Page 4 of Promised to the Heir

His eyes hold mine. “Alive, yes, and so are you. But not thriving. And you know it.”

I bristle, though the truth prickles under my skin. “Thriving enough to keep people employed. To pay the bills. To restore contracts my father nearly destroyed.”

His gaze sharpens. “You, Clara. You’re the one not thriving. The company’s solid. You’re the one running yourself down to keep it that way.”

He shifts closer, the air between us tightening, his shadow stretching across the desk like he already owns the ground I’m standing on.

“Tell me something, Clara. If the terms weren’t hanging over you, if you could walk away tomorrow with your stocks, your house, and a payout that lets you live comfortably—would you?”

The image flares without permission. My modest apartment, the corner where my wheel sits, clay soft and pliant under my palms, spinning into bowls and vases that never argue, never demand, never break unless I choose to break them. Pottery is simple. Honest. The closest thing I have to peace.

I push the thought aside and tighten my jaw. “You’re asking if I’d trade everything I fought for just to breathe easier. The answer is no.”

His mouth curves, faint, as though I’ve said exactly what he expected. “Because you don’t know how to stop fighting.”

“Because I don’t need a man stepping in to carry what I can carry myself.”

He takes another step, close enough that the heat of his body brushes mine. I feel the weight of him in the air, steady, certain. “This isn’t about needing. It’s about what you deserve. And you deserve more than exhaustion and an empty apartment.”

My pulse skips, betraying me. I cross my arms tighter, as if that can shield me from him. “I don’t waste money. I don’t waste time. What I have is enough.”

“Is it?” His gaze drops to my mouth before rising again, deliberate. “Or is that just what you’ve told yourself so long you’ve forgotten to want anything else?”

My cheeks burn, though I hold his stare. “Wanting doesn’t keep the lights on.”

“No—” He exhales the kind of breath that sounds like it carries someone else’s pain— “but it keeps people alive.”

I hate the way his words crawl under my skin, stirring something fragile I buried years ago. I think of his grandfather then, who used to stop by the factory floor, who corrected me gently when I miscalculated shipping costs, who let me learn the hard way once when I ordered the wrong parts and half the line went idle. He never scolded, never condescended. He believed I’d figure it out, and I did. I owe him for that.

“I like your grandfather,” I admit, quieter than I mean to. “He taught me more than most men ever tried. But he also believed in letting me fall on my face when it was my mistake to make and not holding it against me later. You’re not him, Jeremy.”

“I don’t intend to be.” He leans in, his voice steady, intimate, close enough that my skin tingles where his breath brushes it. “I intend to be the man who stands beside you, not the one who watches from the stands.”

A shiver runs down my spine, traitorous and hot. I force myself to look away, to focus on the neat stack of contracts at my elbow. Paper is easier. Paper doesn’t smell of cedar and clean soap and doesn’t make my thighs press together under my skirt.

Why does the bastard smell like sin wrapped in Armani?

“I don’t need saving,” I repeat, though it sounds less convincing now.

“And I didn’t come here to save you,” he answers. “I came here because this company, this pact, this legacy—it’s ours. You know as well as I do that the terms are airtight. You turn thirty in less than a year. The choice is simple. Walk away with scraps or stand with me and keep what you built.”

My heart thuds hard against my ribs. Simple. Nothing about this is simple.

CHAPTER 4

Jeremy

My phone won’t stop buzzing and once again the group chats light up. This time it’s Caleb talking lineups for Friday’s game, the Ashford twins trading bets on who’ll spill beer on the new field first, and Dylan sending memes like he’s still twelve. I thumb a quick reply.

Still in town. Might make the game if Grandma doesn’t rope me into chores.

Three dots bounce, then Asher responds.

You still run like a QB or more like a CEO these days?

Depends on who’s chasing me

I pocket the phone before the next barrage lands. Family first, Brotherhood later.