Page 20 of Promised to the Heir

He pushes back from the table and looks between us. “You two’ll make a good team.”

I glance at Clara. She meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away, cheeks flushing faintly. My throat tightens. She keeps her focus on the table, but every so often she shifts in her chair, a small movement she doesn’t seem to realize she’s making.

I want to apologize again, but that would only embarrass her. Instead, I cover her hand with mine beneath the table. She stiffens, then relaxes.

“Eat,” Grandma orders. “You’ll need energy if you’re running the plant and if you’re planning to keep up with this one.”

Clara chokes on her coffee. “Evelyn!”

I grin. My grandmother probably didn’t mean it like that, but she’s right. I’m a demanding man, both in the boardroom and the bedroom.

Granddad just laughs. The sound rumbles deep in his chest. “Don’t tease her too much, old girl. We need her in one piece.”

“She’s tougher than she looks,” I can’t help but say.

Clara shoots me a look that’s half annoyance, half something warmer. “You’d better remember that.”

“Oh, I do.”

We finish breakfast with the easy rhythm of people who know each other too well to bother with pretense.

CHAPTER 10

Clara

The factory holds a steady pulse that I can feel through the soles of my shoes. Heat breathes off the presses, the floor hums underfoot, and the air carries that mix of oil, metal, and soap that means the day is doing exactly what it should. A pallet jack glides past, Earl raises two fingers in greeting without breaking stride, and a sensor ticks from green to amber, then back again. These are the small, obedient certainties I built my life around.

My phone buzzes in my pocket for the third time since seven. I don’t have to check it, but I do. Dad’s name lights the screen above a thread of messages I refuse to open yet. I slip the phone back and focus on the clipboard, align the purchase orders, and initial a maintenance log with a hand that doesn’t shake. Order is not a preference here. It is the only thing that keeps the ground from tilting.

I make the morning circuit, checking temp, readings and scanning the charts. My fingertip traces the colored blocks, following the rhythm that measures each cycle’s pace. The spacing’s even, and the pattern is smooth like a steady pulse. It means the line’s keeping up, the crew hitting their marks. The presses bite clean, the air carries that metallic tang I’ve come to love, and for once, everything moves in sync. Every click and hiss land where they should. My shoulders loosen as I work, until memory catches up: a laugh against my throat, the faint sting where his mouth marked me, the way my body answered before my mind consented to anything. Jeremy carries something I learned to avoid young. It’s that bright, boyish edge that looks like risk. My father wore that same glint when he made promises the numbers later could not keep. The difference is that beneath Jeremy’s spark there is steel. He plans. He executes. And he means it. He has no selfish bone in his body. As for my father…

“Ms. Bennett?”

I glance up from the clipboard. Sara hovers in the doorway, her knuckles white around the edge of the doorframe. The way she says my name already has my stomach tightening.

“There’s… someone here to see you.”

Her tone carries that uneasy edge people use when they know the news won’t land well.

“Who?”

She hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the hallway, then back to me. “He said he’s your dad.”

I straighten slowly. “My dad,” I repeat, letting the word hang. Sara’s face tells me she knows exactly what that means. Everyone here does.

I set the clipboard down with care. “Where is he?”

“Reception.” She swallows hard. “Do you want me to tell him you’re⁠—”

“I’ll handle it.”

By the time I reach my office, he’s already there. Sitting in the chair across from my desk. At least he isn’t behind my desk this time.

He doesn’t belong here, not in this clean, orderly space. The room smells faintly of coffee and ink from the printer, but underneath I can smell his sweat, cheap aftershave, and booze.

“Clara, sweetheart.” His smile is all gums and no warmth. “You look good. Tired, though. Working too hard, huh?”

The sound of his voice and the false concern in it hit me like a stone in the gut. “What do you want, Dad?”