Chapter Six-Cecilia
I don’t know what made me swing by The Den after spending the better part of the day shopping with my mother, my aunts, and my chaos-in-heels cousins. I think we cleaned out Saks and made some pretty impressive dents in a dozen boutiques across the Garden State.
I haven’t even gone home yet. Just came right here.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was some cosmic nudge.
All I know is that when I pull into the back parking lot, reserved for family only, and see his armored SUV idling outside like some steel beast—my heart stutters.
Atlas.
Here.
At my place.
No one thought to tell me?
I slam the trunk shut with a little more force than necessary, then straighten my long black maxi skirt, adjust the corset top peeking from beneath my leather jacket, and walk down the hallway with clipped, deliberate steps.
Halfway to my father’s office, I hear it.
Voices.
Deep. Intense. Familiar.
My father. My uncles. And his.
Atlas’s voice.
And then—something else.
“—is the wedding?”
The words stop me cold.
Wedding?
I blink. Shake off the heat rising in my chest.
Cool. Composed. Unbothered.
I push open the boardroom door, and six heads swivel toward me like a scene from a Mafia soap opera.
I arch a brow. “What is going on?”
Luc—my father, my mentor—sits at the head of the table with his usual impassive expression.
But his jaw is tight.
That muscle in his cheek gives him away.
He’s pissed. Or worried. Maybe both.
My uncles? Angel looks like he just got front-row seats to a cage match. Nico already looks guilty, like he knows I’m about to blow the damn doors off this room.
“Is there a reason I’m not in this meeting?” I say, voice like ice and steel. “Because last I checked, I’m the lawyer working the Stavros deal.”
Angel leans back in his chair, cool as ever, like he’s watching a Telenovela with popcorn.
“Indeed, you are, niece. We were just clearing up a little personal business.”
Personal?
With Atlas James Stavros?
Hell. No.
My pulse stutters, but I keep my expression blank, the way I’ve been trained since I was old enough to recite contract law.
I cross my arms, standing tall in the doorway of my father’s boardroom like I own the goddamn building—which I should, considering I’ve practically bled for this family.
“Who’s going to fill me in?” I ask, my voice cool, sharp as glass.
A beat of silence.
No one meets my gaze. Not Angel. Not Nico. Not even my own father, who suddenly finds the grain of the polished mahogany table very interesting.
Only he looks at me.
Atlas.
And he doesn’t look away.
He rises from his chair slowly, suit flawless, posture regal, every inch the crowned bastard he was born to be. But his eyes are locked on me, intense and unreadable.
“There’s been a complication,” he begins, voice smooth as silk, but there’s iron beneath the surface. “One of the mines I need access to—the one in the Khamsin corridor—has been seized.”
“By whom?” I ask, chin lifting.
“A warlord,” he answers, eyes never leaving mine. “A petty one. Arrogant, small-minded. He calls himself the General and has declared himself ruler of the region and insists on negotiating in person.”
I frown. “And this is relevant to me how?”
He gives me the smallest smile—just a flicker—and then drops the bomb.
“Because he wants to secure our cooperation with a marriage alliance. To his daughter.”
“What?”
“A European royal—even an ex-prince, an abolished one, many years removed from the monarchy, is valuable to him.”
My stomach turns.
“So why don’t you marry her then?” I snap, even though the idea of him marrying anyone makes me want to vomit.
He stands facing me.
“She’s sixteen years old,” he adds, voice low but deadly. “And I don’t marry children.”
The room falls into silence.
I can feel it like a weight in the air—every man here holding their breath.
I don’t move.
“And so,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, “my proposal is simple. Miss Batiste marries me instead. A real marriage, legal and binding—for the duration of the negotiations. I will sign whatever prenup you wish, Mr. Batiste. I’ll ensure her assets are protected.
There will be no scandal, no risk to your reputation or name.
But without her, I can’t secure access to the materials your company’s contracts now rely on. ”
My mouth falls open. And then I slam it shut.
Hard.
There it is.
I feel it hit me in the chest, somewhere soft and unguarded I didn’t realize I’d left open to him.
Not after the other night.
Not after the heat of his mouth on mine, the way he said this—we—mattered outside the boardroom.
And now?
I’m just leverage.
Collateral with curves.
That’s all this is to him.
Not the heat of his hands on my skin.
Not the way he kissed me like he wanted to rearrange my bones.
Not the way he looked at me afterward.
Like he’d been starving his whole damn life and finally tasted something real.
No.
Just business.
And business is the one thing I’m good at pretending I don’t get emotional over.
I glance at my father.
He still won’t look at me.
Jaw tight. Fist flexing.
He’s too proud to say the words, but I know him. He’s torn between outrage and strategy.
