Chapter 24 #2
“I’m not sitting,” she snaps, and her eyes stare at me from behind her lenses. “Answer me.”
I drag a hand through my hair, the gesture uncharacteristically raw. “It was a board meeting,” I say. “They were threatening a vote. They were questioning stability. The trust clause—”
“So you lied?” she asks, the words cracking on the edge of disbelief.
I meet her gaze. “Yes.”
Her throat bobs. “About me.”
“It was the fastest way to shut them down.”
April’s eyes shine, tears gathering. “You didn’t even warn me.”
“I didn’t know how.”
She laughs once, sharp and broken. “You didn’t know how?” she repeats. “You couldn’t figure out how to tell me that in the last three days, but you could decide on a whim to tell them I’m your fiancée?”
The word hits harder than it should. Fiancée. It sits in the room between us like something alive.
I open my mouth, close it, then force myself to speak the truth I’ve been circling for weeks. “I didn’t realize until recently,” I say, voice low, “that it wasn’t just an heir the clause required.”
April’s brows draw together. “What—”
“I need a wife,” I say, and it comes out blunt, like tearing off a bandage.
“The clause is structured that way. An heir isn’t enough to secure control long-term.
They want… legitimacy. Family structure.
Permanence. I didn’t know how to tell you, and then we found out you were pregnant, and you were locked in, and I couldn’t—I didn’t know how to drop that on you, April. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”
Her face crumples slightly, like she’s trying to hold it together and failing. “And that’s why you’ve been nicer to me? That’s why you’ve been affectionate?” She whispers, voice unsteady.
I don’t answer fast enough.
Her eyes glisten, and something in my chest shatters. “That’s why you wanted me to move in,” she says, voice rising. “That’s why you’ve been sweet. That’s why you’ve been—” she swallows hard, a tear spilling, “—holding me like I matter. Because you were warming me up to the idea of marrying you?”
“No,” I say immediately, too sharp. “No.”
She flinches like I’ve struck her with the force of the word.
I step closer, then stop myself, hands curling into fists at my sides. If I touch her right now, she’ll either melt or break, and I don’t trust myself to tell which it is. “I wanted you close,” I say, voice rougher. “That was unrelated.”
April’s breath stutters.
“I didn’t plan it,” I continue, and I hate how human I sound. “I didn’t—this—it wasn’t a strategy. The board forced my hand, and I made a decision in a room full of vultures. I never expected any of this. I never expected this to become real, and I—”
Her voice is barely audible. “Real for who?”
The question lands like a knife. “For me,” I admit, and the words cost every bit of control I strain to keep. “It became real for me, April.”
April shakes her head, tears sliding now, silent and furious. “You’re lying.”
“I was afraid,” I say, and the confession tastes like blood. “Afraid of developing feelings for you before this, because I knew what it would do to me. And it happened anyway.”
She looks at me like she wants to believe me and hates me for making her want to.
“I didn’t want to make you feel trapped,” I rasp.
Her laugh is wet. Bitter. “So you announced it to the board instead.”
“I had to secure my position,” I snap back, then immediately regret the edge in my tone when her face falls. I soften, forcing my voice into something steadier. “April—”
She wipes her cheek angrily, like the tears offend her. “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t use that voice.”
I exhale hard, mind scrambling for solutions, for leverage, for something I can put on the table that makes this make sense to her. The old instincts kick in. Money. Contracts. Guarantees. “If you agree,” I say too quickly, “I can amend the terms. More compensation. Anything you want. Name it—”
The words leave my mouth, and I realize instantly what I’ve done.
April’s eyes go wide, then narrow into something deadly.
“More money?” she repeats, voice trembling with rage. “That’s what you think fixes this?”
“I’m trying to—”
“You’re trying to buy me,” she spits.
“No.”
“Yes,” she says, stepping back as if I’ve contaminated the air. “You don’t even hear yourself. I’m standing here telling you I’m hurt, and you’re offering me a bigger number.”
I take a step toward her. “April—please.”
Her chin lifts, tears still falling, but her voice is clear as glass. “I don’t want more money from you,” she says. “I never wanted more money.”
My chest tightens.
“I wanted you,” she whispers harshly, and it’s the worst thing she could say because it’s the truest thing either of us has admitted out loud. My chest caves in, ripping the air out with it.
I stand there, stunned into silence, watching her break her own heart in real time.
April shakes her head once, like she’s trying to dislodge the feeling. “You don’t get to do this,” she says. “You don’t get to decide my life in a boardroom.”
“I wasn’t deciding your life,” I insist, voice raw. “I was protecting—”
“You were protecting yourself,” she cuts in, and the accusation lands because it’s not entirely wrong.
Her hand goes to her stomach, a protective reflex, and something in my body panics at the sight of it.
Then she turns for the door.
“April,” I say, and it comes out too sharp, too desperate.
She doesn’t look back.
She yanks the door open and storms out, leaving my office, leaving me with the taste of my own mistake still burning on my tongue.