Contracted To My Enemy

*Aleta Pov* I push the boardroom doors open. Twelve faces turn towards me. My father sits at the head of the table, hands folded. Beside him, a man I don't recognize — mid-twenties, jaw tight, suit that doesn't fit him right. A folder sits open in front of him. The Mendoza Holdings crest on the cover. "Aleta." My father doesn't stand. "You're early. Sit down." "Who is this?" "This is David." He says it flat, no hesitation. "My son." The room goes quiet. "Your son." I look at him. "I'm your daughter." "You are. David is my son. My only son. This company needs a son to carry it forward." David finally looks at me. "I didn't ask for this." "No one asked you," my father says, not even glancing at him. "Sit down, David." He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, then closes it and looks back at the folder. "I've been on this board for six years," I say. "I restructured the resort division. I brought in forty percent of last year's revenue. Alone." "You did it well." He says it like a formality. "But blood is blood. The company was always going to a son." "There was no son. Not until — what — twenty-six years ago, behind my mother's back?" Murmurs move around the table. Chairs shift. My father doesn't deny it. He never denies anything. "This isn't a discussion," he says. "The transfer is filed. David is announced CEO-designate by end of quarter." I dig my nails into my palms. "And me?" "You'll be taken care of. I've arranged a marriage. Alonso Reyes." I laugh, short and sharp. "He's sixty-one. He's buried two wives. He brings a different woman to the club every week." "He's a respected man. The marriage secures a shipping alliance the company needs now that we're taking risk with David." "So I'm the alliance." My voice drops. "The price you pay to make your illegitimate son look credible." "Watch your tone." "Watch yours." The room freezes. David's head snaps up. "You disinherit me in front of twelve strangers. Hand my company to a man I met thirty seconds ago. Now you want to hand me over too." "That's exactly what you are." His voice goes flat. "A Mendoza. Every Mendoza serves this company however they're useful. This is how you're useful now." My throat burns. I refuse to let them see it. "No," I say. "This isn't a request, Aleta." "No." I straighten. "I built half of what's in that folder. I'm not signing myself over to Alonso Reyes like a shipping contract. And I'm not congratulating you on your son." I turn for the door. There was only one man my father could never buy, never intimidate, never fold into a boardroom handshake. I didn't come here planning to use that. I do now. "Walk out of this room and you walk out with nothing," my father says. "No settlement. No name." I stop, hand on the door, but don't turn around. "I've had nothing from you for a long time." I say it quiet. "I just didn't notice until today." I walk out. The doors slam behind me. I don't go home. I drive straight to Ortez Tower. I've never spoken to Roman Ortez. I know what my father says about him — four years spent buying up his suppliers, poaching his executives, undercutting his bids. A parasite, my father calls him. A man he's afraid of, my father also says, when he thinks no one's listening. If there's one man in this city who wants Eduardo Mendoza ruined as badly as I do right now, it's him. I park outside the building and walk straight to the front desk. The guard barely looks up. "Can I help you?" "I need to see Roman Ortez." "Do you have an appointment?" "No." "Then I can't let you up." He says it flatly, already looking past me to the next person in line. "Mr. Ortez doesn't take walk-ins. You can leave a card." "Tell him Aleta Mendoza is downstairs." I don't move. "Tell him I have information about Eduardo Mendoza he's spent four years trying to get." "Ma'am, I really can't—" "Then get someone who can make that call, because I'm not leaving a card." He hesitates, weighing whether I'm serious enough to be a problem either way. Finally he picks up the phone, turns halfway from me, and speaks low. I catch fragments — *Mendoza* — *says she has something* — *no, she won't leave.* He listens for a long moment, then hangs up. "Five minutes," he says. "Mr. Ortez said if you're wasting his time, security will walk you out personally." "That's fair." "Top floor. Someone will meet you at the elevator." The elevator doors open before I reach them. A woman in a dark suit stands waiting, tablet in hand. "Ms. Mendoza. This way." She taps a code into the panel and the doors close. "Does he know why I'm here?" I ask. "He knows your name got you five minutes," she says. "What you do with them is up to you." The doors open onto the top floor. Glass walls on every side. A man stands at the window, phone to his ear, finishing a call I can't hear the end of. He hangs up. Turns around. "Ms. Mendoza." Roman Ortez doesn't move from the window, doesn't offer a hand. "You have five minutes. I'd start talking." "My father disinherited me an hour ago. He handed my company to a son I didn't know existed and told me I'm marrying Alonso Reyes to secure a shipping deal." "That's an interesting afternoon. It isn't information." "I have six years of knowing exactly how his company actually runs. Every account he thinks is buried. Every deal that isn't what it looks like on paper. That's the information." "Anyone can claim that." He checks his watch. "Four minutes." "Then verify it in an hour and call me a liar if I'm wrong. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to decide if the risk is worth what I'm offering." Something shifts in his face. not warmth, more like recalculation. He crosses his arms. "And what do you want for it?" "A marriage," I say. "To you. On paper. In exchange, you get everything I know, and my father loses the one thing he's never had to fight for — control over what happens to me." "You want to destroy your own family." "They stopped being my family the moment they decided I was worth less than a stranger's son." He studies me for a long moment. "You understand a deal like that doesn't end the moment you feel like walking away." "I'm not asking for an easy way out." I hold his eyes. "I'm asking for a weapon." The corner of his mouth moves — not a smile, not quite. "Sit down, Ms. Mendoza," he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "Let's talk terms."