Between protecting me and protecting the empire I was raised to inherit.
Atlas keeps talking—calm, controlled, clinical.
His voice is crisp and detached as he lays out contingencies, protections, prenups.
He’s selling my future like it’s a line item.
And the worst part?
He’s good at it.
The men in the room listen like he’s speaking gospel.
But I see it. My father will never agree. I can tell by the stone of his expression when Atlas finishes.
“You sonovabitch!” Luc Batiste’s voice cracks like a whip. “My daughter is no fucking pawn.”
Something hot spikes in my chest—pain, anger, humiliation—and before I can stop myself, I cut in.
“That’s exactly why the answer is yes, Dad.”
His head whips toward me. “Cece—”
“No. You’re missing the point.” My voice is low, but it rings like steel. “They’re trying to force a war. A war we don’t need. A war none of us wants. Why should we let them? Why spill blood when we can sign a piece of paper and win?”
“Cecilia, I won’t let you marry this guy for a fucking deal!” My father balks.
I inhale a calming breath even though I want to scream.
“Look, Dad, this alliance puts Viper Enterprises and Volkov Industries in direct partnership with Hephaestus United, securing our position as the dominant weapons supplier for private military contractors worldwide—and locking in billions in potential revenue. I won’t be the reason this deal fails, Dad—”
“Cecilia—”
“And,” I continue, interrupting my father for the first time in recent memory, “I’m not asking your permission. This is my job. Let me do it. The same way any of the men in this family would and have.”
My father glares, but he’s listening.
My uncles go still.
Atlas doesn’t move a muscle.
“This is an elegant solution,” I continue, chin high. “I marry him. Temporarily. We go visit this General or Mr. Stavros’ mine together, as a married couple, and we go through the necessary negotiations. This warlord is placated, or paid off, and the mine reopens. Everyone profits.”
“And after?” Dad asks.
“After? We come home. We get it annulled, and life goes on.”
“Cecilia,” Atlas says, and I feel his gaze like a brand dragging across my skin. “We can discuss all the terms—”
“No,” I snap. “We don’t need to do that. My father is my attorney. He’s likely had a prenup waiting in his files since I was born.”
I can’t even look at him right now.
Not without giving something away.
Not without showing the part of me that stupidly thought the other night meant something.
That maybe he wanted me, not just the Viper attorney with a useful last name and the right pedigree.
I force myself to smile.
A perfect, polished, poisonous smile. And I look at my uncles and my father, nodding encouragingly.
“Go on. You know this is right. It’s simple.”
I lie through my teeth, and for once, it is so damn easy.
But then again, I learned from the best.
Wolves and Vipers, every last one of them.
I’m of them. Just one of the children of power, raised on blood and loyalty.
“Mr. Batiste, I swear to you, Cecilia will be safe. And I vow to treat your daughter with all the respect and care befitting my wife. On my honor.”
“That’s really unnecessary. I’m agreeing to this as a partner, Mr. Stavros,” I reply.
“I am the Council’s daughter. I earned my place at this table.
Uncle Nico, Angel, Adrik, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I can handle this.
Besides, it’s the only way we can close this deal in the time we need. I’ll be fine.”
These men protected me, trained me, trusted me—raised me like one of their own soldiers.
But they also forget something important.
I’m not a kid anymore.
I’m not a little princess to be tucked away and patted on the head.
I’m a Batiste.
A Princeton educated lawyer. And I’m not a kid, I’m a woman.
No man gets to shush me, silence me, or decide my fate behind closed doors.
Not my father.
Not my uncles.
Not Atlas fucking Stavros.
If they want a bride for this stupid political circus?
Fine.
They’ll get one.
I’ll play the perfect wife.
I’ll close the deal.
I’ll keep my family’s empire intact.
And when it’s done, when the ink is dry, when the mine is ours and the warlord is defanged—I’ll walk away whole, untouched, and still mine.
Not bought or sold.
Not owned or thrown away.
Definitely not used.
“Cecilia, I don’t think you understand,” my father begins.
But I have heard enough.
“I understand fine perfectly. My answer is yes, I’ll marry the little prince,” I say sweetly, stepping back from the table.
Every eye widens.
Oh, they didn’t expect that.
They didn’t expect me to volunteer for my own cage.
I turn toward the door, heels clicking like gunshots across marble.
“Have the temporary marriage contract drawn up tonight,” I say. “I’ll sign it, and someone can deliver it to Mr. Stavros’ hotel in the morning.”
And then I smile.
A real one—sharp as knives and twice as dangerous.
I walk out, back straight, chin high.
But my chest?
My chest aches.
Because that night, when he kissed me, some traitorous part of me thought—maybe this could be real.
Now I know better.
Now I know exactly what he wants.
And it isn’t me.