Obsession His Runaway Bride (Noelle and Adrian) novel Chapter 100

Chapter 100: His

Chapter 100: His

“Are the arrangements for tonight in place?” Bartholomew asked, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Marco nodded curtly. “Yes. The private dining hall at L’Empyrean has been reserved exclusively for the meeting. Security is already stationed within a two–block radius. The Castellanos will arrive at precisely eight o’clock.”

Bartholomew swirled the whiskey in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Good. This is not just another business dinner, Marco. This is a matter of legacy.”

Marco remained silent, knowing exactly what the older man meant. The engagement between Grace and Leonard Castellano’s son wasn’t about love–it was about power. A union that would merge two formidable families into an even stronger empire.

Bartholomew set his glass down with a quiet clink. “Leonard Castellano is putting effort into this arrangement. He is, after all, entrusting his son with my bloodline. I intend to show him the same courtesy.” His sharp gaze flicked up to Marco. “That means there will be no mistakes tonight.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “Grace isn’t aware of the full details yet.”

Bartholomew exhaled, clearly unimpressed. “She doesn’t need to be. She will be present, she will be graceful, and she will conduct herself as a Blackwood should.”

Marco’s fingers twitched, but he kept his voice carefully even. “And if she refuses?”

Bartholomew merely smirked. “Then I suggest you make sure she doesn’t.”

Marco inhaled slowly, forcing himself to keep his expression impassive. He knew Bartholomew wasn’t asking him to persuade Grace–he was ordering him to control her

The older man leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. Leonard Castellano’s son is a man of status, wealth, and influence. If Grace has any objections, I expect you to remind her of what’s at stake. She is not a child, Marco. She knows her duty.”

Marco felt the bitter taste of frustration in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “I’ll make sure she’s there,” he said stiffly.

Bartholomew’s lips curled in satisfaction. “Good. Make sure she looks presentable. Leonard’s son will want to know what he’s getting.”

Marco barely resisted the urge to clench his fists.

“Understood.” Marco said, his voice clipped as he turned on his heel to leave. His steps were measured, controlled. But beneath the surface, his blood boiled.

He despised this. Every damn part of it.

For the first time in his life, he found himself hoping and praying, that Grace would rebel. That she would do something reckless, cause an uproar, run away and shatter this entire arrangement before it even began. But after last night, when she had agreed to the engagement without so much as a fight, his temper had been on edge for the last five hours.

It infuriated him.

Had she truly accepted this? Had she already resigned herself to becoming nothing more than a pawn in Bartholomew’s game?

His jaw tightened as he stalked through the mansion with His sharp gaze locked straight ahead. But just as he was about to exit the study’s corridor, he came to an abrupt halt

The sound of women’s laughter drifted in from the garden, making his forehead wrinkle.

Curiosity sparked despite his foul mood, and against his better judgment, he turned toward the source of the noise, making his way toward the large front doors of the mansion.

There she was, standing barefoot on the stone path, grumpily yanking off a pair of stilettos with a deep frown. Her lower lip jutted out slightly in an unconscious pout with an expression one of pure irritation.

Marco couldn’t help but let out a chuckle and lazily leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. It was rare to see Grace so unguarded, so expressive. For a fleeting moment, amusement eased the tight coil of frustration in his chest.

But that moment didn’t last.

Just as his mood had begun to lighten, a figure appeared beyond the gates. It was a man, properly dressed in an expensive suit, standing with confidence. He carried a massive bouquet of blood–red roses in his hands.

Marco’s amusement vanished in an instant.

His spine stiffened and his arms unfolded as he pushed off the doorframe. Every muscle in his body tensed in alertness. His instincts screamed at him to act. And so without a second thought, he took a step forward, ready to cut the interaction short before it could even begin.

But Grace beat him to it.

Before Marco could reach her, she had already moved toward the gates. And the next thing that happened had

Marco frozen to where he stood.

Grace was smiling genuinely as she accepted the flowers and opened the letter that was on it.

The sight sent something sharp twisting in his chest. It was a slow, suffocating realization that crept over him like an unshakable shadow.

Grace Blackwood who was the same woman who had once laid her heart bare before him, who had confessed her love only to be met with his cold rejection–was now smiling at another man. And it was not just any smile. It was a real, unguarded smile. A quiet, genuine warmth that Marco had never seen her wear for anyone but him alone.

Yet it was not only the smile that unsettled him.

She was accepting a gift that was unmistakably a gesture of the man’s affection.

His gaze flickered to the bouquet in her hands, red roses. The meaning behind them was clear and undeniable. They were a classic declaration, an offering of admiration, perhaps even love. And she had taken them without hesitation.

The thought gnawed at him as questions flooded his mind. Had Grace ever received flowers from a man before? No, she hadn’t. In fact, had she ever received gifts from anyone at all? And worse–had he, the man who had known her for years, ever given her anything?

The answer was as bitter as it was obvious. No. Not once.

For years he knew, she had stood by his side, waiting, and hoping. And in return, all he had ever given her was his indifference.

His hands curled into fists as a slow, simmering heat coiled in his chest. It was not mere irritation, nor was it simple protectiveness.

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And then it struck him.

He was no longer thinking about the woman he had lost.

His mind was not tangled in memories of the past, nor was his heart haunted by old wounds. His focus was entirely on the woman before him who had once looked at him with affection in her eyes.

She stood in the sunlight in her dress flowing with the breeze. Her expression was calm and peaceful as she accepted a gift from another man. She was boyish in nature rough around the edges, filled with imperfections he had long found irritating. And yet, at this moment, he saw none of that.

All he saw was a woman who was beautiful despite her flaws.

A woman who was no longer his.

And the sight of her with another man sent a violent surge of jealousy searing through his bones.