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Ares

My champagne flute trembles, its chill biting into my fingertips as I scan the glittering ballroom. The crystal catches the light, fracturing it into tiny rainbows against my palm—beautiful, fragile, and ultimately empty, like everything else in this world.

Three weeks of planning has led to this moment.

Across the room, Ethan catches my eye and gives an imperceptible nod—everything's ready.

The jet, the escape route, the accounts he helped me establish beyond my father's reach.

One speech. That's all it will take. One perfectly timed rebellion in front of Los Angeles' elite.

Expensive perfume mingles with the sharp tang of whiskey and whispered secrets hang thick in the air as guests mingle beneath crystal chandeliers that cast honeyed light over their upturned faces.

The string quartet in the corner plays something classical and forgettable, the notes floating above the practiced laughter and strategic conversations.

I catalog my witnesses—the Thompson sisters with their infamous gossip column, their heads bent together like conspiring crows; the Financial Times editor nursing his third scotch by the bar; three rival CEOs my father's been trying to destroy, circling the room like sharks.

Perfect. Too many influential eyes for my parents to risk making a scene.

Camera shutters click behind me, each flash a countdown to my planned escape.

These media vultures, here to document the Saint-Westwood engagement, aren't just witnesses—they're my guarantee of freedom.

Yet beneath my calculated confidence, a flicker of doubt threatens to surface.

How many lives will my freedom cost? How many jobs hang in the balance of my rebellion?

For a heartbeat, my mind drifts to simpler times—summer afternoons spent beneath a sprawling oak tree, laughter echoing across a garden, fingers intertwined with mine, the scent of roses and possibility.

A time before duty crushed every genuine emotion.

I push the memory away. That life belongs to someone else now.

Jessica's nails dig into the fabric of my suit, breaking through my thoughts.

Her possessive grip tightens as she leans in, her diamond earrings catching the light as they sway with the movement.

The cloying scent of her perfume—lily and something synthetic—invades my space, already triggering the familiar pressure at my temples.

"You're being terribly antisocial, darling." Her voice drips with honey, but her eyes remain cold, calculating. "The Carmichaels are dying to offer their congratulations."

"Ah yes, the Carmichaels," I say, watching a waiter navigate the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes balanced precariously on his palm. "Another perfectly vetted family from Mother's social circle?"

Jessica's coral lips crack at the corners as she forces that camera-ready smile.

"At least they understand how things work in our world," she says, each word clipped and precise. "Unlike you."

"Oh, I know better than anyone how this empty world works."

Her grip tightens. "Now isn't the time for your little rebellions.

We have a script to follow. The merger depends on this union—your father's expansion into Asia, my family's European holdings.

Do you have any idea how many billions are at stake?

How many careers depend on us?" Her eyes narrow, serpent-like.

"A script?" I glance across the room where my mother stands, one manicured hand touching the pearl choker at her throat as she orchestrates the crowd like a conductor.

Her eyes never stop moving, cataloging every interaction, every potential alliance or threat.

"Like the one where every decision in my life has been predetermined since birth? "

"It's called responsibility," she snaps, her carefully constructed facade cracking. "Your parents built an empire. They expect—"

"They expect an obedient puppet." The words taste bitter on my tongue, like the dregs of too many empty champagne glasses.

One more glance at Ethan. He stands near the exit, shoulders squared, watchful eyes scanning the room. His presence—the only genuine thing in this gilded cage—steadies me. Another subtle nod. It's time.

"Now isn't the time for dramatics, Ares."

"Dramatics?" I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Like the carefully timed press releases about our 'whirlwind romance'? Or the staged photos of us looking lovingly at each other across boardroom tables when we both know you've been sleeping with that tennis instructor for months?"

Jessica's face pales beneath her makeup, a flush of anger climbing her neck like a rash.

"It's called playing the game," she hisses, leaning in close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of mascara beneath her lower lashes.

"Your parents understand that. My parents understand that.

