Fallon’s Reid: An Arranged Contract のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 151 - チャプター 160

~Fallon~The alarm pierced through the room at exactly 6:30 a.m., merciless and cruel, like it knew I was no longer waking up in a beachfront villa.Gone were the lazy mornings, Reid’s hand resting low on my waist, sunlight warming our tangled sheets, the sound of waves lulling us into another hour of blissful stillness. No calls. No schedules. Just skin, laughter, and the quiet hum of something that didn’t feel so fake anymore.Now I was staring at a color-coded Google calendar that looked like a digital scream.Emails. Campaigns. Brand deadlines. Video edits. Live launches.I pulled on my silk robe and padded into the kitchen, where the sleek, quiet coldness of our L.A. mansion greeted me. The fridge glowed as I opened it and grabbed the one thing I didn’t want — green juice. I stared at it. Then drank it anyway.Across the house, I heard Reid’s voice cut through the early quiet — low, commanding, all clipped business.I paused in the kitchen doorway, eyes on the marble, ears tuned

~Fallon~I knew he wasn’t coming the moment I saw his name light up my phone.Not a call.Just a message.Reid: Something’s come up. I can’t make the dinner tonight. I’m sorry.I stared at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves if I looked long enough.They didn’t.He was sorry. Again.But apologies start to lose their sharpness when you hear them too often — like a blade dulled from overuse.And this one?This one felt particularly blunt.I didn’t text back.Not because I didn’t want to.Because I didn’t trust what I might say.⸻The Prescott estate was already in full swing by the time I arrived — valet cars lined the long driveway, warm golden light pouring from the tall glass windows, and the unmistakable hum of too many egos in one space bouncing off polished marble floors.It was the usual crowd: family, politicians, legacy families, art collectors who didn’t know a thing about art. And tonight, the guest list was bloated with people I’d never met but was expected

~Reid~I stood in the middle of the living room long after she was gone.The silence pressed in like a vice, slow and deliberate, hollowing out everything she left behind. The weight of her words still echoed in the walls, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire.I didn’t move.Didn’t chase her.Didn’t say what I should’ve said.Because the second I opened my mouth, I knew I’d say too much.And once those words were out, there’d be no turning back.I sat down on the couch with a heaviness that felt unfamiliar — not tiredness, not even guilt, really. It was something deeper. Something dangerously close to grief. My elbows rested on my knees, fingers laced tight like if I gripped hard enough, I could hold the pieces of myself together.The scent of her was everywhere — on the cushions, on my skin, in the spaces she’d left behind.That damn perfume.Vanilla and spice and something clean I could never name.Something I only ever associated with her.The house didn’t feel like a house

~Fallon~I hadn’t seen my mom in weeks.Not since the anniversary trip. Not since the tabloids started dissecting every look, every smile, every inch of body language between Reid and me like it was national intel. Not since the last time I left her house with the familiar taste of guilt and inadequacy sitting heavy on my tongue.I told myself I’d been too busy. I let unread messages pile up. I ignored her brunch invitations, sidestepped the pointed “thinking of you” texts that always came with a side of scrutiny.But guilt always had good aim. And I was out of excuses.Now, standing in front of the Prescott townhouse in four-inch heels and an oversized blazer meant to hide the exhaustion in my bones, I inhaled once and knocked twice.The door opened before the second knock landed.“You’re late,” my mom said, tone warm but crisp. Like cashmere with a knife hidden inside it.“Traffic,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek before stepping inside.“You could have called.”“I did. I t

~Reid~The boardroom was silent, except for the rhythmic tap of my pen against the table.I wasn’t even aware I was doing it until I noticed three of the execs glance toward my hand. I stopped, flexed my fingers, then clasped them together. Still. Composed.I could fake control in my sleep.But today?Today, it was unraveling by the minute.I was surrounded by the top minds in my company. All polished, all focused, all staring at charts and projections like the future was something you could plan for with perfect accuracy. Everyone was saying all the right things—Q3 trends, expansion models, revenue forecasts.And I wasn’t hearing any of it.My eyes were on the numbers. My body in the room.But my mind?It was back in the living room, where Fallon stood in her robe, arms folded like she was bracing for a storm—and delivering one instead.You didn’t even text back.Make time.She’d said it so quietly. Like she wasn’t just tired—she was done.And I hadn’t said a goddamn thing in respons