LOVE ON CONTRACT

Chapter 8: The Boardroom

The boardroom was freezing. Floor to ceiling glass. Long black table. Twelve chairs. And twelve pairs of eyes all on me.

I tugged at the hem of the blue dress. It was elegant. Expensive. And I felt like a fraud in it.

Thunder walked in beside me. Suit on. Face blank. The CEO mask was back.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice filled the room. “This is *Sophia Crownwille*. My wife.”

Silence. Then whispers.

I kept my head up. Chin high. Just like he told me last night.

One of the older board members cleared his throat. “Mr. *Beaumont*, we weren’t informed of a marriage.”

“You’re informed now,” Thunder replied. He pulled out a chair for me. “Sit.”

I sat. He sat beside me. Close enough that our arms brushed.

The meeting started. Numbers. Projections. Acquisitions. Words I didn’t understand. But I listened. I nodded when he nodded. I kept my hands folded on the table so no one would see them shake.

Halfway through, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Then at me. Hospital.

My heart stopped. He slid the phone to me under the table. A text from the nurse: PAPA IS AWAKE. ASKING FOR YOU.

Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them away.

Thunder leaned in. Just enough for only me to hear. “You can go.”

I shook my head. “The meeting.”

“It’s fine,” he whispered. “Go.”

But I didn’t move. Because if I left now, they’d talk. They’d say I was weak. That I didn’t belong. So I stayed.

When the meeting ended, the room emptied fast. Everyone except one woman. Late 40s. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes.

She walked to us. Smiled. Too sweet.

“Thunder, darling,” she said. “Didn’t know you were married.”

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

“And who’s this?” She looked me up and down. “A model?”

“Wife,” Thunder corrected. Flat. Final.

The woman laughed. “Of course. Well. Congratulations.”

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

I felt it. The judgment. The doubt.

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

In the elevator, no one spoke. The second the doors closed, I exhaled.

“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. “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. Thunder was behind me. Keys in hand. “I’ll drive.”

Twenty minutes later, we were at St. Luke’s. Papa looked small in the hospital bed. But he was awake. And he was smiling.

“Sophia,” he whispered.

I ran to him. Hugged him carefully. “Hey, Pa.”

He looked past me. At Thunder.

“And who’s this?”

Thunder stepped forward. No arrogance. No coldness. Just respect. “*Thunder Beaumont*, sir. Sophia’s husband.”

Papa studied him. Then nodded slowly. “Thank you. For taking care of my daughter.”

Thunder didn’t answer. He just nodded back.

We stayed for an hour. I held Papa’s hand. Thunder stood by the window. Quiet. But there.

On the way home, neither of us talked. Until we reached the penthouse.

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

I nodded. Too tired to speak.

He paused. “Sophia.”

“Yeah?”

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

And then he did something I didn’t expect. He reached out. Brushed his thumb 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.

I stood there in the hallway. Hand on my cheek. Contract or not. Something was changing.