I MARRIED MY ENEMY'S SON

THE HEIR AND THE NOOSE

Damian Cortez woke to the unpleasant, insect-like buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. Not his alarm — too early for that. And too frantic. Dozens of notifications poured in, screen flashing headlines that all said roughly the same thing:

Cortez heir spotted at gala with rival heiress.

Family feud or romantic truce?

The Cortez-Romano rivalry heats up in unexpected ways.

He thumbed the phone awake, scanned the photos — grainy zoom-ins of him laughing at some snide remark Aria Romano had made. One even caught him tipping his glass toward her like an acknowledgment. If the internet wanted to see flirtation in it, fine. He saw nothing but poor lighting and opportunistic paparazzi.

Damian slid out of bed, stretching to his full height as dawn slipped around the edges of the blackout curtains. He wasn't panicked — just irritated. This is what passes for scandal? Two people talking at a party? People really needed new hobbies.

The apartment's muted hum reached his ears — the soft click of polished shoes on marble. His butler, Harris, materialized in the doorway, immaculate as always, holding an iPad like a priest with scripture.

"Morning," Harris said in that perfectly neutral tone of his. "I assume you've seen it."

"I've seen it," Damian muttered, padding to the bathroom. "And I don't care."

"Your mother does," Harris replied, stepping just inside the room. "She's been pacing the living room since six. I made the mistake of offering coffee. She said she didn't need caffeine to be disappointed in you."

Damian gave a dry half-smile as he splashed water on his face. "How reassuring. If she's already at full voltage, I won't need to wait for the shouting."

"She's past shouting," Harris said. "Today feels… theatrical."

Damian dried his face, ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at his reflection — sharp features, calm eyes, a man who never looked ruffled even when the building was on fire. Let her try. He wouldn't give Isabella Cortez the pleasure of watching him squirm.

---

The Living Room War

The Cortez penthouse living room was a cathedral of glass and stone — cold lines softened only by a few family photos carefully staged on side tables. Damian stepped in barefoot, coffee mug in hand, and spotted Isabella at the window. She wasn't just pacing. She was performing — silk robe drawn tightly at the waist, one elegant hand pressed to her temple like she was enduring a migraine brought on solely by him.

"Morning, Mother," Damian said smoothly. "You're up early. New yoga routine?"

"Do you have any idea what you've done to this family?" Isabella's voice was low, trembling — more wounded-martyr than angry matriarch. That was her favorite weapon: disappointment dressed as love.

Damian settled onto the leather sofa, stretching out like he owned the place — which technically he did, or would. "I had a drink at a party. If that's catastrophic, I'll start wearing a disguise."

"Don't play stupid with me." Isabella turned, eyes glinting with restrained fury. "The press has photos of you with Aria Romano. Aria Romano. Do you understand the optics? The Romano name has been spitting on ours for thirty years, and you hand them this? A picture worth a thousand betrayals."

Damian sipped his coffee, unbothered. "It's not a scandal. Two people talked at a gala. No one actually cares."

"Investors care," Isabella snapped, crossing the room in quick, precise steps. "They don't invest in families that look reckless. And now you've given Eduardo Romano leverage to humiliate us."

Damian tilted his head, studying her like she was an abstract painting he didn't quite buy. "So your plan is what — write him an apology card? Because if you're thinking damage control—"

"I already handled it," Isabella cut in, voice sharp as crystal. "The Romanos and I have reached an understanding."

Damian lowered his mug. "An understanding," he repeated flatly. "What does that mean?"

"It means this petty scandal will vanish." Isabella straightened, smoothing her robe with deliberate grace. "We're formalizing a partnership. A union. You and Aria will be engaged. Quietly at first, then publicly. It's done."

Damian blinked once — not shocked, just measuring how absurdly fast she'd moved. "You've lost your mind," he said mildly.

"I've saved this family," Isabella countered.

"I'm not marrying a stranger because you're worried about bad headlines."

Her nostrils flared. "You will do as I say."

"I won't," Damian said simply, not raising his voice. His calmness was infuriating — deliberately so. He'd learned young that yelling at Isabella only fed her performance. Remaining composed robbed her of oxygen.

Isabella pivoted to full-scale emotional attack. "Damian, I have sacrificed everything to protect the Cortez name. Do you think wealth protects itself? Do you think the board respects us because you sit there looking handsome and aloof? I built this. I kept our enemies out. And now you risk it all because you can't keep away from a Romano girl for one evening."

He let the tirade wash over him, speaking only when she paused for breath. "Mother, I don't even know her. If you're trying to punish me for having a drink, congratulations, you've found the most archaic method possible."

"You're ungrateful," Isabella said, voice trembling with manufactured hurt. "After everything I've done, after the sleepless nights, the betrayals I endured to keep you safe — this is how you repay me? You would rather shame me in front of every ally we have than honor one request?"

Damian set his coffee down with a soft click. "This isn't a request. It's blackmail. And I don't respond to blackmail, even when it's dressed in silk."

Isabella's eyes shimmered with unshed tears — a signal Damian knew well. The crying card. Usually she saved it for board meetings or interviews where sympathy paid dividends. Today she played it at home, which meant she was cornered.

"If you refuse," she said quietly, "you will not inherit this company. I will cut you off without a cent."

Damian almost laughed. "Mother, you've threatened to disinherit me since I was twelve. I'm still waiting for the paperwork."

Her voice hardened. "Don't test me."

"And don't underestimate me," Damian replied evenly. "If you think I'm marrying someone I barely know to make you feel powerful, you don't know me as well as you think."

Isabella's tears vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, replaced by ice. "This will happen whether you like it or not. I will protect this family. Even from you."

Damian stood, calm as ever, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Good luck with that, Mother."

"Don't you walk away from me!" she snapped.

But he was already heading for the door. Outwardly unshaken. Inwardly calculating. Damian didn't blame Aria for any of this — she hadn't asked to be turned into a bargaining chip. But there was no universe in which he'd let Isabella dictate his life like a corporate merger.

As the elevator doors slid closed, his phone buzzed again. A new message. From Aria.

He read the first line — and his calm expression sharpened, just slightly.