Tangles in his silence

Chapter 3

The message from my dad still sat on my phone screen when I woke up the next morning. I must've read it a dozen times before sleep claimed me, and now it stared back at me again, every word feeling heavier than the last.

We’ll be expecting you at noon. The Imperial Hotel. Private suite.

No greeting. No warmth. Just an instruction from him. How typical.

I lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains. My chest felt tight. My parents rarely asked to see me, and the thought of seeing them twisted something uneasy in my stomach.

I tried to convince myself that it might be something good. Maybe he wanted to apologize for missing my exhibition. Maybe they wanted to have lunch, like a family that actually spoke to each other.

But I knew better.

By the time the clock struck ten, I was at the edge of my bed, staring at my open closet. I had spent twenty minutes debating whether to look formal or casual. With my father, appearances were a part of the conversation. He noticed everything, especially when he could use it as a weapon.

I contemplated wearing something casual just to get on his nerves, but I dismissed the idea. I can already imagine his disapproving look, and I knew I would never hear the end of it.

I shook the thought away before heading to the bathroom. I turned on the shower and stepped into the water, hoping it would wash away the unease curling in my stomach. The heat blurred my thoughts until everything became distant. My eyes fell to my thighs, where faint scars marked my skin, subtle reminders of quieter wars I never spoke about. I traced them lightly, then drew in a breath and let the water hide them.

When I stepped out, I avoided my reflection. I dried myself and returned to my room to get dressed.

I settled for a cream colored silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers. Polished. The kind of outfit that suggested composure, even when I lacked it. I brushed my hair until it gleamed and applied a light layer of makeup, just enough to hide the exhaustion in my eyes.

When I finally looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. She looked calm. In control. But beneath the facade, my pulse thudded with quiet panic.

The car ride to the hotel was quiet except for the hum of traffic and the radio murmuring in the background. My driver said something about the weather, but I barely heard him. My fingers played with the strap of my purse, my mind rehearsing imaginary conversations that would never happen.

When we reached the Imperial, I hesitated before stepping out. The glass doors reflected my image back at me, a woman trying to appear composed while her pulse betrayed her.

Inside the air conditioning hit me like a sigh of luxury. The receptionist smiled politely when I mentioned my father’s name, then gestured towards the elevator. “They’re waiting for you, Miss Petralis.”

My stomach tightened.

The elevator ride felt endless. I watched the numbers climb, one after another, each ding louder than the last. By the time the doors opened, I was lightheaded.

I walked through the corridor lined with golden lamps and soft carpets. The suite was at the end. The door was already opened.

I pushed it open carefully, and the familiar scent of my mothers’s perfume greeted me before her voice did.

“Ianthe,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She rose from the couch, immaculate as always in her pastel dress and pearls, and approached me.

“You look beautiful, darling. It’s been too long,” she said before embracing me in a warm hug.

I wrapped my arm around her, a little too quickly, and embraced her back. We broke the hug and I forced a smile. “It has.”

My father didn’t rise. He sat by the window, his broad frame leaned slightly against the armrest, phone in hand. His dark gray suit was perfectly tailored, as if he’d stepped straight out of a boardroom. When he finally looked up, the sharpness in his gaze made my stomach dip.

My mother gestured for me to sit, smoothing her dress and she did. My father’s expression was unreadable. He wore his power like a second skin.

“Father,” I greeted.

“Ianthe,” he said curtly. “You’re on time, That’s good.”

That was the closest thing to approval I would get.

I took the arm chair opposite them. For a few moments, no one spoke. The sound of the city hummed faintly through the glass.

My father cleared his throat. “You’ve been doing well with your exhibitions.”

I blinked. “Thank you.”

“It seems your name is beginning to mean something outside of galleries,” he continued. “That’s… commendable.”

Commendable. I wanted to laugh. He said it the way a man might compliment a child for learning to ride a bicycle.

My mother smiled gently. “Your father and I are very proud of you.”

I nodded but didn’t respond. She didn’t sound convinced, and neither did I.

My father leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I asked you here because there’s something important we need to discuss. It concerns the future of the family and, naturally, your place in it.”

The knot in my stomach tightened even more. “My place?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’ve built an… admirable career, but there comes a point when personal pursuits must align with the family’s long term interests.”

“I don’t see how my work disrupts that,” I replied carefully.

He gave a thin smile. “You’ll understand in a moment. There’s an arrangement being made, one that will secure the company’s future and strengthen our partnerships and you play a vital role in that.”

