Perilous Sea || Homer Series

Chapter Two

"What the hell are you talking about?" I drop my utensil, my appetite vanishing. "My parents have never said anything about this."

Wyatt sits across from me, completely composed. His face is unreadable, his eyes sharp and unyielding. If he’s lying, he’s damn good at it.

It’s early morning, the restaurant quiet except for the distant hum of conversation. But between us, the silence is razor-sharp. We’re discussing the same nonsense he brought up six months ago—our so-called arranged marriage.

Except I’ve never heard a single word about it. My parents are too preoccupied with Zenos and Crescent’s engagement to care about mine. So what the hell is this? A trick? A desperate escape plan?

"Let me get this straight," I say, leaning back. "You want us to fake relationships? I pretend to have a boyfriend, and you—what? Pull some random girl into this mess?"

His expression remains cold. "Yes."

I let out a short, scornful laugh. "And you actually think they’ll believe it?"

His gaze darkens, as if I’ve just insulted his intelligence. "Every Homer knows how to bend the truth to their will. It would be humiliating if you couldn’t."

I smile, slow and taunting. Ah, so that’s how he wants to play.

"You’re insulting my capabilities, Wyatt?" My voice is a whisper of amusement, but the warning is there.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. "I’m questioning them."

Interesting.

My fingers trace the rim of my glass as I stare at him, deliberately slow, deliberately cruel. I want him to feel like he’s under my scrutiny, like I’m picking him apart piece by piece.

"So let me guess," I say, tilting my head. "Our parents are planning to announce our engagement after this event, and you panicked. Now you need a convenient little distraction?"

A muscle tics in his jaw, but his voice remains smooth. "Something like that."

How amusing. Wyatt Vilmaris—the man who never loses control—scrambling for a way out.

I lean in slightly, my voice a silk-covered blade. "Do you already have someone in mind, then? Or were you planning to figure it out at the last second?"

He watches me for a moment, then, without breaking eye contact, lifts his wine glass and takes a slow sip.

Wine. At this hour.

"Vlisse," he finally says, placing the glass down with deliberate ease. "She’ll be my partner for the event."

Of course. He already had this planned.

I hum, unimpressed, and flick my hair over my shoulder. "And me? Do you have a recommendation?"

Wyatt leans forward, elbows resting on the table. The shift in his posture is subtle, but I feel the intensity of it—the way he’s closing the space between us without moving an inch.

His gaze locks onto mine, searching. Calculating. As if trying to pick me apart now.

I hold it, unbothered. If he thinks he can rattle me, he’s mistaken.

Slowly, a smirk ghosts across his lips. "I’m sure you’ll find someone… suitable."

I narrow my eyes, reading between the lines. He’s testing me. Daring me to make a move.

A dangerous game, Wyatt.

He licks his bottom lip absently, and for half a second, my eyes betray me, flickering to the motion.

His smirk grows, ever so slightly.

I click my tongue, shaking my head with a soft laugh. Foolish of me. A single moment of distraction, and he thinks he’s gained the upper hand.

I lean back, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. "You seem awfully invested in my choice, Wyatt."

He doesn’t answer, just watches me, his amusement lingering in the air like a storm waiting to break.

The tension between us is suffocating, but I refuse to let him think he’s winning.

After that conversation with Wyatt, we went our separate ways, but I was fuming.

As if life wasn’t already complicated enough, now an arranged marriage had been thrown into the mix. My family has never been one for such outdated traditions—yet here we are. And with Zenos and Crescent already engaged, would another Homer-Vilmaris union be necessary or just excessive?

The thought gnawed at me all the way home. My mind was a storm of chaos, spiraling through every possibility, every implication. Nothing about this situation made sense.

I’ve always known who we are—what it means to be a Homer.

Our name commands power, and with power comes fear. People don’t cross us. They don’t question us. They bow. Everyone bows.

We are untouchable.

The Homer family isn’t just big—we are an empire. Our influence is woven into the very fabric of society, deeply rooted in law, business, and politics. The mere mention of our name turns heads, stiffens spines, silences rooms. People do not approach us unless they belong to our world—unless they, too, carry the weight of wealth and power.

The world has always been split in two: those at the top and those who serve them.

Wealth isn’t just about money. It’s about control. The ones who remain at the top do so because they play the game ruthlessly. That’s how the Homers have always stayed ahead—untouchable, unshakable, and feared.

