Page 7 of Promised to the Heir

“It’s a contract.” I shrug. We both know it’s more than that.

“Does she know you resigned?” Grandma asks.

“Not yet.” I flatten my palm on the table, feeling the worn wood under my hand. “She will.”

“Tomorrow?” Granddad asks, not because he doubts it, but because he likes to hear me say it.

“Tomorrow.” I stand and stack the plates before Grandma can argue. “I’m bringing her lunch. Something with protein. Something she can’t refuse because the whole office will see it and praise me for being thoughtful.”

Grandma’s brows lift, the corner of her mouth tightening. “Manipulation used for good is still manipulation.”

“Engineering,” I say. “You move the environment until the outcome happens.”

Grandpa chuckles low in his chest. “Call it what you want, son. Just make sure it works.”

Grandma doesn’t answer, but the faint curve of her mouth gives her away. She settles back with her coffee, and the talk drifts toward the Bulls, the new quarterback, and whether the town still fills the bleachers the way it used to.

CHAPTER 5

Clara

The numbers won’t stay still today. They slide across the screen like oil on water, refusing to line up no matter how many times I blink or refocus. Somewhere between the supplier totals and the payroll projections, my brain simply refuses to cooperate.

Usually, numbers are my forte.

The espresso sitting beside my mouse pad isn’t helping. It’s gone cold and bitter, a burnt tang that clings to my tongue. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but the thought of food turned my stomach. Everything feels unsettled, like the air before a storm.

Jeremy Weston.

I type his name in a new cell just to see it. Then delete it. Then type it again, slower this time. It looks too solid, too sure of itself, the kind of name that doesn’t blink under pressure. I close the file before I can start imagining his hand braced on my desk or that voice again, the deep, unhurried baritone that vibrates more than it speaks, dangerous in its calm, stroking every nerve until my pulse forgets its rhythm.

My reflection in the black screen glares back at me, mocking me.

The blazer with the sharp shoulders is the kind that holds its shape even when I don’t. The silk blouse drapes just right, hiding the weight I’ve lost. My makeup is heavier than usual, three layers of foundation and concealer smoothing the shadows beneath my eyes, lipstick a shade too bold for a workday. None of it helps. I can keep the company steady, but not the pulse that jumps when I think of Jeremy Weston.

And the fact that I lay awake last night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if marrying him would really be as unappealing as I’ve always told myself.

I force myself back to the here and now.

A yearly inspection always knots my stomach. This year’s falls on a Saturday. They’ve never done that before. And it’s cause for me to worry.

The plant is as ready as it can be, but the list of what could go wrong hums quietly at the back of my mind. A single sensor reading could drift half a degree. A maintenance log might be misfiled. A supervisor could forget to initial a checklist. The inspector won’t care that we’ve doubled production or cut waste by ten percent. He’ll care if one tag is missing from a machine.

And then there’s my father.

His call came before sunrise, his voice thick with that familiar mix of charm and guilt. He’d found a new investment, a “sure thing” this time. Just a bridge loan, just until next month. I hung up before he could finish the pitch, but the words stick anyway. Just. Always just.

I rub the bridge of my nose, careful not to smudge the concealer. The headache building behind my eyes feels like it started years ago.

“Clara?”

Tess leans into the doorway, tablet in hand, brows drawn. “The shipping report’s missing the revised totals for line three. Do you want me to⁠—”

“I’ll handle it,” I say too quickly. My tone makes her blink. I take a slow breath and soften it. “Just email me the draft. I’ll sign off once I’ve checked the figures.”

She nods and disappears, leaving the faint scent of vanilla lotion in the air. The office goes still again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the steady pulse in my throat.

I open the spreadsheet again. The numbers blur once more.