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 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.”
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.