The lady in the cornflower-blue dress looks as angelic as ever. Her sun-kissed cheeks glow softly, as if she’s blushing—an image that stirs a long-cherished memory in Malcolm’s heart.

As he watches her smile while enjoying her ice cream, his thoughts drift, uninvited, into the past.

Two years ago

Mr. Lazarus Mandes—once a formidable political figure of Pacheco Village and now the Chairman of the Mandes Group of Companies—strode into the towering office building without pause. He made his way to the top floor, stopping before the corner office. The large double doors were the only barrier between him and his workaholic son.

He pushed them open.

Across the vast room sat Malcolm Mandes, reclined in a giant, high-backed grey leather chair. Behind him, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall framed the city skyline—cold, powerful, untouchable.

At fifty-four, Lazarus was deeply troubled. Malcolm was his only son—the sole bearer of the Mandes legacy, the future of their bloodline.

And yet, despite being nearly thirty, Malcolm showed no inclination toward settling down, let alone producing an heir.

So Lazarus had come prepared—with resolve, and an ultimatum.

Lazarus: I hope you enjoyed your birthday party last night.

Malcolm: Wow. Good to see you too, Dad. And thank you so much for the birthday wishes.

He shrugged, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Lazarus: Listen, young man—no, not so young anymore. I raised you. I gave you everything, even before you asked for it. I never interfered in your personal life. And in return, I asked for only one thing.

He paused, his gaze sharp.

So when are you giving me an heir?

I’m not asking for many. Just one. After that, I’ll step down, hand you the chairman’s seat, retire peacefully—and raise my grandson. Is that really too much to ask?

Malcolm: Dad, I’m twenty-eight, not eighty-two. I have time. Besides, I don’t want to marry and invite unnecessary trouble into my life so early.

He smirked.

Can’t I just give you a grandson without the marriage clause?

Lazarus: You know my condition. I will not make an illegitimate child the heir of the Mandes family. I have a reputation to maintain. People look up to me.

He sighed, weary.

As expected, you couldn’t bring me a single decent woman you could marry. So now you’ll do as I say.

You’re going to London to meet my college mate’s daughter—the heiress of the Coelho Hotel Group.

Tiara Coelho. Intelligent. Beautiful. A highly successful writer. In a few years, she’ll take over her father’s business. This alliance will greatly benefit our cruise expansion.

She’s attending a three-day Writers’ Conference this Friday. The day after, she has a book-signing event. Meet her there.

If you like her, we proceed. If not, I have other options. But she’s the best match so far.

The rest is up to you.

Malcolm: If you’ve already chosen her, then just proceed. I don’t need to meet her. It doesn’t matter whom I marry.

Lazarus: It may not matter to you. But it will matter to her.

Go meet her.

Malcolm: Whatever. It’s not like I’ll fall in love at first sight.

.....................................................................................

Malcolm

I spoke too soon.

The moment I saw her, every carefully constructed thought in my mind collapsed.

I had negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I had faced hostile boardrooms, political pressure, ruthless competitors—calm, precise, unreadable. My education had trained me to assess, calculate, dominate.

None of it mattered.

My breath stuttered like I had forgotten how lungs worked.

In front of me sat a woman who dismantled me without effort.

Her ebony curls fell loosely around her face, softening features that should not have existed in a world governed by logic. The white dress she wore made her look unreal—as if she had wandered into this place by mistake, untouched by ambition or greed.

My heart—an organ I rarely acknowledged—was beating with humiliating urgency.

This was absurd.

I, Malcolm Mandes—the man tabloids loved to label a predator, a Casanova, a strategist—stood frozen like an inexperienced boy.

Move, I told myself.

Walk. Speak. Breathe.

Instead, my feet refused to obey.

Then she turned.

And walked toward me.

Every step felt personal. Intentional. As though the universe itself had decided to mock me.

Luna: Hello, I’m Luna. You must be Mr. Mandes.

She held out her hand.

A handshake. A simple social formality. I had performed thousands.

Yet my brain short-circuited.

Her hand hovered in the air while I stared at it like a foreign concept.

Say something, Malcolm.

Your name. A greeting. A single syllable.

Nothing came out.

Her brows knitted together—not offended, just confused.

The realization hit me like a slap.

I am making a fool of myself.

The powerful Malcolm Mandes—reduced to silence by a woman who hadn’t even tried.

She waved her hand gently in front of my face, amused.

Luna: Hello… anyone there?

I exhaled sharply, as if surfacing from deep water.

Malcolm: H-Hello. Ms. Luna. I’m looking for Ms. Tiara Coelho.

The words came out stiff, rehearsed, embarrassingly formal.

Her smile widened.

And with that single expression, my remaining composure disintegrated.

Luna: Tiara is my other name. I go by Luna. I’m the person you’re looking for.

Oh.

That was all my brilliant mind could manage.

Oh.

I had prepared for a meeting. A negotiation. A polite evaluation of suitability.

Instead, I stood in front of the woman who had unknowingly dismantled every defense I possessed.

Luna: My father told me you’d be coming. Would you like to talk over lunch?

Lunch. Food. Human activities.

I nodded far too quickly.

Malcolm: Yes. Sure. Of course.

Idiot.

....................................................................................

Later

We sat across from each other.

I should have been leading the conversation—asking strategic questions, observing micro-expressions, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses.

Instead, I was hyper-aware of everything meaningless.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear.

The soft concentration on her face when she spoke.

The way she listened—really listened.

This was not how I reacted to people.

This was not how I functioned.

Luna: I want to be honest with you.

Her voice pulled me back.

Luna: We both know why our parents arranged this meeting. But I believe marriage should be based on love—not business.

Rational response required.

I found none.

Malcolm: I—

He cleared his throat.

I understand. But love can… develop. After marriage.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me.

Luna: You’re a businessman, Mr. Mandes, aren’t you?

Malcolm: Yes.

Luna: Before you sign an important deal, do you not study it first? Understand it completely?

I should have smiled. Should have countered smoothly.

Instead, I found myself… impressed.

Malcolm: I do.

Luna: Then perhaps we should do the same—get to know each other. Properly.

I nodded again, far too eagerly.

Malcolm: Yes. Yes, that makes sense.

Then, without permission from my brain—without strategy, without control—truth spilled out.

Malcolm: And I’ll make you fall in love with me.

Her eyes widened.

I realized what I’d said after I’d said it.

Too late.

Malcolm: Because I already have.

Silence.

Her cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable red.

The composed, intelligent woman

in front of me looked suddenly human.

Vulnerable.

And I knew—I was finished.

Completely.

Back in the present

He asked pointing at the ice cream.

Malcolm watched Luna eat her ice cream, smiling softly.

Malcolm: Is it good?

Luna nodded her head in yes with a small smile on her face.

You turned me into a fool the very first day, he thought.

And I would let you do it again… without hesitation.