The CEO’s Contractual Heart

Chapter 9: The Solarium Ultimatum

The solarium at the back of the Vance estate was a breathtaking expanse of Victorian glass, flooded with a wash of bright morning sunlight and choked with lush, exotic ferns and flowering orchids. At the center of the mosaic-tiled floor sat a wrought-iron breakfast table laden with silver service, fresh pastries, and steaming coffee.

Alistair Vance sat at the head of the table, his steel-gray eyes already tracking their entrance before they even cleared the arched doorway.

"Late," Alistair noted, his deep voice carrying an effortless weight. "In business, Mason, tardiness is a sign of poor control. I expect better from a man preparing to take over the entire eastern seaboard portfolio—and a man choosing a bride."

Mason didn't flinch. He pulled out a wrought-iron chair for Chloe with smooth, chivalrous precision before taking his own seat beside her. "Good morning, Grandfather. Chloe and I were simply aligning our schedules. A successful partnership requires communication."

"Communication," Alistair repeated, a sharp, knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. He picked up his porcelain teacup. "Good. Because we need to talk about the wedding date. The media is already speculating, and the board wants a winter gala to cement the Vance Global merger with the Hayes creative footprint."

Chloe’s hand paused over her coffee cup. A winter gala? That meant months of public appearances, endless dinners under the gaze of ruthless relatives, and living under the same roof as Mason Vance.

Before she could object or stumble over a diplomatic excuse, Mason’s hand slid under the table, his warm fingers brushing against her knee, applying a firm, grounding pressure that commanded her silence.

"A winter gala sounds premature," Mason replied, his tone ice-cold and utterly unyielding. "We want a private ceremony first. Just us, followed by a controlled reception. We dictate the terms, Grandfather, not the tabloids."

Alistair stared at his grandson for a long, tense moment, the air in the solarium growing thick enough to choke on. Then, the patriarch let out a sharp bark of approval.

"Stubborn," Alistair muttered, taking a sip of his tea. "Just like your father. Very well. You have three months to make it official, or the board reviews the funding allocation for Miss Hayes's studio."

Chloe’s breath caught in her throat. Three months. The stakes had just been raised, and the clock was officially ticking.