. Not someone she’ll have to fix.”

That was the first time Larkan punched a wall after walking away.

Rose didn’t let go.

She fought against the pressure with a quiet fury. When her grandmother spoke of duty and legacy, Rose responded with words like “freedom” and “choice.” But centuries of tradition don’t crumble easily. Especially not when the alternative—the boy with rough hands and a haunted past—wasn’t what they envisioned for their precious girl.

One night, Rose snuck into Larkan’s apartment. Her hands were trembling. He took one look at her and opened his arms.

“They said you’re not good for me,” she said.

“I’m not,” he replied. “But I love you anyway.”

She kissed him, all teeth and tears and desperation.

“Promise me something,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“Even if they pull us apart… even if everything goes to hell… promise me you’ll still choose me.”

“I will,” he said, voice breaking.

“Always.”

She buried herself in his arms, and in the silence that followed, they both knew: love wasn’t always enough to win, but it would always be enough to try.

And that had to count for something.

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