Late afternoon draped the Salvatierra & Co. headquarters in shadows of muted gold. Inside Fidel’s office, the air felt heavier than the polished dark wood and the silent books that lined the walls. The Salvatierra crest and a row of medals glinted under the recessed lights, like trophies of an old general who never lost a war.

Fidel sat behind his desk, glasses perched low on his nose, his gaze sharp even as he continued scrolling through documents on his laptop.

A knock. The door opened. Fidel’s executive assistant stepped in, announcing softly, “Sir, Mr. Nathaniel Valencia.”

Nathaniel stepped in with deliberate calm, his slim gray suit tailored to precision, the black shirt beneath left open at the collar. Every line of his frame spoke of control, of readiness.

“Nathaniel,” Fidel said, voice steady, clipped. He gestured at the black armchairs opposite his desk. “Sit.”

He sat without hesitation, meeting Fidel’s gaze with a stillness that was its own weapon.

Fidel closed his laptop with a soft, decisive click. Without a word, he slid a folder across the desk toward Nathaniel.

Nathaniel picked it up, flipping through the pages with a practiced skim—fast, efficient, absorbing the essentials in seconds.

Fidel broke the silence.

“I’ll be direct. This is no time for small talk. An alliance between Salvatierra & Co. and Valencia Infratech, Inc. You bring your momentum, your uncanny instincts for turning ashes into equity. I bring... everything else. Infrastructure. Global reach. Political insurance. Together, we’re unstoppable.”

The words dropped like a card on the table.

Nathaniel closed the folder and set it neatly on the desk. He leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. For a moment, he looked as though he were considering the offer, weighing it carefully.

But the truth was simpler: nothing in that folder thrilled him. He had already anticipated Fidel’s offer, and his assessment proved accurate. Everything Fidel offered was something he was already on the path to gaining on his own. Yet one detail caught him off guard — marriage was nowhere mentioned. Every page concerned business, and nothing else.

Finally, he spoke.

“Impressive offer. But you’re asking me to hand over autonomy in exchange for influence. That sounds less like an alliance and more like becoming your newest investment.”

Fidel chuckled low, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“You think so? You’d have access to networks you can’t yet touch, to doors only I can open. You’d gain stability, legacy. And what's wrong with being backed by a titan?”

Nathaniel leaned in, voice low, steady. “Because I don’t play second.”

Beat.

Fidel’s brow lifted, amused by the arrogance—but not dismissive. He studied the younger man like a chess piece suddenly making unpredictable moves.

He tilted his head, a predator laying out bait. “Tell me that isn’t advantageous.”

Nathaniel didn’t move, but his tone was razor sharp. “And what would I owe in return for this generous climb?”

Fidel’s fingers drummed once against the table. “Loyalty. Partnership. Controlled growth.”

“Leashed growth,” Nathaniel corrected. “You’d be the one setting the pace.”

A pause.

“You don’t like being managed,” Fidel said.

“I don’t like owing.”

For the first time, Fidel’s expression stilled. He leaned forward, his tone stripped of amusement.

“Then name your price.”

Nathaniel paused, letting the quiet stretch. Until now, Fidel hadn’t mentioned a marriage alliance—not even hinted at it. So this was purely business, then?

Predictable. Boring. Almost disappointing.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Nathaniel’s lips.

Let’s see how he reacts if I counter his offer with something far more binding.

He lifted his gaze, voice steady and deliberate.

“Victoria. I want to marry your daughter.”

Silence carved itself into the room. For a heartbeat, Fidel studied him, certain he’d misheard.

Then he laughed, short, sharp.

“Victoria?” His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know a Nathaniel Valencia had such… personal interests.”

Nathaniel’s gaze remained steady, unblinking.

“Why not? You want an alliance. What better way to bind it than by blood?”

That struck deeper than Fidel expected.

He leaned back slowly, studying the younger man with renewed interest. He had never—not once—considered using Victoria in this negotiation. She was not a piece he intended to play.

And Nathaniel?

A brilliant mind, yes.

A rising power, undeniably.

But suitable for Victoria? In Fidel’s eyes, absolutely not.

Yet… the idea lodged itself in his mind.

If I marry Victoria to this young man, our families become tied.

Would I gain something from him?

His thoughts darkened briefly to the scandal of Victoria’s recent broken engagement—the fourth. Finding a new fiancé for her had been a nightmare. No one wanted to approach her name right now.

But Nathaniel?

Nathaniel was fearless. Bold. Recklessly confident.

And the proposition… intriguing.

A slow smirk formed on Fidel’s lips.

What if I offer it as a challenge?

Can he bring Victoria to the altar?

Or will he become the fifth failed engagement?

Fidel leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and manipulation.

Let’s see, young man, he thought.

If you can handle my Victoria.

“I didn’t know you wanted me as a father-in-law.”

His tone carried a teasing edge, but beneath it was steel.

Nathaniel’s eyes hardened, irritation flickering at the mockery, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He only arched a brow, silence sharper than words.

Fidel didn’t need a response.

He settled back into his chair with the slow confidence of a man who had already won.

“Fine,” Fidel said at last, voice returning to its iron edge. “I’ll agree. But on my terms.”

He leaned forward, each word deliberate.

“This alliance succeeds only if you can keep Victoria from breaking the engagement and lead her to the altar. And second—” his eyes gleamed, calculating, “—I’ll assign you a project. Deliver brilliance. Fail in either, and the alliance ends. No negotiations. No second chances.”

The weight of his words settled like a gauntlet thrown.

Nathaniel paused, absorbing the weight of the terms. He almost scoffed. The structure of it made it seem as if he was the one begging for the alliance—not Fidel. Yet something about the old man’s pause intrigued him—the flicker of calculation when Fidel considered using his daughter as a bargaining chip, and he was fully aware of it.

When Fidel finally spoke, his words were no longer just terms—they were a challenge, edged with the certainty that failure was possible. Nathaniel’s lips curved into a faint, cold smirk. He met Fidel’s gaze without flinching, his voice steady and deliberate.

“You speak as if failure is an option.”

A faint hum left Fidel—approval or amusement, it was hard to tell.

“Well,” he replied calmly, “the decision is yours now. Accept the alliance… or walk away. If not, let’s forget this conversation entirely.”

Nathaniel’s mind raced, weighing every nuance. He had anticipated this: the subtle leverage, the bait, the silent test. He had prepared for it, every possibility calculated like a load-bearing blueprint. He would not retreat. He would not yield.

A slow, deliberate smirk formed on his face. This was his move as much as it was Fidel’s—he was playing the game on his own terms.

Finally, he spoke, voice calm but sharp with certainty.

“Deal.”

A slow, wide smile broke across Fidel’s face—unexpected, dangerous, almost thrilled. A glint of excitement sparked in his eyes, like a gambler dealt the perfect hand.

The game had begun.