Page 1 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Johan

The clink of hangers and the soft rustle of fine fabrics fill the air as I stand on the raised platform at Henry Poole, arms outstretched while the tailor takes my measurements.

Every touch of the tape measure against my skin feels like a reminder of the lie I’m living.

The reflection staring back at me from the full-length mirror is dressed sharply, but the look in my eyes betrays my inner turmoil.

I can’t help but feel awful about the whole situation.

The worst part isn’t just the engagement or the elaborate facade it entails—it’s the lie I told Hannah, saying I love Astrid when my heart silently screams it’s her that it beats for.

With every false smile and feigned excitement about the wedding plans, I feel like I'm betraying not just myself but Hannah as well. She deserves the truth, the sincerity that I’ve robbed her of by playing along with this charade.

As I stand here, being fitted for a suit I'm supposed to wear at my own engagement party, the weight of my deceit presses down on me. It's like wearing a straitjacket tailored to perfection to trap me within my own lies. Every glance at my reflection is a painful reminder of the life I’m supposed to lead and the one I’m yearning for with Hannah—a life where honesty and love aren’t mutually exclusive.

Caught in my thoughts, I'm startled by the door chime and the muffled footsteps that follow. My eyes catch another figure in the mirror—a familiar silhouette that makes my heart sink. It’s my father, his presence looming behind me like a shadow I can't escape.

I watch as his image grows clearer in the reflection, his face lighting up with an unmistakable mix of pride and anticipation as he approaches.

“There you are, looking sharp as ever!” he exclaims, his voice booming in the quiet space.

The sight of him, so pleased with the situation, stirs a mix of resentment and anger within me. I turn to face him, my body tensing as I drop my arms to my sides. “I still can’t believe you have cornered me into this.”

His smile fades. “We've been over this, son. It's not just about you. This engagement is good for our family, good for business.”

The tailor, sensing the growing tension, excuses himself with a polite nod, his departure quiet but noted. The room suddenly feels emptier, the silence between us heavier.

“It's wrong to force me into marrying someone I don’t want to,” I snap, my words sharp and cold. “You’re asking me to spend my life with someone I don't love.”

Dad’s face hardens, his voice low and controlled. “This is about your fear of commitment, Johan. You've always shied away from responsibility, but I’m doing the right thing here. For both of us.”

I shake my head, frustration boiling over. “You're doing the right thing for you, not for me.”

He steps closer, his expression one of exasperation mixed with a hint of concern. “One day, you'll see that I'm right,” he insists, trying to end the conversation with his finality.

But I’m not having it. “No, Dad. I won’t see that because it’s not true. This isn’t my choice. It’s yours.” My voice is firm and resolute, even as I feel the weight of the situation bearing down on me.

The standoff continues, the air thick with unspoken words and the deep rifts of our argument laid bare. As my father and I stare each other down, the sound of the tailor's discreet exit reminds me of the reality I’m trapped in—a reality I never wanted.

Eager to shift the focus to more 'positive' news, Dad adopts a tone that’s both triumphant and slightly coercive.

“Look, I just got a meeting with Ludovic, and guess what? He’s funding your research department with new equipment and materials. He’s even pushing for you to lead a possible expedition to Oman.”

“Oman?” I echo, my confusion genuine, brows furrowed. “Why Oman?”

His response is dismissive as if the details are trivial compared to the financial boon. “God knows, you'll have to ask him about it tomorrow night, but it's great news. More funds into your department means a bigger salary for you.”

My confusion only keeps growing. “Tomorrow night?”

“We have dinner at Restaurant 22,” Dad answers. “How come you forgot? Your mom has been talking about it since last week.”

I can't help but feel a surge of frustration at his words.

It's clear to me that Astrid’s father is trying to weave me deeper into his influence, buying my compliance with funding and the promise of professional advancement.

This isn't just support— it feels like a bribe, a way to ensure I remain tied to the engagement and, by extension, to him.

Despite my father’s evident happiness and relief at the news, I remain just as distressed, if not more. The notion that my personal and professional life is being manipulated so blatantly makes me feel like a pawn in a larger game of corporate and familial alliances.

My response is sharp, a reflection of my growing unease. “So, he’s buying me now? Is that it? Using the department to ensure I stay in line?”

My father frowns, clearly not expecting my pushback to continue in the face of what he considers good news. “It’s not like that, Johan. It’s an investment in your future, in our future.”

But his words do little to assuage my concerns.

The heavy realization that my career, much like my personal life, is becoming a tool for others’ ambitions weighs on me deeply.

As we conclude our conversation, the rift between us feels wider than ever.

My father might see this sponsorship as a blessing, but to me, it’s just another chain binding me to a decision I never wanted to make.