Contracted To My Enemy

The First Strike

*Aleta Pov*

My phone won't stop buzzing. Eleven missed calls before I even open my eyes. Four from my grandmother. Three from Vanessa. The rest, numbers I don't know. I check the headline waiting on my screen.

**MENDOZA HEIRESS TO WED RIVAL BILLIONAIRE ROMAN ORTEZ**

A photo's already attached, old gala footage cropped to suggest something that never happened. My stomach turns once, then settles. This is what I wanted. I didn't expect it to move this fast.

The phone rings again. Grandmother.

I answer. "Abuela."

"Tell me this isn't true." Her voice shakes. "Tell me you haven't done something insane."

"It's true."

"Roman Ortez. The man who's spent four years trying to bury this family."

"The man about to succeed," I say. "Since Papa handed the company to a son none of us knew existed and offered me to Alonso Reyes like a shipping contract."

"That is not the same thing."

"Isn't it? You all decided what happens to me without asking. Now I've decided too."

"Your father is furious. He says you've betrayed this family."

"I didn't betray anything. I stopped protecting people who were never protecting me."

"Please. Come to the house. Talk to him."

"I'm not coming to the house."

"Aleta—"

I hang up.

Vanessa calls next. I let it ring out, then listen to the voicemail.

*"Are you insane? Roman Ortez, Aleta. Call me back."*

I delete it.

A knock hits my door forty minutes later. I open it already knowing. My father shoves past me before I say a word, tie crooked, like he left the house too fast to fix it.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Come in," I say to the empty doorway, and close it behind him.

"Do you understand what you've done? You've handed that man a direct line into this family."

"I imagine he'll do exactly what you did to me yesterday. Take everything he can and leave the rest to rot."

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm not laughing."

He paces, fast, hands cutting the air. "You will end this. Today. I don't care what you signed—"

"I'm not ending anything."

"You will—"

"I signed a legal contract. Two years. You taught me how contracts work. I learned from the best."

His jaw locks. For a second I think he'll shout loud enough for the neighbors. Instead he goes still, and that's worse.

"You have no idea what that man is capable of," he says. "You think this is revenge. It isn't. You're a tool to him. The only difference is I would never let anything happen to you."

"You disinherited me in front of twelve people and tried to marry me to a man who buries wives. Forgive me if that protection doesn't mean much."

Something flickers in his face. Not guilt. Close enough to almost believe it.

"David didn't ask for this," he says. "He's not the villain. I am. But marrying Roman Ortez doesn't fix what I did. It makes it worse. For both of us."

"It's not supposed to fix anything. It's supposed to cost you something."

He straightens his crooked tie without noticing, walks to the door, stops with his hand on the frame.

"You should know," he says, not turning around, "Alonso Reyes doesn't take rejection well. He'd already told his board this marriage was settled. You've embarrassed him publicly. Men like that don't forget."

"Warning or threat?"

"A fact." He leaves.

I lock the door and stand there until my hands stop shaking. Almost immediately, my phone buzzes. A message from Roman.

*Roman: Press conference at noon. My building. You need to be there.*

*Aleta: Together?*

*Roman: Together. First public appearance. It needs to look real.*

*Aleta: Look real, or be real?*

A pause.

*Roman: Wear something that photographs well. Car at eleven-thirty.*

He doesn't answer the question. I put the phone down and go get dressed.

---

The car's already waiting. Twenty minutes later I'm walking into Ortez Tower for the second time in two days, except now there's a wall of cameras outside, and a woman in a dark suit meets me at the door.

"He's waiting upstairs," she says. "We go over the statement first. No surprises."

Roman's at the window again, but this time he turns as soon as the doors open.

"You're late."

"I'm early."

"Two minutes late by my clock." A flicker, not quite a smile. "Doesn't matter. Here's how this goes. Confirm the engagement. Nothing about your father, nothing about the company, nothing about how we met. If a reporter pushes, I answer. You smile and let me."

"I don't need protecting from reporters."

"I'm not protecting you. I'm protecting the story. Right now that matters more than your pride."

I bite back the reply and nod instead. He's right, even if I hate hearing it.

He steps closer. "Whatever they ask down there, we don't break character. The second either of us looks uncertain, they'll smell blood."

"I know how to hold composure."

"Good." His eyes move over my face, checking for cracks before he decides to trust the answer. "Then let's make your father read about this twice."

He offers his arm at the elevator — not courtesy, I can tell by how deliberate it is. I take it anyway.

The doors close. For a few seconds it's just us and the sound of cameras waiting below like something alive.

"Ready?" he asks, eyes on the doors.

"Are you?"

The corner of his mouth moves. "I've been ready for four years."

The doors open. Noise hits us at once — shouted questions, shutters, my father's name and his tangled together over and over. Roman doesn't flinch. Neither do I. We walk out together.

The questions come fast, overlapping, a wall of voices I can't separate. "Ms. Mendoza, is it true your father disinherited you before this engagement?"

"Mr. Ortez, four years of hostility toward Mendoza Holdings — should we believe this is real?"

"Aleta, does Alonso Reyes know he's been replaced?"

Roman steps half in front of me, not enough to hide me, just enough to take the first hit.

"We're not here to discuss Eduardo Mendoza's business decisions," he says, voice even, carrying over the noise without rising. "We're here because Aleta and I are engaged. That's the story."

"Is it true this happened within twenty-four hours of the disinheritance?"

"Timing isn't a crime," Roman says. "Sometimes clarity happens fast."

A reporter shoves closer, phone raised. "Aleta, some are calling this revenge against your father. Comment?"

I feel every camera shift toward me at once. Roman's hand finds the small of my back, steady, not gripping.

"My father made his choice about this family's future yesterday," I say, keeping my voice level. "I made mine today. I don't owe anyone an explanation for choosing my own life."

It lands harder than I mean it to. A ripple moves through the crowd, more shutters firing.

"Mr. Ortez," someone calls, "your mother hasn't commented publicly. Does she support this marriage?"

"My mother supports what's good for this family," Roman says, smooth, immediate. "As I do."

Not exactly a yes. I catch it, and from the flicker in his eyes, he knows I caught it.

"Last question," the woman from upstairs calls out, cutting through before another reporter can push in.

A man near the back raises his hand. "Any comment on rumors that Alonso Reyes is considering legal action over a broken understanding with your family?"

My stomach drops, but I don't let it show.

"There was no formal agreement with Mr. Reyes," Roman says, before I can even open my mouth. "Nothing for anyone to break."

That's not entirely true. I know it. He knows I know it. He says it anyway, flat and certain enough that no one in the room questions it.

"Thank you," the woman calls, already moving to end it. "That's all for today."

Roman turns us both toward the doors before the shouting can start again, hand still steady at my back.

"You didn't correct me," he says quietly, once we're clear of the worst of the noise. "About Reyes."

"You didn't give me the chance."

"I didn't need to." He glances down at me, something unreadable in it. "You'd have said the same thing."

He's right, and that unsettles me more than the reporters did.