The contract was on the table between them.
Unopened.
Again.
It had been a week since the shareholder report.
A week since the board quietly suggested Rowan consider "risk management" regarding his personal life.
A week since Darven's company positioned itself close enough to observe but not strike.
The penthouse felt larger lately.
Distance does that.
Leila stood near the window, city lights washing her in silver.
Rowan watched her from across the room.
"Laurent Holdings has requested a strategic dinner," he said evenly. "Joint venture discussion."
She did not turn.
"Decline it."
"I can't."
That made her look at him.
"Or you won't?"
Silence.
Measured.
"I don't retreat from threats," Rowan replied.
"And I don't want to be the battlefield."
That landed.
Harder than anything Darven had done.
He stepped closer.
"You're not leverage."
"Then stop calculating me."
The words were soft.
Not angry.
That made them more dangerous.
---
Earlier that day, Darven had made his final move.
Not romantic.
Not emotional.
Strategic.
He offered Leila something Rowan never had:
Equity.
Her name on a subsidiary under Laurent Holdings.
Real authority.
No attachment clause.
No marriage.
No protection.
"You don't need to be anyone's strategic advantage," Darven had told her calmly. "You can build your own."
It wasn't seduction.
It was empowerment.
And that was the most destabilizing move of all.
---
Rowan picked up the contract at last.
"You've read this fully?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Every clause?"
"Yes."
"Even the amendment?"
Her brows pulled slightly. "There was no amendment."
A pause.
A subtle shift.
Rowan opened the document.
Turned to the final page.
Then handed it to her.
"There is."
Her pulse slowed instead of racing.
She scanned.
Page after page.
Until—
Clause 17.
Addendum.
Inserted three months ago.
Her breath stilled.
"If at any point within the contractual term either party develops genuine emotional attachment, the contract becomes void unless both parties voluntarily choose renewal under revised mutual terms."
She looked up slowly.
"You changed this."
"Yes."
"When?"
"After your migraine."
The night he stayed.
The night he didn't leave.
Her throat tightened — not from pain.
From understanding.
"You planned for exit," she said quietly.
"No."
He held her gaze.
"I planned for choice."
Silence expanded.
She looked back down at the clause.
Her name was signed beneath the amendment.
Her signature.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Authentic.
She froze.
"I didn't sign this."
Rowan's expression did not change.
"You did."
"No, I—"
Memory flickered.
Three months ago.
A stack of documents he had asked her to review before a board submission.
She had skimmed.
Trusted.
Signed.
Her stomach dropped.
"You slipped it in."
"Yes."
The word was calm.
Not defensive.
"Why?"
"Because I knew I would reach a point where I would not trust myself to let you go if you chose to leave."
The confession was not loud.
It was devastating.
He continued.
"If the attachment is one-sided, the contract dissolves automatically. No financial penalties. No reputational exposure. Complete protection for the non-attached party."
Her mind processed slowly.
"If I loved you… I could walk away freely."
"Yes."
"And if you loved me?"
"The same."
The room felt different now.
Not like a battleground.
Like a revelation.
"You built an escape route," she whispered.
"I built accountability."
His voice lowered.
"I do not trap what I care about."
There it was.
Not I love you.
Not yet.
But closer than anything else.
---
She placed the contract back on the table.
Steady.
"You think Darven is the threat," she said softly.
"He is."
"No."
She stepped closer.
"You are."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Explain."
"You're afraid I'll choose independence over you."
A beat.
"And you're right."
The honesty was surgical.
"But here's the part you didn't calculate."
She reached into her bag.
Removed a thin folder.
Placed it beside the contract.
He opened it.
His expression shifted for the first time.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Ashbourne Capital internal restructuring documents.
Filed.
Approved.
Signed.
By majority board vote.
Effective immediately.
He looked up slowly.
"You've been studying the board."
"For months."
"You aligned shareholders."
"Yes."
"For what?"
She held his gaze.
"To remove the clause that allows marital instability to affect executive leadership."
Silence.
Absolute.
"You made the contract irrelevant," he said quietly.
"Yes."
No tremor.
No hesitation.
"If we end, your company stands."
"And Laurent Holdings?"
She smiled faintly.
"I declined Darven's offer."
Rowan searched her face for strategy.
Found none.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want power handed to me by a man trying to prove he's evolved."
A pause.
"And I don't want security granted by a man afraid to admit he cares."
The air thinned.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She stepped closer until there was no space left between them
"No contract."
Her voice was steady.
"No leverage."
No fear.
"Just choice."
He studied her like he had the first night he proposed the arrangement.
Only now there was no calculation left.
Only risk.
"And if I choose you?" he asked quietly.
"Then you choose me without ink."
A long silence.
He reached for the contract.
Held it.
Looked at her once more.
Then—
He tore it in half.
Not dramatically.
Not angrily.
Deliberately.
The sound was soft.
But final.
The pieces fell to the table between them.
No clause.
No amendment.
No safety net.
Just two people who had built armor and were now standing without it.
"You are no longer bound by ink," he said.
Her breath was steady.
"I never was."
A beat.
Then, softly—
"I stayed."
That was the twist.
She was never trapped.
She chose him.
Even after knowing she could walk away without consequence.
Even after building independence powerful enough to stand alone.
Rowan exhaled slowly — like a man who had finally stepped into uncertainty without strategy.
"For the record," he said quietly, "I do not lose."
She tilted her head slightly.
"You already did."
"How?"
"You fell first."
A rare, unguarded smile touched his mouth.
"And you?"
She stepped closer.
Close enough
"I stayed."
Outside, the city continued — unaware that no deal had been signed tonight.
No merger announced.
No rival defeated.
But something far more dangerous had occurred.
Two people who once hid behind contracts had chosen each other without one.
And in the end—
That was the only clause that mattered.
---