Semua Bab Fallon’s Reid: An Arranged Contract: Bab 31 - Bab 40

~Reid~The boardroom at Callahan Enterprises was silent, the kind of silence that carried weight—the calm before a high-stakes battle.I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled, surveying the executives seated around the long mahogany table. The Prescott merger had been months in the making, and now, we were at the point where every decision counted.And I didn’t lose.Not in business.Not in anything.I intended to keep it that way.Mark Kingston, my CFO, cleared his throat. “We’ve run another financial analysis. The Prescott company is stabilizing, but the long-term projections are still… questionable.”I arched a brow. “Define ‘questionable.’”Kingston hesitated. “The brand recognition is strong, and their market share is decent. But if we don’t make some aggressive restructuring moves, we’ll be inheriting dead weight.”Dead weight.I exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against the table.This was what I had anticipated—Daniel Prescott had built an empire, but he had let it run on

~Fallon~I wasn’t ready for my mom’s call.Not after the fight with Reid. Not when I was still replaying every sharp word, every cold look, over and over in my head, like a film on loop I couldn’t turn off. His voice, low and cutting. My own, rising in frustration. The sting of everything we’d said—and worse, the things we hadn’t.But my phone rang anyway—her name flashing across the screen like a warning.I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the decline button. I could let it go to voicemail. I could call her back later, when I wasn’t so raw. But I knew if I didn’t answer, she’d just keep calling—and worrying.So I sighed, bracing myself before I finally picked up.“Hi, Mamá.”“Mi vida,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. But there was an edge to it—one I recognized too well. Concern, wrapped in silk. “How are you? You sound tired.”“I’m fine,” I lied, curling my legs beneath me on the couch. “Just busy.”“Busy being married to a billionaire?” she teased. “It must be so exhaust

~Fallon~Victoria’s smile was the kind designed to make women uncomfortable. Sharp. Knowing. The kind that said she thought she knew something I didn’t.And I hated it.I hated the way it made my skin prickle, hated the smug tilt of her head and the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. But most of all, I hated the fact that she was here.Because where Victoria went, trouble always followed. I wondered why she couldn’t stay away from us.“Reid,” she purred, ignoring me entirely. “It’s been quite a while.”Her voice was smooth as silk, but there was an edge beneath it — the kind of edge that cut if you weren’t careful.“Not long enough,” I muttered under my breath.Reid’s hand on my waist tightened—a subtle warning—and my pulse fluttered at the contact. Even through the haze of irritation, I was hyperaware of the way his fingers curved around me, warm and steady. Grounding.“Victoria,” he said coolly, his face impassive. “I’m really surprised to see you here.”She batted her lashes, the p

~Reid~I should’ve known better than to agree to brunch.But my mother had called, and my father had insisted, and I’d caved—because years of experience had taught me that saying no to Evelyn Callahan only delayed the inevitable. And so here I was, seated at a too-fancy table in one of their favorite private clubs, already regretting every life choice that had led me here.The air smelled like fresh pastries and subtle wealth. Soft piano music played in the background. Everything was pristine, polished, and far too bright for a Sunday morning after the week I’d had.My mother, Evelyn Callahan, was practically glowing. “Oh, darling, married life suits you,” she said, beaming as she reached across the table to straighten my tie.I resisted the urge to sigh. “Good to know.”“And Fallon—oh, she’s just thriving,” my mom continued, her eyes sparkling. “That kiss at the gala—my heart!”My father, Charles, cleared his throat, looking like he very much wanted to be anywhere else. “Evelyn—”“Oh

~Fallon~The house felt too big without him.Which was ridiculous.Reid and I barely spent time together when he was home, moving around each other like polite strangers. Separate rooms, separate lives. We’d mastered the art of coexistence — the kind where you shared space but not warmth. The kind where silence was easier than words.But now that he was gone —I felt the absence everywhere.It was in the cool, empty side of the bed in his bedroom that hadn’t been touched in days. In the faint, lingering scent of his cologne on the jacket he’d left draped over the chair. In the echo of my own footsteps on the marble floors, where his used to fall in rhythm beside mine even when we were fighting — as usual.The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was deafening.I told myself not to care. But that was a lie.Work Doesn’t HelpI threw myself into work, desperate for distraction.I set up my camera in the sun-drenched bathroom, arranging products in perfect symmetry on the counter. The lighting wa