In Velmoré, glass towers don't offer transparency—they just give people more surfaces to reflect back your mistakes.
Cater Innovations sat right in the middle of Midtown, wrapped in steel and confidence. From my twelfth-floor corner office, I could see half the city—the organized chaos of yellow cabs, street vendors, and ambition.
I had just settled into the morning grind, halfway through my second coffee, when Sarah buzzed in.
"Celine," her voice came through the intercom, calm but tight, "you've got a visitor. Blake Aldridge."
I blinked. "He's here? Now?"
"Yes, and very charming with reception, I might add."
Of course he was.
"Fine. Send him up," I sighed, setting down my mug with a thud.
Moments later, he strode into my office like he owned it. And maybe he thought he did—after all, thirty-five percent of Cater now sat in Aldridge hands. But ownership was different from belonging. And he didn't belong here.
Blake Aldridge was, frustratingly, every inch the golden heir. Sharp navy suit. Silk tie. That smug calm that made me want to either punch him or write a scathing article about his perfectly symmetrical face.
"Good morning, fiancée," he said casually, like we were exchanging brunch plans and not part of a corporate blood pact.
"Cut the theatrics," I snapped. "Why are you here?"
He walked over to the window like he had every right to take in my view, slipping his hands into his pockets with that irritating confidence.
"Can't I visit the company I partially own?" he asked.
"If you want a tour, call HR. You're interrupting my morning."
He chuckled. "Relax. I'm not here for a board meeting. Just a courtesy visit."
I narrowed my eyes. "Courtesy?"
He gave me a mild look. "My mother might be calling you soon."
That gave me pause.
"Why?"
"She wants to meet you," he said simply. "She's... enthusiastic."
I folded my arms. "Enthusiastic?"
"She's been waiting for this day since I turned twenty-five," he replied. "Marriage. Grandchildren. Family dinners. She's thrilled the engagement's finally real."
"You told her it's not a real relationship, right?"
He shrugged. "She knows what the arrangement is. Doesn't mean she won't pretend it's the royal wedding."
I groaned and leaned back against my desk. "So what, she's going to call me and gush about china patterns?"
"Possibly," he said with a slight grin. "She's warm. Traditional. She's been dreaming of this moment for years. I figured you'd prefer a heads-up before she gets your number."
"You gave her my number?"
"She's my mother. You think I could stop her?"
I gave him a hard look, but his expression was—annoyingly—genuine. Not mocking, not smug. Just... sincere. And that made it worse.
"So I'm expected to smile and charm her while pretending I want to be part of this circus?"
"No one said you have to charm her," he said. "But she will be kind to you. That's more than I can say for most in this world."
The room fell quiet.
He looked at me for a long moment. "It's not a trap, Celine. She means well. Just… be prepared."
He didn't wait for my reply. Just turned and walked out, letting the door shut gently behind him.
The silence didn't last long.
From behind the glass wall, I saw heads tilt and chairs lean. People weren't staring openly, but their eyes flicked toward my office in those subtle, practiced ways—quick glances, quiet murmurs, someone pretending to stretch while whispering to their desk mate.
The whispers floated through the thin seams of glass:
"That's the fiancé, right?"
"He's even hotter in person."
"Did you see her face? She didn't look happy…"
Sarah walked in a moment later, tablet in hand and her expression carefully neutral.
"Do I want to know what's being said?" I asked.
"Not unless you enjoy fiction," she said. "They've already come up with three different versions of how you two met. One includes a yacht."
I groaned. "Fantastic. And now his mother is about to drag me into bridal bliss."
"She really calling you?"
"She might. Apparently she's thrilled I exist."
Sarah raised her brows. "That's kind of... sweet?"
"It's intrusive," I muttered. "I'm running a company. I don't have time to play dress-up in someone's fantasy."
She tilted her head. "You going to ignore the call?"
"I can't. Optics."
Sarah gave a knowing nod. "Alright. I'll keep your Wednesday flexible. Just in case."
"Thanks."
She turned to go but paused in the doorway.
"Hey," she said softly. "Maybe it's not all bad. Some mothers-in-law are nightmares. A loving one might be a secret weapon."
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was, I didn't want warmth.
I wanted control.
And right now, I was losing it.
---
I forced myself back into focus.
Work. Strategy. Numbers. That was my armor.
I opened the quarterly revenue report and stared at the screen, determined to bury Blake's smug face beneath rows of projections and performance metrics.
But the numbers swam.
Revenue up 3.8% from last quarter. Operations slightly over budget. New marketing campaign showing promise in analytics—but all I could see was Blake's mother, enthusiastic and starry-eyed, picturing white dresses and baby showers.
I shook my head and refocused, this time pulling up the pitch deck for the Chicago acquisition. Clean slides. Strong branding. But the voice in my head wouldn't shut up.
She's thrilled you exist.
I hadn't heard that kind of joy about my existence in years.
Not since my mother.
The thought sliced through me sharper than expected, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.
She would've known what to do. She would've laughed at the situation, made some teasing comment about Aldridge men being raised on charm and arrogance, and offered advice disguised as a joke.
But she was gone. And now I was alone at the top of a glass empire—trapped in a deal I didn't want with a man I didn't trust.
And a future I didn't choose.
Still, I straightened in my seat, pushed the thoughts down, and began making notes. Bullet points. Data. Schedules.
I couldn't change what had been decided. But I could control what came next.
I was still Celine Cater.
And no Aldridge—not even one with perfect bone structure and a well-meaning mother—was going to define me.
---