Chapter One : The Call

Skyla's pov

"This is the third time I am being forced to watch “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before this month."

Emily groans dramatically, tossing a kernel of popcorn into her mouth. "And?"

I roll my eyes but grin. "At this point, I can recite the lines better than Lara Jean herself."

"Good. That means it's working," she says, pointing at me with a smug expression. "I’m trying to drill it into your head that love isn’t dead."

I snort. "In real life? It’s on life support."

Emily gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest. "That’s blasphemy. You live in Barcelona, the city of passion and romance! How can you say that?"

I glance at my untouched canvas, the blank space mirroring the dull ache in my chest. "Because movies have happy endings. Life doesn’t."

The air shifts between us, the easy banter fading into silence. Emily doesn’t push, but I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.

Since I left him.

The vibration of my phone breaks the moment. I glance at the screen, and the breath leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale.

Vincent Parker.

My father.

The man I haven’t spoken to in four years.

The sound of rain seems to intensify as I stare at the notification, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Emily sits up straighter. "What’s wrong?"

I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. "It’s my dad."

Her brows shoot up. "Vincent? The Vincent Parker?"

I nod stiffly.

Emily knows everything ,how my father controls everything, how he pushed my mother to exhaustion before she died, how he barely looked at me afterward. How he poured every ounce of himself into his business instead of the daughter left behind.

"You gonna listen to it?" she asks cautiously.

I exhale sharply. "I don’t know."

But my curiosity gets the best of me, and I press play.

"Skyla," my father’s voice is as sharp as I remember, devoid of warmth. "You need to come home. I have something important to discuss with you. Your flight is booked. Details have been sent to your email. I expect you here by the end of the week."

The message ends.

Silence stretches between Emily and me.

"Wow," she says after a beat. "No ‘how are you, Skyla?’ No ‘I miss you, Skyla?’ Just ‘get on a plane’?"

My fingers tighten around the phone. "He hasn’t spoken to me in four years. I doubt he suddenly developed a sense of fatherly affection."

Emily nudges me. "Do you think he’s sick? Maybe he "

I shake my head. "If he was sick, he wouldn’t call me."

She sighs. "Then what does he want?"

I bite my lip. "I don’t know. But I guess I’m about to find out."

---

Four Days Later

The minute I step into my father’s mansion in New York, I feel like a stranger.

Nothing has changed. The grand chandelier still hangs in the entryway, casting a golden glow over the sleek marble floors. The walls are lined with expensive art, soulless pieces chosen for their price tag rather than their meaning.

I spent my childhood wandering these halls, feeling like I never truly belonged.

Vincent Parker has never been a father. He was a businessman first, last, and always. When my mother was alive, she was the buffer between us, the only one who ever made me feel seen. But after she died, my father buried himself in work, leaving me to grieve alone.

The only time he paid attention to me was when I disobeyed him.

I clutch my bag tighter and force myself forward.

I find him in his office, seated behind a mahogany desk, his hands folded neatly in front of him. The years have barely touched him,his suit is impeccable, his expression sharp and unreadable.

He looks me over once, taking in my simple jeans and sweater, his disapproval evident in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Skyla," he says, as if I’ve only been gone for a few hours instead of four years.

I don’t return the greeting. "Why am I here?"

A faint smirk tugs at his lips, like he expected my hostility. He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."

I stay standing.

He sighs and leans back. "I’ve arranged something that will secure your future. You should be thanking me."

I stiffen. "What does that mean?"

"Alonso Ignacio has requested your hand in marriage."

The words hit me like a slap.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "I know you’re joking."

"I don’t joke."

My stomach twists. "I don’t even know him."

He waves a dismissive hand. "He’s one of the wealthiest investors in Spain. He’s looking for a mother figure for his son. It’s a perfect match."

A mother figure.

Not a wife.

A hollow feeling settles in my chest. "And why would he want me?"

"He asked for you specifically."

Lies.

It has to be.

I’ve never met Alonso Ignacio, never even been in his world. Why would a man like him who is cold, calculating choose me?

"And what if I refuse?" I challenge.

His smirk deepens. "Then you can kiss your precious career goodbye. No more financial support. No more dreams. No more Barcelona. And be prepared to be disowned."

My breath catches.

Of course.

Of course he’d do this.

He’s spent years treating me like a pawn in his business empire ,why should this be any different?

My throat tightens. I want to scream, to tell him to go to hell, to run back to Barcelona where my real life is waiting.

But I can’t.

Because he’s right.

Without his money, I have nothing. No way to open my own gallery. No way to stay in Spain.

I spent four years building a life for myself, and with one sentence, he’s torn it all apart.

I inhale sharply, forcing my voice to stay even. "When?"

"I will let you know when it is being finalized."

I shake my head. "I haven’t even met him."

"You will," he says simply.

The finality in his tone makes my stomach churn.

I’m trapped.

A caged bird with clipped wings, forced into a marriage I never agreed to.

And the worst part?

Somewhere in Barcelona, Alonso Ignacio is waiting for me.