And yet, for all that power, I’ve always felt like it was a curse.

Because when you stand too high, the world only looks up at you—never with you.

"Oceanna."

I stop in my tracks, my mother’s voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She’s walking toward me with purpose, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

I had only just entered the living room, but now I hesitate, knowing exactly where this conversation is heading.

"Have you thought ab—"

"Don’t start now, Mom," I interrupt, walking past her.

She grabs my arm, firm but not forceful. "You need to wake up. Life is not about what we want—it’s about what we need." Her voice is softer now, a quiet plea beneath the weight of authority.

I turn to face her. She looks stunning, as always—the very image of elegance and control. A woman born to fit the role she plays so well. The perfect Homer.

I force a small, sad smile. "You’ll never understand, Mom." My voice is barely a whisper before I walk away.

Growing up, I was convinced Crescent was the favorite. Every achievement, every move she made, our parents praised. But now, I understand. It wasn’t about favoritism. It was because she followed the rules. She became what they wanted.

Crescent is studying law—just like them. She is powerful, sharp, and commanding. Everything about her screams Homer. She was made for this family.

But me?

I never wanted power. I never wanted control. The weight of this family’s name has always felt more like chains than a crown.

I collapse onto my bed, my mind spinning. How far am I willing to go to chase what I want?

Can I even escape?

No one escapes the Homers.

We don’t run. We don’t fall. We don’t fail.

And that’s the worst part.

After changing into a fresh dress, I immediately headed to the venue to inspect every detail. The air was thick with movement—staff hurrying across the grand hall, decorators making final adjustments, and the faint hum of the sound system being tested. Everything was falling into place, but perfection was expected—especially for an event of this scale.

The late afternoon light poured through the towering glass windows, casting a golden glow over the venue. Chandeliers were being polished to a flawless shine, their crystals refracting specks of light across the grand ceiling. The long, banquet-style tables were already being set, draped in the finest linen, with silverware meticulously aligned. Floral arrangements—white roses, orchids, and gold-dusted calla lilies—were placed at precise angles, exuding wealth and refinement.

I moved through the space, checking the sound system and technical setups. The speakers echoed slightly as I ran a final test, ensuring the acoustics were perfect. The stage, elevated and grand, had been adorned with heavy velvet curtains, their deep shade of red adding a sense of drama to the evening.

As I made my way toward the left side of the venue, my gaze landed on Crescent and Zenos. Crescent was engaged in a conversation with someone, while Zenos stood beside her, his eyes never leaving her—watchful and attentive.

I pursed my lips.

I couldn’t help but wonder... Did he really cheat?

Zenos looked at Crescent like she was the only person in the room, yet rumors whispered otherwise. But then there was Daphne—Zenos’ ex-girlfriend and Crescent’s former friend. Had Crescent distanced herself from them because of something deeper? Or was it just as messy as it seemed?

I was lost in thought when a staff member called my name, snapping me back to reality. They needed assistance, so I quickly diverted my attention from my swirling speculations.

Earlier, Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Julie had stopped by for a final check. Their visit was brief, but their presence alone was enough to remind everyone of just how important this night was.

“Tired?”

A familiar voice cut through the noise, and a comforting arm wrapped around my shoulder.

Kuya Daryl.

I offered him a tired smile. "Kind of. What about you?"

He just smiled in return, the kind of smile that understood exactly how exhausting this night was going to be.

Together, we stood there for a moment, watching everything unfold—the staff moving with urgency, our cousins handling responsibilities, even the elders ensuring every detail was up to standard.

This event wasn’t just huge.

It was a power play.

A gathering of the most powerful families, where reputations would be judged, alliances would be strengthened, and every glance, every word, every action would carry weight.

And we?

We were at the center of it all.

Tonight was going to be long, exhausting, and far from simple.

After hours of meticulous preparation at the venue, we finally returned home to get ready for the event.

I stood before the full-length mirror, dressed in a long Saint Laurent gown in pointelle knit—simple yet refined, just the way I liked it. The fabric hugged my frame effortlessly, its intricate details catching the soft glow of the vanity lights.

My stylist had pulled my hair into a sleek half-ponytail, framing my face in a way that accentuated my smoky eyes. Dark, intense, and calculated—it matched the look of someone who knew exactly what kind of world she was walking into tonight.

