Chapter 7: The Pressure Gage

 

POV: Dr. Clara Bennett

My skin prickled where Tristan’s breath had touched it long after he stepped out of the administrative suite. He left as quietly as he had arrived, leaving Chief Miller starry-eyed over a signed three-million-dollar check and me standing in the center of the room with a pulse that refused to slow down.

I spent the rest of my shift moving like a machine, trying to drown out the memory of his gray eyes. But every time I walked past the nurses' station, those three crates of white orchids served as a silent, elegant reminder: Tristan Sterling is watching.

By seven in the evening, I stepped out of the hospital entrance into a driving sleet.

A sleek black town car was idling at the curb. The rear door swung open, and Harrison stepped out into the freezing slush, holding a massive golf umbrella over his head. His tailored coat was pristine, but the shadows under his eyes were dark and bruised.

"Get in, Clara," he said, his tone clipped, missing its usual warm polish. "It's freezing."

I climbed into the heated leather interior and pulled off my wet gloves. "Harrison, what's wrong? You look exhausted."

He didn't answer right away. He tapped his phone screen, sending a quick text before turning to look at me. His jaw was set so tight I could hear his teeth grinding.

"Tristan froze three of our primary subsidiary accounts this afternoon," Harrison said, his voice dripping with venom. "He used an old clause in my grandfather's trust to claim governance over Sterling Logistics' holdings. The board is panicking."

"I thought you said your legal team had it covered," I said carefully, watching his reactions.

"They did, until he showed up with a signed affidavit from the board of directors in London," Harrison snapped. He caught himself, took a sharp breath, and reached over to take my hand. His fingers squeezed mine just a little too hard. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take this out on you. But we need to lock this down, Clara."

"Lock what down?"

Harrison leaned closer, his eyes intense and demanding. "The press is speculating. They think Tristan’s return is going to fracture the family, ruin our stocks, and break up our engagement. We need to control the narrative."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek silver pen along with a printed document.

"I spoke with the venue at the Drake," Harrison said rapidly. "We are moving the wedding up. Two weeks from Saturday. We announce it tomorrow morning."

A cold weight dropped straight into my stomach. "Two weeks? Harrison, that's impossible. We haven't even set a guest list, my work schedule is packed, and…"

"I have already hired three event planners to handle the details," he interrupted smoothly, placing the pen firmly in my hand. "All I need is your signature on the press release form. It shows unity. It tells the city, and Tristan, that he cannot shake us."

I looked down at the pen in my hand. The heavy diamond on my ring finger reflected the dull yellow streetlights passing outside the tinted window.

He collects pretty things that make him look respectable. Tristan’s warning rang through my mind like an alarm bell.

Harrison wasn't asking me to marry him early because he couldn't wait to start a life with me. He was rushing me to the altar to use me as a shield against his cousin.

"Clara?" Harrison urged, his voice dropping into a hard, impatient edge. "Sign it."

"No," I said quietly.

Harrison blinked, stunned. "What?"

"No," I repeated, pulling my hand back and setting the pen on the console between us. "I am not going to be rushed into a wedding just to fix a corporate PR crisis, Harrison. My life isn't a press strategy."

A dark, unfamiliar look flashed across Harrison's face, a momentary slip of his polished mask that exposed something cold, sharp, and possessive underneath.

"I am trying to protect our future, Clara," he whispered, his eyes narrowing. "Don't turn on me now. Not when everything I've built is on the line."

"I am not turning on you," I said, my heart beating hard against my ribs as I grabbed my bag. "I just need time to breathe. Stop the car."

"Clara, we are five blocks from your apartment…"

"Pull over, Harrison," I commanded, my voice flat and unyielding.

He stared at me for a long, tense second before gesturing to his driver. The town car pulled smoothly to the curb near an alleyway off Grand Avenue.

Without waiting for his driver, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the freezing sleet, pulling my coat tight around myself.

"Clara!" Harrison called after me from the open door. "We'll talk about this tomorrow!"

I didn't answer. I turned my collar up against the wind and hurried down the sidewalk toward the warm lights of my apartment building. My mind was a whirlwind of noise, fear, and confusion.

As I turned the corner into the shadowed entryway of my building, a tall silhouette detached itself from the brick wall, stepping smoothly out of the gloom.

I gasped, my hand jumping to my throat.

Tristan stood there in the falling sleet, his dark coat dusted with white, his stormy gray eyes fixed on my face with terrifying clarity.

"He pushed you too far tonight, didn't he?" Tristan asked softly, his low voice cutting right through the howling winter wind.