Page 3 of Promised to the Heir

I curl my fingers, just slightly, and feel her do the same. The field is mine now. Clara’s not walking off it without me.

She’s mine.

Let the game begin.

CHAPTER 3

Clara

His hand closes around mine, not a polite shake but a hold that feels like he has no intention of letting go. The grip jolts through me, sparking up my arm, tightening my chest, hardening my nipples until heat lands low in my core. It shouldn’t feel familiar, but it does. I was probably fourteen years old and enjoying my time on the crowded ice rink when a few boys thought slamming into people was half the fun. I saw them coming, braced for the fall, already tasting cold ice and humiliation. And then Jeremy was there, steady as a wall, one hand catching my middle, the other bracing my elbow, keeping me upright when I was certain I’d go down. He didn’t let go until I found my footing. He doesn’t let go now either.

I don’t let my fingers soften. He’ll get no easy victory from me.

Jeremy Weston. He looks at me like the years between high school and now never happened, as though I’m still the girl with the quick smile and the braid down her back. I’m not. That girl burned out long ago, replaced by the woman standing in front of him now. A woman who has been rebuilt, who has fought for every inch of respect she holds, who does not have time for the quarterback who always seemed to win without trying.

He holds the shake longer than necessary, a beat too long, and when I try to pull away he tightens, just slightly. Not enough to be rude, but enough to remind me that this is a contest, and he plays to win.

I curl my fingers, give him one sharp squeeze, and then break the connection myself. My hand slips free, leaving the ghost of his touch across my palm, heat that lingers like perfume on the skin. I wipe it against my skirt, smooth the fabric, pretending it’s about keeping wrinkles straight instead of clearing him away.

He smiles, not the full-wattage grin he’s known for, but the restrained one. The one that says he’s confident, patient, and entirely too sure of his place in this office. In my office.

“Congratulations,” I say, circling back behind my desk, heels sharp against the floor. “You found the only way in without an appointment. Shall we call that your first win?”

His eyes track me, steady, unreadable. I feel them move with me, over the bun wound tight at the base of my neck, over the jacket I know hangs a little too loose these days. He notices. Of course he does. Jeremy Weston has always been the kind of man who saw the details. The problem is, once he’s noticed something, he acts on it.

I slide into my chair and touch a stack of contracts that doesn’t need straightening. The pages are already aligned, but I nudge them once, twice, letting the small motion buy me the reprieve I need. My hands have to be busy with something safe, otherwise I might betray myself and do something foolish, like pat my hair or lift my palm to catch the trace of his scent still clinging to my skin. Paper is easier. Contracts make sense. Jeremy Weston does not.

I lift my eyes to his. He’s standing there like the room belongs to him, shoulders broad under that immaculate suit, dark hair cut close, silver at the temples catching the light. A tower of power, exactly as the papers paint him in Chicago. Gorgeous, too, but that’s an observation I keep locked behind my teeth.

He is looking at my roaming hands. Childishly, I want to tuck them beneath me. Instead, I lace them together on the desk, a shield I pretend is composure. “So, this is it. You’ve come to cash in on the pact. Make sure I marry into Weston hands before the clock runs out.”

His mouth curves, faint, as if he enjoys the direct hit. “I’ve come to do exactly what our grandfathers intended. Keep Bennett & Weston strong.”

The words sting, not because they’re false, but because they sound like ownership. My company. My fight. My years. Yet he says it as if it’s already his.

I lean back, spine stiff against the chair. “Then you’ve seen what I’ve done. Contracts regained, output expanded, debts paid. This company is stronger than it has been in decades.”

“And still at risk,” he replies. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, broad and immovable, as if the room itself would crack before he takes a step back. “Your father nearly buried it. You held it together. But one storm, one misstep, and you know as well as I do the whole thing wobbles.”

The truth bites deep. I keep my expression smooth, but inside the words cut. Because he’s right about the storm always hovering. And he’s right that the contract is airtight.

I rise, pushing my chair back an inch, palms flat on the steel of the desk. “I’ve carried this company since I was eighteen. These hands are the right hands, Jeremy. They’ve always been.”

His gaze never wavers. “Strong hands. No one doubts that. But the pact was never about whether you could carry it. It was about whether you should carry it alone.”

Heat creeps up my neck, fury braided tight with something I refuse to name. “The pact is a relic. Men with pens deciding a woman couldn’t run her own legacy.”

“Maybe.” His voice is low, certain. “But relic or not, it binds us both. And it means you and I were always going to end up here.”

My pulse hammers, not from fear but from the certainty in his voice, as if I’m just another contract already filed and stamped, my signature irrelevant. I don’t want a man. I don’t need one. Except when it comes to keeping the company, I do. And not just any man. Him.

I cross my arms, holding myself together. “I don’t need saving.”

He steps closer, close enough for his cologne to curl through the citrus and jasmine still clinging to my skin. His smile doesn’t soften, but his eyes do, just barely. “I didn’t come here to save you, Clara. I came here because this company belongs to both of us. And because I want to stand with you.”

The words land in my chest, heavier than I want to admit. Because I know he’s right about one thing; whether I like it or not, I can’t walk away.

I force a laugh, sharp enough to cut. “Stand with me? That’s rich. You stroll back into Iron Ridge in your perfect suit and think a few words will make me roll over? I’ve kept this place alive without you. Without anyone.”