Page 97 of Their Arrangement

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Barron stared at me for three long seconds.

Then said, flatly:

“Noted.”

That was it.

No thank you. No praise.

But I felt Royal’s knee shift under the table. His leg brushed mine.

“Sharp little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, just for me. “No wonder they keep dressing you up.”

I held my tongue.

But something in me twisted.

Something tightened.

And it wasn’t fear.

The meeting ended like all their meetings did—with silence and steel.

No “thank you.”

No acknowledgment that I’d contributed anything of value.

The brothers stood, gathering papers, checking phones, snapping suit jackets back into place like armor.

I stayed seated.

Because I hadn’t been dismissed.

And because I didn’t trust my legs to hold.

Royal left first. He winked at me on his way out, then leaned in close enough to brush my ear with his breath.

“Try not to drip on the chair, sweetheart.”

I didn’t look at him.

Didn’t flinch.

But the burn that followed spread like wildfire down my spine.

Wolfe didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me again.

Loyal nodded once. His only tell was the way he lingered by the door for a second longer than he had to.

Then it was just me.

And Barron.

He closed the door softly behind his brothers.

The sound echoed in the conference room like a gunshot.

I sat still. Back straight. Hands folded in my lap. Trying not to breathe too loudly. Trying not to hope.

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