CONTRACT MARRIAGE

CHAPTER TWELVE — THE PATRIARCH'S BREAKFAST

The morning light in the Blackwood penthouse felt different now. It was no longer a sterile glow; it felt like a spotlight. I woke up to the weight of a heavy arm draped across my waist and the rhythmic, steady thrum of Julian’s heart against my back.

For a heartbeat, I forgot the contract. I forgot the Morettis. I forgot the $10 million.

Then, Julian’s phone on the nightstand shrieked.

He groaned, his grip tightening for a second before he reached out to snag the device. I watched his face shift in the reflection of the window—the softened features of sleep instantly hardening into the jagged edges of the CEO.

"Grandfather," he said, his voice husky.

A pause. Julian’s jaw tightened. "We’ll be there in an hour."

He hung up and looked at me, his blue eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my skin flush. The "invisible line" in the bed was a tangled mess of silk sheets.

"Arthur wants a celebratory brunch at the estate," Julian said, sitting up and running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair. "He saw the filing. The courthouse clerk didn't keep his mouth shut for long."

"Is he angry?" I asked, sitting up and pulling the duvet to my chest.

"He’s suspicious. A midnight wedding looks like a move to bypass his vetting process. He’s going to put us under a microscope, Elena. If we trip up today, the marriage license won't be worth the paper it’s printed on."

The Blackwood Estate in Westchester was a fortress of stone and ivy, guarded by iron gates that looked like they belonged to a medieval castle. We were led to the sunroom, where Arthur Blackwood sat at the head of a long table laden with silver platters of smoked salmon, poached eggs, and blood-orange mimosas.

Genevieve was already there, seated to Arthur’s right, looking like she hadn't slept a wink—and wasn't happy about it.

"The happy couple," Arthur rasped, tapping his silver-topped cane against the floor. "Sit. Eat. Tell me why my grandson felt the need to marry in the dark like a thief in the night."

Julian pulled out my chair, his hand lingering on my shoulder in a way that felt protective. "We didn't want a spectacle, Grandfather. After the Moretti Gala, I realized I didn't want to wait another second to make Elena a Blackwood. The red tape was just getting in the way of the reality."

"The reality," Genevieve echoed, her voice dripping with venom. "Or the desperation? It’s funny, Julian. I’ve known you for a decade, and you’ve never done anything 'impulsive' in your life. Every move you make is a calculation."

She leaned toward me, her eyes narrowed. "What did he promise you for that signature, Elena? A bigger cut of the inheritance? Or did he just pay off the Moretti debt as a wedding gift?"

I felt the table go cold. Arthur’s eyes flickered toward me, sharp as a hawk’s.

I took a slow sip of my mimosa, channeled every bit of the Vance poise my mother had taught me, and set the glass down with a soft clink.

"Julian didn't have to promise me anything, Genevieve," I said, meeting her gaze steadily. "In fact, I was the one who pushed for the courthouse. When you realize you’ve found the one person who actually sees you—not your bank account, not your family name, but you—waiting for a florist to pick out roses seems like a waste of time."

I reached over and took Julian’s hand, lacing my fingers with his. I felt his pulse jump.

"As for the Morettis," I continued, looking at Arthur. "They tried to use my father’s illness as leverage. Julian didn't just pay a debt; he protected his wife. If that’s a 'calculation,' then I’d say he’s the best accountant in New York."

Arthur stared at us for a long, agonizing minute. Then, he let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh.

"She has claws, Julian. I like that." He turned to Genevieve, his expression cooling. "Enough, Genevieve. They are married. The line of succession is secure. Now, let’s discuss the merger."

The brunch continued, but I could feel Genevieve’s eyes on me the entire time. She wasn't beaten; she was just recalibrating.

As we walked back to the car afterward, Julian stopped me by the fountain, out of earshot of the house. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. Inside was a band of emeralds that matched the necklace.

"You handled him well," he said, his voice low. He slid the ring onto my finger, right next to the massive diamond. "But Genevieve isn't going to stop. She’s going to go after your father next. She knows he’s our weakest link."

"What do we do?"

Julian looked back at the imposing stone mansion, then back at me. "We move him. To a private facility I control. Today. If we're going to win this war, Elena, we have to stop playing defense."

He leaned in, kissing my forehead. For the first time, it didn't feel like he was doing it for an audience.