The way he said arrangement made the air heavier. My heartbeat quickened.

“What kind of arrangement?”

My father exchanged a look with my mother before continuing. “A union. One that benefits each family.”

For a second I didn’t process the word. Then it landed.

“You mean marriage.”

He didn’t answer immediately, which was enough answer.

My voice shook slightly. “You’re arranging a marriage for me.”

“This isn’t as shocking as you’re making it sound,” he replied. “These things happen all the time. Our families have worked together for years. It’s a practical decision.”

“A practical decision?” I repeated. “You’re talking about my life as if it were a business contract.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” he said bluntly. “And you will honor it.”

I stared at him, my breath catching somewhere between disbelief and fury. “I don’t even know who this person is.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he said.

I turned to my mother. “You can’t possibly agree with this.”

Her expression softened, but her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. “It’s for your own good, darling. Your father wants to ensure your security. The world isn’t kind to women alone.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “So your solution is to hand me over like a business asset?”

“Ianthe,” my father warned, his tone cold. “You will show some respect.”

I stood, unable to stay still. The walls of the suite felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe. “You can’t decide something like this without me. You can’t decide who I marry.”

He rose to his feet, towering, his presence swallowing the space between us. “I already have.”

For a moment, I could only stare at him, trying to find words that could undo what he’d said. None came.

“I won’t do it,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “I don’t care what deal you’re making.”

My father’s gaze hardened, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He stood slowly, straightening his cuffs with deliberate calm.

“You think your art gives you freedom,” he said. “You think those galleries and collectors make you untouchable.”

I said nothing, but my pulse quickened.

He took a step closer, his voice lowering until it almost felt intimate. “Everything you have, Ianthe, your studio, your contracts, your sponsors, they exist because I allowed them to. I can take them apart just as easily.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to. His tone carried the kind of certainty that came from years of control.

“I built this for myself,” I said, though it sounded fragile even to me.

He tilted his head, almost pitying. “And I can take it apart.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The quiet between us became something sharp. I felt the weight of all those years, all those strings he’d tied around me without my noticing.

He turned away, as if the matter were settled. “You’ll do what’s right for the family. There’s nothing else to discuss.”

My throat burned, but I said nothing more. The argument wasn’t one I could win. Not in his world.

My mother stood too, moving closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Ianthe, please sit down. This doesn’t have to turn into an argument.”

I looked at her, searching for even a trace of rebellion in her eyes, but found only resignation. She wouldn’t fight him. She never did.

“What’s his name?” I asked, my throat tight. “At least tell me that much.”

Before my father could answer, a soft knock sounded at the door.

He glanced toward it. “He’s here.”

The words felt like a thunderclap.

I turned as the door opened. The quiet click echoed through my bones.

Footsteps entered the room, confident, unhurried.

When I looked up, the air in my lungs vanished

Rowan Vale.

For a heartbeat, my mind refused to connect the pieces. The man who had stood before my painting at the exhibition, who had met my gaze with that calm arrogance, was now walking toward my parents with the familiarity of someone already invited into our world.

He looked every bit as composed as he had that night. His suit was sharp, his expression controlled, but his eyes, those eyes, widened just slightly when they met mine. Recognition flickered there, followed by something I couldn’t name.

He recovered quickly, greeting my father with a firm handshake and my mother with polite ease.

“I hope I’m not late,” he said. His voice was smooth, quiet, the kind that carried power without effort.

“You’re right on time,” my father replied, motioning toward me. “Ianthe, come here.”

I couldn’t move. The world tilted slightly beneath me. My mouth felt dry.

Rowan’s gaze drifted back to me, steady and unreadable.

“This,” my father said with satisfaction, “is the man you’ll be building a future with.”

The words echoed in my head. I didn’t hear anything else after that. My mother was saying something, Rowan was replying, but it all blurred into a low hum.

All I could see was him. The man who had bought my painting, who had looked at me like he saw more than I wanted to reveal, now standing here as my future husband.

Our eyes locked again, and this time neither of us looked away. The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with disbelief and something darker.

I wanted to speak, to ask him if he knew, if this was as much a surprise to him as it was to me. But his face gave nothing away.

My father was still talking, but I barely heard him.

Everything I thought I knew about my life had just shifted.

Rowan Vale.

The name echoed like a secret finally revealed, and I stood there, caught between anger and something dangerously close to fascination, as I realized that the man I had been told to marry was the very same one who had already found a way under my skin.