Chloe
I sit up straighter, my eyes widening.
What?
What the fuck did he just say?
Across the table from me, I watch as the same disbelief flits across Tristan’s face.
His head jerks in shock. In all the years I’ve known him, through every boardroom clash and industry event and pointed exchange at a bar, Tristan Thorne has always looked like a man who has already thought of everything. He does not look like that right now.
“Repeat that,” he says. His voice is controlled, but only just.
“The position of CEO is yours,” the attorney repeats, speaking a bit slower as if that was the issue. “Provided you agree to marry Chloe Dawson.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s quite clear, Mr. Thorne,” says the other lawyer. “These are your father’s words, not ours.”
Tristan shakes his head, stunned, and leans back in his seat. “I… I don’t understand.”
I clear my throat and do my best to keep the edge out of my voice. “For what it’s worth, neither do I. I think we would benefit from an explanation.”
The lawyer glances back down at the papers on the table. “Mr. Thorne has written that his son Tristan will be given the role of CEO under these terms, and that following the union between the Thorne and Dawson families, Thorne Enterprises and MediaSphere will enter into a strategic partnership.”
“A strategic partnership?” I echo.
“Intended, according to Mr. Thorne, to foster collaborative endeavors in the realms of media content creation, distribution, and market expansion.” The lawyer pushes his glasses up on his nose, glancing at me.
“Not a full merger, but rather, an alliance aimed at mutual growth. Your companies will maintain distinct corporate identities.”
Next to me, my father nods, and I shoot a glance at him. Did he know about this? Is he willing to accept this? His greatest competitor, trying to call the shots?
“If I may continue,” says the lawyer who was reading the will, “there are further stipulations.”
“Seriously?” Tristan mutters.
Ignoring him, the lawyer continues to read.
“Tristan Thorne and Chloe Dawson must remain married for a period of at least three years. After that time, they may seek dissolution or annulment if they choose, but if the marriage is ended before that point, the agreement will be voided, and Tristan will forfeit the position of CEO as well as all of his shares.”
At that, all of the Thorne brothers raise their voices in unison in protest. I can’t blame them. If Julian Thorne’s shares were handed over to the shareholders, the family’s control in the company would be diluted.
There would be no guarantee that they could hold on to control of their own father’s company. The shareholders would be able to vote on new leadership—effectively icing them out.
My heart races as I listen to the attorneys speaking over their complaints. At this point, I’m tuning out the exact words, unable to comprehend what’s happening.
My business-minded brain is still firing, still processing what’s being said—the terms and conditions of my hypothetical arranged marriage. But the rest of me is reeling. I feel like I’m falling from a great height, waiting to hit the ground.
What the hell? What the hell is happening?
I heard about Julian Thorne’s death, but the request for myself and my family to be present at his will reading caught me by surprise. At most, I’d thought we would attend the funeral and offer our condolences.
Now it’s all starting to make more sense… in the worst way.
I wish I hadn’t come at all.
Once the lawyer is finished speaking, there are a few seconds of silence in the room. I glance across the table at Tristan, whose face is a mask of controlled fury.
“This is insane,” he mutters, and for the first time in either of our lives, I think that he’s right. It is insane.
“Be that as it may—”
“No,” Tristan interrupts, cutting across the lawyer’s businesslike tone. “I’m not doing this. No way.”
I can’t help but flinch. In a straightforward sense, of course, I agree with him. But at the same time, there’s such revulsion in his voice that it stings a little. He clearly can’t stand the thought of marrying me, and the thought comes to me unbidden. Does he hate me that much?
“Unfortunately, there is no alternative provision.” The attorney shakes his head blandly. “Either the terms are met, or the shares revert to the shareholder pool and the CEO position is forfeit. There’s no third option written into the will.”
Tristan turns in his seat to face his mother. His voice drops, but the edge in it is unmistakable. “Did you know about this?”
A look of guilt passes over Camille Thorne’s face, and her gaze falls to the table. She knew, I realize.
Arranged marriages aren’t terribly uncommon among people of our social standing. If I were simply hearing about this as an idle piece of gossip—a tidbit that had nothing to do with me, but instead involved a family acquaintance—I wouldn’t be shocked.
But it was the last thing I was expecting when I walked into this room, and I can tell that Tristan was caught equally unaware.
Tristan glares around the room. Eventually, his eyes fall upon me, and I meet his intense gaze squarely, both unable and unwilling to look away.
He draws a quiet breath, audible only due to the silence of the room. Then he speaks. “Get out.”
I’ve been thrown so fucking off balance by everything that just happened that I respond to the commanding tone in his voice without really thinking about it. Rather than stand my ground and throw back an angry retort the way I would under normal circumstances, I start to rise from my chair.
His voice interrupts me. “No, not you.”
I stare at him, surprised. He gestures around himself, his piercing eyes never leaving me.
“Everyone else. Get out.”
I’m expecting some kind of argument to break out, but to my surprise, everyone in the room obeys him. They file toward the doors, unspeaking. His twin brother Reid pauses behind Tristan’s chair long enough to put a hand on his shoulder, brief and wordless, and then he’s gone too.
The door closes.
The conference room, which a moment ago held twelve people and a significant amount of tension, now holds two. Me, still sitting at the table. Tristan, standing at the head of it, the full length of the polished surface between us.
He reaches for his jacket and pulls it off, draping it over the back of his chair, and then he moves to the windows.
He stands there with his back to me, looking out at the city as he starts rolling up his sleeves.
It’s an agitated motion, methodical but not calm, the kind of thing a person does when they need to do something with their hands.
The sleeves go up, and I see the ink.
It covers his forearms, vines and geometric lines winding from his wrists upward, dark against his skin, detailed enough that I can’t take it all in at once.
It doesn’t fit the version of him I’ve built up in my head over a decade of watching him across boardroom tables and industry events, the perfectly tailored suits and the careful composure.
Those tattoos belong to a different person, or maybe to a part of this person I’ve never been close enough to see.
I find myself wondering, almost against my will, how far up they go. Whether there’s more ink hidden underneath his pressed white shirt.
And then, with a jolt that’s almost physical, it occurs to me that if the next few years go the way Julian Thorne’s will is demanding they go, I might not have to wonder for very long.