Page 21 of Promised to the Heir

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands twitch. He’s all jitters and nerves. I close my eyes and shake my head.

“It’s not like that. I just need a small favor. Short-term loan, that’s all.”

“No.”

“Just enough to get the creditors off my back. You know I wouldn’t ask if⁠—”

“No.” I keep my voice flat. “You’ve already taken enough.” I make eye contact and hold his gaze. I. Am. Not. Giving. In.

The words hang between us.

His eyes harden, the old bitterness surfacing like oil on water. “You always did think you were better than me.”

“I don’t think it. I know it,” I state with certainty. “The only thing I learned from you is what not to do.”

The door opens before he can spit something back. Jeremy fills the frame like a storm front. I take in his broad shoulders, his steady gaze, and that calm that hides a thousand calculations. He moves his attention from me to my father, and the air sharpens.

“Mr. Bennett.” His tone is polite, but the steel underneath makes my stomach tighten. “Did you make an appointment?”

My father bristles, chin lifting. “I don’t need an appointment to see my daughter.”

“You do to waste her time,” Jeremy says.

“Jeremy.” My voice is warning, but he doesn’t break eye contact with my father.

“You’ve had your say,” he tells him. “Leave.”

Dad pushes to his feet, all bravado and bad posture. “You think you can control her too? She’s my kid.”

Jeremy steps closer. His gate is unhurried but the quiet kind of dangerous. “She’s not a kid. She’s a woman running the company you nearly destroyed.”

The word destroyed lands hard. I stand, stepping between them, feeling their body heat radiating like two furnaces about to collide. “Enough. Both of you.”

Jeremy’s jaw tightens. “Clara, he’s⁠—”

“I said enough.” My voice cuts through the air like a whip and is sharp and loud enough to make them both still.

Dad sneers, mutters something about being ganged up on, and stalks out. The door slams, rattling the glass in its frame.

Silence. I swallow.

Jeremy looks at me, the fight still in his eyes. “You shouldn’t let him near this place.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” The words snap out, raw and jagged. “He’s my problem, not yours.”

His hands flex once, then still. “He’s not just your problem when he shows up here, Clara. When he walks into this factory, he becomes mine too.”

“I can handle him.”

“I don’t doubt that.” His voice softens, and somehow that hurts worse than anger. “But why should you have to?”

Because needing someone is weakness.

Because if I let you in, you’ll see how much of me still cracks when he says my name.