Page 22 of Promised to the Heir

Because control is the only thing keeping me upright.

I don’t say any of that. I just reach for the folder on my desk, using it like armor. “Go back to your office, Weston. I’ve got work to do.”

He hesitates. His eyes search mine, looking for the part of me that’s still shaking. When he finally nods, it’s the kind of gesture that says he’ll give me space for now but not forever.

“Fine,” he says.

He walks out without another word, leaving the door wide open.

The sound of his footsteps fades down the hall, and I sink into my chair. My hands tremble, traitorous things, so I press them flat against the desk until they stop.

Below, the factory drones its song. The sound is steady, predictable, and indifferent.

I close my eyes, counting the rhythm until it steadies me.

Control. Order. Numbers.

Everything that won’t leave.

Everything that won’t betray me.

Everything that’s still mine.

CHAPTER 11

Clara

The building doesn’t look like what I expected. No gray walls, no sharp smell of bleach or resignation. Light pours through tall windows, spilling across pale wood floors and canvases propped against the walls. Some are half-finished paintings, all are bold and messy and full of life. A faint scent of coffee and turpentine hangs in the air. It’s the kind of place that feels lived in, not left behind.

Jeremy’s hand rests on the small of my back as we walk in. His touch is light, guiding me without steering.

“My mom paints too,” he says quietly. “When the meds work, she paints.”

The receptionist looks up, smiling. “Morning, Mr. Weston. She’s in the studio.”

He nods, thanks her, and we follow the jazz rhythm of sax and piano down the hall.

Inside the studio, a woman stands before a wide canvas, brush poised mid-air. Her hair, silver and wild, frizzes around her face like static. She’s wearing an oversized denim shirt spattered with color, sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s paint on her cheekbone, a streak of blue that somehow suits her.

When she hears us, she turns, eyes lighting up. “Jeremy!”

Her voice is strong and warm, carrying none of the fragility I’d feared.

“Hey, Mom.” He bends to kiss her cheek, careful not to touch the wet canvas behind her. “You’re up early.”

“Inspiration doesn’t wait for polite hours.” She pauses mid-stroke, the brush hovering above the canvas. Her head tilts and her eyes narrow as she takes me in, then widen again like she’s cataloging details she doesn’t want to forget. The corner of her mouth lifts. “And who’s this?”

“This is Clara Bennett,” Jeremy says. “We work together.”

Her smile widens, but there’s knowing in it. “Do you, now?”

I can feel the flush rise up my neck. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Weston.”

“Oh, please. Everyone here calls me Elise.” She gestures with the brush, a small arc of color flicking into the air. “Jeremy doesn’t bring people here. You must be special.”

“Mom,” he murmurs, and the warning in his tone only makes her grin.

Her hand pauses mid-stroke. For a moment she doesn’t look at us at all, her gaze turned inward, lashes trembling against her cheeks. When she speaks, it’s careful, like the memory might splinter if she lets it too close. “He gets that from his father,” she says, eyes glinting with something that could be pride or pain.