There, across the table, sat her grandparents beside her, and across from them, Stephen and his parents.
That's when it hit her.
This wasn't just a friendly catch-up between old family friends.
This was a setup.
An arranged marriage . . . with Stephen.
The moment the library door closed behind the last guest, the atmosphere shifted. The warm glow of the lamp softened the edges of the room, turning it into a haven—or a trap.
Hana sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Across from her, the table was set simply: a single page in the center, untouched tea, and the heavy presence of two couples watching her.
Hana's grandparents on her right, gentler now, but still strong in their presence. On her left, Stephen's parents—his mother elegant and poised, his father reserved, eyes behind glasses hidden behind a veneer of calm.
Stephen himself was beside her, silent. His gaze, once piercing at the gala, was now watching her, unreadable.
Her grandfather cleared his throat. "Hana," he began softly but firmly, "you've had a terrible year. We've spoken with our friends the Carlstons. They offered . . . an opportunity."
Her grandmother squeezed his hand. "Stephen is kind. Grounded. Able to give you the space and safety you deserve."
Stephen's mother added, polite and warm, "We admire your spirit, Hana. You've been brave through so much."
Hana's heart fluttered uneasily. Brave? She'd just tried to survive. She'd almost been killed.
His father leaned forward, voice low but steady. "Our families have known each other for generations. We believe this . . . union . . . would be mutually beneficial and, more importantly, healing."
Silence stretched. The library's hush was heavy, almost suffocating. Hana fluttered her gaze among the four adults who had orchestrated this evening.
Stephen shifted, folding his hands neatly on the table. He said nothing—offering neither agreement nor dissent. He simply watched her, eyes steady and unreadable. His silence spoke louder than any argument ever could.
She searched his face. There was no mockery there. No recoil. No puppet-master complacency. He sounded . . . genuine.
But she thought of Jin, the fear, the whip . . . And how easy it would've been to buckle, or to stand and refuse, and to be free.
But she was tired—so very tired. Of pretending. Of fighting. Of losing.
Her grandparents spoke again, gently, but with resolve.
"My sweet girl," her grandmother said, voice thick with emotion, "you don't have to love him now. But Stephen will be a good husband—a safe one."
She paused. "If marriage could be a place of healing, then at least this is worth trying."
Her grandfather nodded. "We won't force you. The final decision is still yours."
All eyes turned to her.
Hana's breath trembled. She thought of her past—how she loved Jin, how she believed, how she lost and bled.
She had given too much—and gotten hurt.
Maybe marriage with a good, strong, rich man was the kind of quiet she needed.
Quiet. Enough.
Maybe he would help her heal.
"If I'm honest . . ." her voice came out softer than she meant, "I've been broken too many times. I barely know who I am anymore."
She met Stephen's eyes. He met hers calmly.
"But," she continued, raising her chin, "if I'm going to try again—with someone—I want it to be with someone who has never hurt me."
She swallowed, heart pounding. The table spun—four expectant faces, waiting.
Stephen said simply, "I will do my best." No more. No less. Calm.
That was all she needed.
The room exhaled softly, like a held breath released.
Stephen's mother, with gracious dignity, added, "Then let us consider this official."
Her father slid the page in front of them—a simple engagement form, outlining their intent to marry, wedding scheduled one month from this night.
For a moment, her mind froze. A wedding—so soon? Her pulse skipped. One month? That was fast.
But . . . maybe that was what she needed. A blank page. A fresh start. A new life to rise from the ashes. A family of her own.
Her grandmother leaned forward, eyes glistening. "Are you ready?"
Hana closed her eyes briefly. There'd be no fireworks. No declarations of passion. Just quiet consent. For years they urged her to go to England and urged her to marry a great man.
She looked at Stephen—steady, serious, and silent.
"I accept." Her words trembled at first, then steadied.
She was making a choice. Of her own will. Not because anyone forced her, but because she chose safety. Chose healing. Chose a future.
Stephen nodded once. Soft, respectful.
Her grandfather signed his approval. Stephen's father signed theirs. Her grandmother dabbed her eyes, subtle tears slipping.
Stephen's mother drew Hana's hand into both her own. "We are honored," she said. "Welcome to the family."
The final strokes were made. In that moment, the engagement became official.
====
Hana left the library feeling oddly light—as if she'd shed a weight from her shoulders. The noise of the party beyond didn't bother her anymore. She was done running.
Stephen walked beside her in silence toward the front doors. Guest farewells were tender nods. Her own alert guard was lowered, not by excitement, but by exhaustion.
As they stepped onto the manor's porch, Stephen slowed, eyes on her.
"Thank you," he said quietly—genuine. "For giving this a chance."
She forced a steady nod, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just don't get it. You're handsome, wealthy—any girl would be honored to marry you. So . . . why me?"
Stephen's smile was soft, almost wistful. "Why not you?"
She opened her mouth to argue, but he leaned in slightly, his gaze never left hers.
"You barely know me," she murmured, heart fluttering. "And I barely know you."
"We'll have time," he said gently, reaching for her hand. His touch was warm, steady. "Time to learn, time to grow . . . and a lifetime to get to know each other."
Then, with quiet reverence, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. It was tender—not a gesture of ownership, but of promise. A silent vow that whatever this was . . . he was all in.
And in that moment—something shifted. Not love. Not yet. But an ember of trust, glowing softly in the dark.
They parted ways that night—two souls bound by contract, but also by a fragile hope.
A hope that marriage could be more than just an arrangement . . . if they both chose to let it be.