MINE UNTIL THE CONTRACT ENDS

CHAPTER FOUR

COLE’S POV

My mother called at seven fourteen a.m.

I let it ring twice before I answered, which was two rings more than she deserved and two fewer than I wanted.

"You got married yesterday," she said. No greeting. No preamble. Victoria Ashford had never wasted words on politeness when precision was available. "To a nurse."

"Good morning, Mother."

"Don't. How long have you been planning this?"

I moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway, putting distance between myself and Layla. Not because I was ashamed of anything. Because my mother's voice had a particular quality, sharp and carrying, and Layla had already heard enough for one morning.

"Long enough," I said.

"The board doesn't know. Your father doesn't know. I found out from Gerald's assistant, who saw a courthouse filing online at midnight." Her voice was ice over gravel. "You did this deliberately."

"I handled a problem. That's what you asked me to do."

"I asked you to produce an heir, not drag some nobody from a hospital corridor into our family."

I stopped walking. "Watch how you refer to her."

A beat of silence. It surprised her, I could tell by the half-second delay before she recovered. "Cole…"

"She is my wife. Legally, publicly, completely. Whatever you think of the choice, you will speak about her with basic respect or you won't speak to me at all. Are we clear?"

Another silence. Longer.

"Your father wants a meeting," she said finally. "This week."

"I'm available Thursday."

"Tomorrow."

"Thursday," I repeated, and ended the call.

I stood in the hallway for a moment with my phone in my hand and the specific exhaustion that my parents had been producing in me since childhood settled across my shoulders. Then I went back to the kitchen.

Layla was plating eggs. Two portions, as I'd asked. She didn't look up when I came in, but I noticed she'd also made toast, and there was coffee in the press on the counter that hadn't been there before.

She set a plate at the end of the island and pushed it toward my side without comment.

I sat down.

We ate in silence for a while. It was not uncomfortable. That surprised me, I lived alone by preference, had for years, and the presence of another person in my space usually produced a low persistent irritation I managed by working long hours. Layla's presence didn't do that. She moved practically, took up only the space she needed, and didn't attempt conversation to fill the silence. I noted this the way I noted useful things.

"Your mother," she said eventually. Not a question.

"Yes."

"She's angry."

"She's always angry. This just gave it a specific direction."

Layla drank her coffee and looked out the window. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're my wife and she'll treat you accordingly."

She turned to look at me then. A steady look, the same one from the consultation room. "You didn't have to do that."

"It's not about having to," I said. "You're operating under this arrangement in good faith. I won't allow anyone to undermine that, including my parents."

She seemed to consider this. Then she looked back at her plate. "When do I meet them?"

"Thursday. My father requested a meeting."

"Requested," she repeated, with a tone that told me she'd caught the word. "He doesn't actually request things, does he?"

"No. He summons. I simply don't comply with the framing."

Something flickered in her expression. Almost a smile. Not quite. "What should I know before Thursday?"

"My father is controlled and direct. He'll evaluate you quickly and say very little about his conclusions. My mother is more vocal and considerably more dangerous. She will be polite to your face. Don't mistake it for warmth."

"Understood." She pushed her empty plate aside. "How do they want me to behave?"

"Quietly. Decoratively. With appropriate gratitude for being brought into their world."

"And how do you want me to behave?"

I looked at her. "Like yourself."

She blinked. Clearly not the answer she'd expected. "That might not go well for you."

"It'll go exactly as well as I need it to."

She was quiet for a moment, turning her coffee mug in both hands. Then "Cole. Can I ask you something directly?"

"You've done nothing but."

"The infertility," she said. Straightforward. No softening. "The contract mentions a childhood illness. You don't have to explain it, but if I'm going to be in a room with your parents answering questions, I need to know what I can and can't say."

It was a reasonable request. I knew that. I had anticipated it would come eventually. What I hadn't anticipated was that it would land the way it did, not intrusively, but with such matter-of-fact care that it briefly wrong-footed me.

"Viral myocarditis at age nine," I said. "The treatment had a documented effect on fertility in some cases. Mine was confirmed at twenty-six."

"Who knows?"

"Ryan. My physician. Now you."

"Not your parents?"

"They know I have a medical reason for the surrogacy arrangement. They don't know the specifics and they won't ask. Weakness isn't something my family discusses, it's something they file away for later use."

She absorbed that quietly. No pity, no awkward condolence. Just understanding, clean, and uncomplicated. "Alright. I won't bring it up on Thursday."

"Thank you."

She stood and took both plates to the sink. I watched her rinse them with the same efficient economy she applied to everything, and I thought about what Ryan had said in the car last night. About warnings and who would need them.

I picked up my phone to call him back.

A knock at the front door stopped me.

Edmund appeared from the corridor and went to answer it. I heard the door open, heard Edmund's voice shift into the particular register he used for unexpected visitors, courteous but guarded. Then a woman's voice, clear and carrying.

"I'd like to see my son. I won't be long."

Layla had come back to the kitchen doorway. She looked at me, and I looked at her, and I knew from her expression that she'd heard it too.

My mother was not waiting until Thursday.

I stood, buttoned the top button of my shirt, and said to Layla quietly, "You don't have to come. I can handle this."

She straightened. Lifted her chin slightly. "We're married, aren't we?"

She walked out of the kitchen before I did.

By the time I reached the entryway, Layla was already standing three feet from Victoria Ashford, perfectly composed, hand extended.

"Mrs. Ashford," she said. "I'm Layla. It's nice to meet you."

My mother looked at her hand, then at her face, then at the room behind her as if cataloguing what Layla had already touched and changed simply by existing in it. She shook her hand briefly. Smiled with her mouth only.

"What a surprise you are," my mother said.

And the way she said it made every hair on the back of my neck rise, because I had known that voice my entire life, and I knew exactly what it meant when it went that quiet.