Everyone in this room understands that. Why can't you? "

Across the room, I catch my mother's eye—Olivia Saint in all her calculated glory, watching me like a predator stalking prey.

Her champagne-colored gown matches Jessica's, another carefully orchestrated detail.

Beside her, Father stands with his usual ramrod posture, one hand clutching a tumbler of bourbon while his jaw muscles move silently beneath the skin.

One final glance at Ethan, who is still near the exit, his sandy blond hair catching the light as he nods imperceptibly.

His stance is casual, but I recognize the tension in his shoulders—the same readiness he showed that night in Switzerland when we escaped boarding school to go to a local party.

His presence steadies me—proof that not everything in my life has been orchestrated by my parents' puppeteer hands.

I drain my champagne, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink against the marble-topped table. The socialites lean in, conversation dying as they sense blood in the water. Perfect. Let them smell it. Let them sense what's coming.

"You're right." My voice cuts through the manufactured pleasantries. "It's time for honesty."

The cameras click faster, sensing the shift in the air. My mother's fingers tighten around her champagne flute, her knuckles whitening as she takes a step forward. Ready to shape me back into the son she needs me to be.

But for the first time in my life, I don't feel the weight of those expectations bearing down on me. Instead, something else calls to me—something dangerous and intoxicating. Something that tastes like summer afternoons and sounds like genuine laughter.

"This engagement," I start, each word a missile aimed at the Saint family legacy, "is a business arrangement. Nothing more."

Scandalized gasps ripple through the crowd like wind through tall grass.

Cameras flash like lightning, illuminating shocked faces in stark relief.

Jessica's grip turns brutal, but I barely feel it.

The truth, once unleashed, refuses to be contained.

Three weeks of rehearsed words flow, each one precision-targeted to shatter my parents' perfect facade.

"A merger of dynasties, they call it. The perfect match." I face the crowd, hundreds of eyes burning into me like lasers. "But that's what we do, isn't it? Package lies in pretty boxes and call it tradition."

"Ares." My father's voice slices through the air like a steel blade. He steps forward, bourbon abandoned, each footfall heavy against the marble floor. A vein pulses at his temple, his face flushing dark with rage. "That's enough."

"I won't do it." The words taste like freedom on my tongue, sweet and terrifying. "I won't marry someone I don't love for the sake of stock prices and social alliances. I won't live my life by someone else's script anymore."

Jessica recovers first, her social training taking over.

Her laugh rings out, musical yet menacing, like wind chimes in a storm.

"Oh, darling." She places a hand on my chest, each finger splayed like a claim of ownership.

Her eyes glitter with venom. "You'll regret this little tantrum," she hisses, her breath hot against my ear.

"Less than I'd regret marrying you."

Bull's-eye. Her smile shatters, pure fury bleeding through the cracks of her perfect facade. A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks with blotchy red. Before she can retaliate, my mother materializes beside us, her smile carved from ice, her eyes flat and dangerous.

"A word," she says, each syllable clipped and precise. Her fingers dig into my arm, not quite hard enough to show in photographs. "Now."

My father joins us in a quieter alcove, his presence a storm of contained rage. Security guards flank us, providing the illusion of privacy. Behind them, reporters' fingers fly across their phones, recording every moment. By morning, this will be everywhere. Exactly as planned.

"Have you lost your mind?" Mother's voice trembles with rage, her manicured hands curling into fists at her sides. A single strand of hair has come loose from her updo, dangling by her ear like a surrender flag.

I lean against the wall, a strange calm settling over me now that I've crossed the line. The weight I've carried for years seems to float away, leaving me lighter than I ever felt before. "No. I've finally found it."

"You think this is about rebellion?" Father's voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his breath sour with bourbon as he leans in close.

"Wake up, Ares. This merger isn't about social standing—it's about survival.

The Westwoods' global reach, their technology.

.. we could dominate Asia, Africa, South America.

Without this deal, Saint Industries falls behind.

Is that what you want? To watch everything crumble because you're too selfish to do your duty? "