A hint of satisfaction flickered in my chest. I looked exactly as I needed to—composed, confident, untouchable.

The stylist was doing the final touches when a firm knock sounded at the door.

“Are you done, Cean? Your father is waiting for us.”

My mother’s voice was poised, carrying the same unshakable grace she always held.

I turned to see her standing in the doorway, dressed in a stunning white gown that complemented her flawless complexion. Her long hair cascaded down in soft curls, effortlessly elegant.

“We’re almost done, Ma’am Lara,” my stylist said politely, stepping back to inspect their work.

“One more minute, Mom,” I added, rising to my feet.

Mom nodded, offering a small glance of approval before closing the door behind her.

As the stylist packed their tools, I took a final moment to prepare. I reached for my red clutch—a small statement piece, just big enough to hold my phone and a single card. No unnecessary weight. Just the essentials.

Tonight wasn’t about comfort. It was about presence.

And in the world we lived in, presence was everything.

As we walked toward the venue, the flashes from the cameras were almost blinding. The media was everywhere, their voices overlapping as they called out names, hoping to get a reaction. It was suffocating, but I kept my expression neutral, forcing a small, polite smile as we made our way inside.

The moment we stepped through the entrance, we were greeted by a wave of familiar faces—business partners, political figures, and long-time allies of our family. They approached with firm handshakes and well-practiced pleasantries, their words carefully chosen, their interest never just small talk.

Crescent stood on Dad’s left, while Mom was on his right. I stayed beside my mother, with Kuya Daryl next to me. The arrangement was nothing new—it had always been this way. Crescent beside Dad, like she belonged there.

She was wearing a strapless velour gown with a scarf draped elegantly around her shoulders, and as usual, she carried herself with an air of quiet authority. Tonight, she seemed even more composed, her expression unreadable. She looked untouchable, like nothing could shake her.

“Your children are grown adults already, Rizalito,” Congressman Basil remarked, his voice warm yet calculated.

Dad responded with a short, respectful reply, engaging in light conversation. I stood there, listening but not really paying attention. These kinds of interactions were routine—expected.

We finally made our way to our table, where our family sat together. The event would begin in fifteen minutes, and I could already feel the weight of the night settling in.

As the program began, I wandered through the venue, taking in the familiar faces. My eyes landed on Wyatt, seated with his family, and then shifted to the girl beside him—Vlisse.

I let out a small scoff and looked away. So he’s really going through with this act? How petty.

Before I could dwell on it any further, the speaker’s voice echoed through the hall.

“Let’s call Mr. Jonathan Homer for the speech of appreciation for this event.”

The applause was immediate as Uncle Jonathan stood, his presence commanding respect.

I pursed my lips. This is going to be long.

My cousins sat perfectly still, their expressions unreadable, focused. Only the elders wore polite smiles, engaged in the moment. This was just another formality—something we had all seen before.

Uncle Jonathan stepped forward, adjusting the microphone as silence fell over the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, family, and friends—thank you for being here tonight as we celebrate another milestone for Homer & Associates.”

There was a murmur of approval, glasses clinking softly as people settled in.

“For decades, our firm has stood as a pillar of strength in the legal industry. We have built not just a company, but a legacy—one defined by integrity, power, and unwavering commitment to justice.”

He paused, scanning the crowd with a measured gaze.

“But we did not reach this point alone. To our allies—our partners in business and law—you have played a crucial role in our success. Your trust, your loyalty, and your shared pursuit of excellence have allowed us to stand at the top. Tonight, we celebrate not just our achievements, but our unity.”

There was a brief moment of silence before he raised his glass.

“So here’s to more years of success, to more victories, and to an unshakable legacy. Cheers.”

The crowd rose to their feet, glasses lifted, voices murmuring their agreement.

Applause erupted across the room.

I exhaled quietly, my gaze moving back to my cousins. They remained unmoved. We were raised in this world, conditioned for it, yet somehow, it still felt exhausting.

As I lowered my gaze, my eyes unintentionally found Wyatt’s again.

He was already looking at me.

After the speech, the atmosphere shifted as people mingled, exchanging pleasantries and making quiet business deals in between glasses of champagne. My eyes landed on Crescent, speaking to a man I recognized instantly—the eldest heir of Xakousti.

