LOVE ON CONTRACT

Chapter 9: The Aftermath

The boardroom was freezing. Floor to ceiling glass wrapped around us like a cage.

Outside, the Manila skyline was sharp and indifferent. Inside, the air conditioning was set to a temperature that made my skin prickle.

A long black table cut through the center of the room. Twelve chairs. Twelve executives. And twelve pairs of eyes all on me.

I tugged at the hem of the blue dress. It was elegant. Expensive. Silk that probably cost more than our hospital bills for a month. And I felt like a fraud in it.

Thunder walked in beside me. His presence shifted the entire room. The suit was black, tailored to perfection. His face was blank. The CEO mask was back. The same mask he wore when he signed the contract and handed me a pen.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice filled the room without effort. It didn’t echo. It commanded. “This is *Sophia Crownwille*. My wife.”

Silence. Then whispers. Low, careful, like knives wrapped in silk.

I kept my head up. Chin high. Just like he told me last night while we were rehearsing in the car. Don’t look down. Don’t fidget. You belong here.

One of the older board members cleared his throat. He was in his sixties, gray hair, glasses that sat too low on his nose. “Mr. Beaumont, we weren’t informed of a marriage.”

“You’re informed now,” Thunder replied. No apology. No explanation. He pulled out a chair for me. The sound of it scraping against the marble floor was loud. “Sit.”

I sat. The leather was cold even through the fabric of my dress. He sat beside me. Close enough that our arms brushed. I could feel the heat of him through his suit jacket.

The meeting started. Numbers. Projections. Acquisitions. Market shares. Words that blurred together in my head. EBITDA. Quarterly losses. Expansion to Singapore. I didn’t understand half of it. But I listened. I nodded when he nodded. I kept my hands folded on the table so no one would see them shake.

They kept looking at me. Not just glancing. Studying. Measuring. Like I was an equation they couldn’t solve. Who is she? Where did she come from? Why him?

Halfway through the presentation, his phone buzzed against the table. Once. Twice. He glanced at it. His jaw tightened. Then he looked at me. Hospital.

My heart stopped. He slid the phone to me under the table. Careful. Hidden. A text from the nurse:

[PAPA IS AWAKE. ASKING FOR YOU.]

Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them away fast. I couldn’t cry here. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

Thunder leaned in. Just enough for only me to hear. His cologne was faint. Clean. Expensive. “You can go.”

I shook my head. “The meeting.”

“It’s fine,” he whispered. His voice was lower now. Rougher. “Go.”

But I didn’t move. Because if I left now, they’d talk. They’d say I was weak. That I couldn’t handle the pressure. That I didn’t belong beside him. And the contract wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about surviving this. So I stayed.

The meeting dragged for another forty minutes. Every second felt like an hour. My phone stayed face down on my lap. Silent.

When it finally ended, the room emptied fast. Chairs pushed back. Files closed. Handshakes exchanged. Everyone except one woman. Late 40s. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. Red lipstick.

She walked to us with heels that clicked against the floor like a warning. “Thunder, darling,” she said. Her voice was sweet. Too sweet. “Didn’t know you were married.”

Thunder didn’t smile back. “Mrs. *Carter*.”

“And who’s this?” She looked me up and down. Slow. Assessing. Like she was pricing me. “A model?”

“Wife,” Thunder corrected. Flat. Final.

The woman laughed. It was light, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. Well. Congratulations.”

Her eyes stayed on me. “You must be very... lucky.”

I felt it. The judgment. The doubt. The unspoken you don’t deserve him.

Before I could answer, Thunder stood. He put his hand on the small of my back. The touch was firm. Grounding. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Excuse us.”

In the elevator, no one spoke. The silence was heavier than the meeting. The second the doors closed, I exhaled. A breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” he cut me off. “You did good.”

“I almost cried.”

“I know.” He looked at me. Really looked. Past the dress. Past the mask. “And you didn’t.”

The elevator dinged. Penthouse.

The moment we stepped inside, my phone rang. Hospital. I answered with shaking hands. “Hello?”

“Sophia? It’s Nurse Maria. Your father wants to see you.”

I was already grabbing my bag. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I ran. Thunder was behind me. Keys in hand. “I’ll drive.”

Twenty minutes later, we were at St. Luke’s. The smell of antiseptic hit me first. Then the fluorescent lights. Then the fear.

Papa looked small in the hospital bed. Smaller than I remembered. Tubes everywhere. But he was awake. And he was smiling.

“Sophia,” he whispered. His voice was weak but it was him.

I ran to him. Hugged him carefully. Like he might break. “Hey, Pa.”

He looked past me. At Thunder. “And who’s this?”

Thunder stepped forward. No arrogance. No coldness. Just respect. He bowed his head slightly. “*Thunder Beaumont*, sir. Sophia’s husband.”

Papa studied him. His eyes were tired but sharp. Then he nodded slowly. “Thank you. For taking care of my daughter.”

Thunder didn’t answer. He just nodded back. But I saw it. The way his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

We stayed for an hour. I held Papa’s hand. Told him about the dress. About the meeting. About anything that would make him smile. Thunder stood by the window. Quiet. But there. Every time I looked up, he was still there.

On the way home, neither of us talked. The city lights blurred past the window.

Until we reached the penthouse. Thunder stopped at the door. He didn’t go inside right away.

“You did well today,” he said. “In the boardroom. With your father.”

I nodded. Too tired to speak. My voice felt like sand.

He paused. His hand was on the doorframe. “Sophia.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

And then he did something I didn’t expect. He reached out. His thumb brushed against my cheek. Wiping away a tear I didn’t know I’d cried.

It was quick. Barely there. But it burned.

“Goodnight,” he said. Then he walked to his room. The door closed softly behind him.

I stood there in the hallway. Hand on my cheek. The warmth of his touch still there. Contract or not. Something was changing.