There was no reason for Diego Diaz, the King of Spain, to show up in my office at 11 PM.
And yet, there he was.
With his heir, Adrain Diaz, no less.
So when my receptionist, Albert, called my private number—his voice tight in a way I had never heard before—and said, "They're here. Both of them…" something inside me went completely still.
Men like the Diazes didn't wait outside doors.
Doors opened before they reached them.
Or they didn't exist at all.
Two months ago, I had entered into a contract with his younger brother, Kieth. On paper, it had been one of the most strategic decisions I had made this year. In reality, it had quietly tied me to a family I had no business being connected to.
Kieth had been "unavailable" soon after.
Adrian had stepped in.
And Adrian didn't come for business.
He came to remind me where I stood.
Incompetent. Useless.
Not always in those exact words—but often enough.
Yesterday, I had slipped on a wet patch near the entrance. Before I could even regain my balance, his voice had cut through the air, calm and cutting.
"You thought I'd catch you?"
I had straightened without answering.
He hadn't needed one.
"Just like you think I'm going to catch feelings for you."
He had said it like a conclusion, not an insult.
That was the problem with Adrian. He didn't argue. He decided.
So maybe hate was still too strong of a word.
But I could NEVER even imagine marrying someone like that.
For a moment, I didn't move. I just stood there, staring at my own reflection in the dark glass of the window, watching the tension settle into my shoulders, my expression smoothing itself out into something neutral. Controlled.
The hallway felt longer than usual. Quieter. Every step echoed just a little too much, as if the building itself was aware that something had shifted.
Adrian looked me in the eye and said, "Ethelyn."
I stopped breathing for a second. He never called me Ethelyn. I was always "Nickolas".
"Come in", I invited them, opening the door wider.
The both stood in sync and an identical authority and walked inside without a word.
They settled on the same sofa with more than 2 feet distance between them as I settled on the opposite one. Adrian looked from his father to me and then back, as if expecting him to take the lead.
Meanwhile, his father simply waited.
Adrain started, "Go on a date with me."
But I was back in work mode and calculating their moves already.
This was Diego's move. If Adrian knew or cared for a second about this arrangement, our exchanges so far would've been completely different.
His father frowned but stayed silent.
So this wasn't the real reason they were here.
Not yet.
But close enough that he didn't object.
I leaned back slightly, letting the quiet settle again before speaking. "I think," I said calmly, meeting Diego's gaze instead of Adrian's, "I'd prefer to hear what you actually came here for."
Something faint—approval, perhaps—passed through Diego's expression.
"Adrian."
That was all it took.
Adrian stood immediately. No argument, no hesitation. This time, he didn't look at me at all. Didn't look at his father either. He just walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out, closing it softly behind him.
The room felt different without him in it.
Less sharp.
More dangerous.
I let out a quiet breath and turned my full attention to the man across from me. "Well?" I asked. "What do you want from me?"
Diego studied me for a moment, as though confirming something he had already decided.
Then he said, almost casually, "To marry him."
My heart stopped.
Then suddenly, like a volcano exploding, I was flooded with rage and heat at the audacity of some guy forcing me into an arranged marriage.
"Why?"
This was way worse than I thought.
Which is exactly why I started cautiously, not giving any reactions I couldn't afford.
Not yet.
This was my life we were talking about. The man I would wake up next to every single day.
My voice stayed level. That, more than anything, seemed to interest him.
He turned slightly toward the window, as if the answer lay somewhere in the city beyond it. "Because he has no intention of succeeding me," he said. "And I'm getting old."
There was a trace of humor in the way he said it, as though the concept of aging amused him more than it concerned him.
"I've built something," he continued, glancing back at me. "Something that doesn't end when I do. It needs continuity. Structure. Someone capable of maintaining it."
"And you think that's me?"
"I know it is."
The certainty in his tone left no room for modesty or doubt.
"You've made millions," he went on. "You understand how systems work. How people behave when you apply the right pressure."
His gaze sharpened just slightly.
"You understand control."
I didn't respond.
"That's not something I can teach my son," he added, quieter now.
There was a shift in the air—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Why not?" I asked.
He held my gaze for a long moment before answering. "You think I can teach a boy who believes I killed his mother to become me?"
The words settled heavily between us.
"Why can't you tell him that you didn't?"
For the first time, something in his expression sharpened—not quite surprise, but something close.
I studied him, replaying the pieces I already knew. The timing of the rumors. The disappearance. The convenient narrative that had followed.
"How did you come to that conclusion?" he asked.
"She was attacked twice in one week," I said. "And then suddenly she's dead. It's too convenient."
I leaned back slightly. "You didn't remove a weakness. You removed a target."
Silence stretched between us.
Then, quieter, I asked, "Why didn't you tell him?"
This time, the pause was longer.
"Because," he said at last, "the moment she becomes something to me again, she becomes a target again."
The simplicity of it left no room for argument.
I exhaled slowly, letting the weight of that settle before moving on.
But his son, a mother deprived 8 year old who got treated like a monster from the beginning… To him, it was all his father's fault. And it was. He chose this life. And the reputation and politics that came with it.
Adrian hadn't.
I paused. A marriage. To control his… Empire?
"What exactly is my job description? And not as a wife." I added, just to avoid the laugh he looked he needed.
Because as much as he might need some relief, I did too.
"It's not a job" he stated, sparing me the embarrassment, even as his lips curled slightly, "You will run systems, not just oversee them. That will include State law and political affairs, run your own businesses, make investments, keep checks on 'new aspiring talent' or 'over interested reporters' to name a few. All matters of a country, essentially."
He gestured vaguely toward the window.
"If I vanished tomorrow, the markets would panic, the criminals would run wild, and the government would suddenly discover just how little control it actually has."
His mouth curved slightly.
"Until they learn to manage their own affairs, we do it for them. Because appearing politically stable sets the stage for the rest of our work."
He paused, seemingly finished with his explanation.
"Oh and", he continued, adding as an afterthought, "There's drugs and money laundering and such as well of course. The usual."
"We?"
He chuckled, "Too much work for a single person, of course. Different people run different sectors but some overlapping is preferred to avoid monopolies."
"So you're essentially… keeping the goverment afloat."
"That's one way to look at it," he said. "We're the control room. We decide what happens. Yes, one of the goals is that the world keeps functioning as it does. But that is more of a means than an end."
"And what is the end? What is your goal?"
"Ethelyn, I need my sleep, you know? I've had an entire day of work, I deserve a break."
I laugh, staring at his eyes shine, "I'll let you go for now. This whole marriage thing though? I don't know about this. Nor about the job. But I've had a full day of boring meetings and brain hammering arguments too. Let's not come back to this for a while."
He simply nodded in understanding. "I was hoping for an easier yes but I guess, then you wouldn't be who I need. So you two, you're gonna… go on a date then?"
"I'll…", I sighed, "I'll talk to him." He knew I couldn't say no to him just like that.
I valued my skin.
He laughed and got up to leave.