I didn’t linger. I had other things to do.

I moved through the vast venue, searching for Ulysses. I had already texted him, but there was still no reply. With a place this big, finding someone was nearly impossible.

As I scanned the crowd, my gaze briefly caught on Wyatt, deep in conversation with Zale Eakovos—and, of course, Vlisse, the girl he so proudly brought tonight. How committed. I was about to walk past them when movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention—Ulysses, waving from the left side of the venue.

I was about to head in her direction when a voice stopped me.

"Oceanna!"

I turned, lips pressing together as I faced Uncle Kevin—Wyatt and Zenos' father.

I forced a polite smile.

"You look fabulous!" Aunt Zeinab chimed in before pulling me into a warm embrace.

I kissed her cheek. “Hi, Tita.” I did the same with Uncle Kevin, keeping my posture composed.

"Where are you off to? Why don't you stay a while?" Uncle Kevin asked, gesturing to the man beside him. “Do you know Zale Eakovos?”

I shifted my gaze to Zale, who was now looking at me. Yeah, I knew him.

“Yes, Uncle. I do.” I gave a curt nod before glancing at Ulysses. “I was just roaming around, planning to socialize with my friends.”

Before I could excuse myself, Aunt Zeinab took my hand gently, her eyes warm yet insistent. Now, I was standing beside Zale, directly in front of Wyatt.

And then, as if the tension wasn’t enough, Aunt Zeinab spoke.

“You know, I always thought you and my elder son had something.”

My fingers twitched at my sides.

“But… he brought a girlfriend tonight.”

The disappointment in her tone was clear—she didn’t even bother to hide it, despite Vlisse standing right there.

Uncle Kevin chuckled lightly, shaking his head at his wife’s bluntness.

I blinked, stealing a glance at Wyatt.

Does he really think this little game of his is working?

I guess not.

“Mom.”

Wyatt’s voice was firm, but Aunt Zeinab barely spared him a glance before turning to speak with Uncle Kevin. After a brief exchange, they both turned to me.

“Stay here for a while and entertain Zale.”

And just like that, they left.

My brows furrowed. Seriously?

Now, I was stuck at this table with Wyatt, Zale, and Vlisse—the very last combination of people I wanted to be around.

I didn’t bother looking at Wyatt. I was pissed enough already. Instead, my gaze shifted to Zale, who was watching me with mild amusement.

“How’s life lately, Cean?” he asked, all formal and polite.

I rolled my eyes. “Drop the formality, Zale. I’m fine.”

We knew each other through Ebony—they were friends. I never really bothered much with him, but we had crossed paths enough times for the pretense to be unnecessary.

He smirked, about to say something when I felt a hand on my elbow.

I turned.

“Hey.”

Ulysses.

I smiled instantly, wrapping my arms around him in a quick hug.

“Lexine’s sulking because she couldn’t come,” he whispered against my ear.

I chuckled. “That’s her fault.”

As I pulled away, I became fully aware of the eyes on me. I didn’t need to introduce Ulysses—everyone here knew who he was. Our world was small.

I glanced at Wyatt, only to find his gaze fixed downward, his jaw tight.

My eyes followed his line of sight—right to where Ulysses’ hand was still resting on my elbow.

I ignored it.

After a brief exchange, I left the table, allowing Ulysses to stay behind as they continued discussing business. I needed space. The weight of the evening was suffocating.

As I wandered toward the farthest corner of the venue, my steps slowed when I reached the floral arrangement of roses—my favorite part of the decor.

I smiled. They got it right. The way the roses were arranged, cascading elegantly with the soft glow of golden lights, was mesmerizing.

From this quiet spot, I had a clear view of the ballroom. People laughed, talked, and flaunted their wealth with carefully measured charm. Their conversations were nothing more than a show—each word designed to establish power, each smile calculated.

These were the elite—the ones who held the economy in their hands. And yet, even among them, there was still a hierarchy. The ones who ruled, and the ones who merely clung to the title.

Even away from them, I could still hear their voices, blending into a chorus of influence and ambition.

Then, I felt it.

A presence behind me.

Before I could turn, arms wrapped around my waist—firm, unmoving. Possessive.

I didn’t need to see who it was.

Wyatt.

My body stiffened. “What are you doing?”

I gripped his hands, trying to pry them off, but his hold was firm—unwavering.

“Stay still,” he muttered, irritation lacing his voice.

What?

“Someone might see us. Let go.” I struggled again, my patience thinning.

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.

The dim lighting cast shadows around us, the only glow coming from the soft illumination of the roses. It felt secluded, too quiet. The contrast between the buzzing ballroom and this hidden corner made the situation even more suffocating.

Frustrated, I shoved his hands off me and turned to face him. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was obvious.

And then—his hands found my waist again, almost instinctively.

I pressed my palm against his chest, keeping a careful distance between us.

“What are you doing?” My voice was sharper this time, laced with irritation. He was the one who said we shouldn’t interact.

He held my gaze, his own unreadable. “No one will see us here,” he said with certainty, like he was utterly convinced of it.

I licked my lips in frustration, feeling my heart pounding against my ribs. It was infuriating.

Before I could step away, he pulled me closer, closing the remaining distance between us. His face dipped between my neck and shoulder, his breath warm against my skin.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole this morning," he whispered.

I shut my eyes tightly, every nerve in my body on edge. His warmth sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated it. I bit my lip, trying to ground myself, and placed my hands on his shoulders—ready to push him away.

I don’t like this.

Before I could shove him, he caught my wrists, straightening up to look at me. His eyes held something unreadable, something unsettling.

“I understand. Let go now,” I said coldly.

I tried to pull my hands free, but he tightened his grip, using it to yank me flush against his chest.

"Wyatt!" I whisper-yelled, glaring up at him.

His gaze softened for a moment, then flickered down—to my lips.

I knew where this was going.

"Don’t you dare kiss me," I warned, my voice laced with defiance, though my pulse hammered against my ribs. My lips curled into a mocking smirk, but I was playing with fire. "Why don’t you kiss your so-called girlfriend?"

Something in his expression shifted, darkened—like a storm cloud rolling in, promising a reckoning. His jaw clenched so tightly I swore I could hear his teeth grind.

"She’s not my girlfriend."

Oh yeah?

I tilted my head, arching a brow. "Okay, but I do have a boyfriend."

A blatant, reckless lie. One I knew he wouldn't believe. But I said it anyway—because I wanted to see that flicker of possessiveness in his eyes, to push him, to make him snap.

His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and searching, peeling away my bravado like it was nothing. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, tension radiating from him in waves.

He wasn’t buying it.

I bit my lip—subtle, deliberate. Selling the lie. His nostrils flared, his hands twitching like he was resisting the urge to grab me.

And then, when I saw the conflict in his gaze, I took my chance.

I shoved him. Hard.

He stumbled back a step, his expression flickering with something raw—shock, irritation, maybe even amusement. But it disappeared in a second, replaced by a look so unreadable it made my stomach twist.

"Don’t fool me, Oceanna," he said icily, his voice a razor’s edge. A warning.

I swallowed, straightening my spine. "Yeah? You said I should have, right?" I pursed my lips, feigning indifference.

He took a step forward, and instinctively, I took one back. But he kept coming. One step. Then another. Closing in, his presence suffocating, his jaw tight with restraint.

"Stop messing with me." His voice was low, dark. A warning and a threat wrapped into one.

I tilted my chin up, feigning innocence. "Want me to kiss him in front of you then?"

A smirk tugged at his lips. Not the playful kind. Not even amused. No—this was dangerous. Calculated. "I dare you, Cean."

I scoffed. So, he wanted to play? Fine.

"Don’t worry, I’ll send you one tom—"

Before I could even finish, he moved.

A blur of motion. A sharp inhale. And then—

His lips crashed against mine.

I gasped, caught entirely off guard by the force, the sheer need behind it. My hands flew to his shoulders, instinctively pushing against him, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he bit my lip—just enough to make me shudder.

"Wyat—"

He took advantage of my parted lips, his tongue sliding past my defenses. A helpless sound escaped me, betraying me, and he swallowed it whole.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was wild, fierce, like he was punishing me for my words—like he was proving something neither of us could name.

I fought for control, but it was useless. He dominated, his grip unyielding, his presence drowning out everything else. I only realized I was out of breath when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressing against mine.

His eyes burned into me.

"What the hell!" My voice was breathless, but the anger was real.

He smirked, mirroring my intensity. "Don’t even try, Cean," he warned, voice husky, dangerous.