The boardroom was a polished expanse of luxury—incredible glass walls, a twelve-seat oakwood table that gleamed under the gold-trimmed chandeliers, and silence so thick it echoed with power.
Arnold stepped inside, in a dark suit, his expression blank as a fresh contract page. He was greeted by the strong perfume of wealth and old control.
Charles Connor sat at the head of the table, flanked by his right-hand man and two assistants. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his gaze sharp enough to cleave through reputation.
Seated across from him were Ariel Sawyer and her parents—Lydia and Harrison Sawyer—both dripping in designer brands and entitlement. Security guards lingered discreetly by the glass doors.
"Good. You're here," Charles said without looking up from a document.
Arnold didn't respond. He simply took the vacant seat beside Charles and folded his hands in front of him.
The meeting began with business. Quarterly reports, partnership negotiations, and some confidential acquisitions were reviewed.
For over an hour, Arnold engaged precisely like the professional he was.
Then the mood shifted.
Charles tossed the last folder aside and leaned back in his chair. "Now," he said, voice dropping a notch. "Let's talk about the scandal."
Arnold stiffened slightly.
"You've made headlines, son. Again. A public scene involving a woman who is neither your fiancée nor of any social relevance. Hospital photos. Paparazzi footage. You name it."
"It was an accident," Arnold replied calmly. "I didn't plan any of that. I gave a statement to the press."
Charles scoffed. "You think a statement undoes the damage? The board is nervous. Investors don't like surprises. Especially ones with coffee shop girls and emergency room drama."
"We're not here to discuss peasant gossip," Lydia Sawyer cut in sharply. "We're here to ensure Ariel doesn't keep getting embarrassed."
Ariel shifted in her seat, then looked at Arnold with an overly sweet smile. "It's just that... we don't get to spend much time together. You're always working, or... occupied."
Arnold glanced at her briefly. "Business has been demanding."
Harrison leaned forward. "Perhaps it's time you made your personal life a priority. Ariel has been patient long enough."
A weighty silence fell in the room. Then Charles broke it with the tone of a verdict.
"You'll be thirty in two years, Arnold. This dance around commitment needs to end. We've aligned our families, our businesses—"
"We're not aligned," Arnold interrupted coolly. "We're entangled. There's a difference."
Ariel flushed slightly. Her lip was twitching in irritation masked as demureness.
"Don't be childish," Charles snapped. "You will get closer to Ariel. You will be seen with her. You will undo this mess with the journalist and restore our image. That's not a request."
Arnold leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "And if I don't?"
Everyone at the table tensed.
"Then you may find yourself without a company to run," Charles said in a soft but dangerous voice.
Ariel's fingers slid closer to Arnold's on the table, but he pulled his hand away before she could touch him.
"We're not children," Arnold said. "Don't threaten me with toys."
"You'll do what needs to be done," Lydia insisted, standing up. "Ariel is willing. She's everything you need to keep your position."
Arnold stood too, adjusting his cuffs slowly. "She may be everything you think I need. Doesn't mean she's what I want."
Ariel's eyes burned as she looked at him, voice trembling with a practiced ache. "Arnold... I've always supported you. I care about you. All I'm asking is for a chance."
"You had your chance, Ariel. And I had the freedom to choose."
Charles slammed his hand down. "You don't have the freedom anymore. You've dragged this family's name through the mud. Fix it."
Arnold's phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. He took a slow breath, then met his father's glare with a calm defiance.
"I'll think about it."
"You'll act," Charles corrected.
As the final handshake echoed, the heavy doors shut with a soft thud, leaving just Arnold and Ariel in the boardroom.
Arnold walked to the glass wall, staring out like he could see his future stitched between the buildings.
"You didn't say much in there," Ariel said.
Arnold didn't turn. "Didn't have much to say."
She took a few steps closer, her soft heel clicking against the marble floor.
"You could've at least agreed to dinner when Daddy asked. Or is being rude to your future wife part of your charm?"
"I didn't agree to anything," He said flatly.
"You didn't have to. They already did it for you."
He turned then, eyes hard. "That doesn't make it true."
Ariel's lips curved into a slow dangerous smile. "I don't need it to be true yet. I just need it to be believable."
Before he could answer, she closed the space between them and ran a manicured finger down his tie. "You don't have to like me, Arnold. Just… remember what we could look like. Together."
He didn't move.
Her hand slid to his chest. "You and I? We could rule the world. You know it."
"Ruling the world doesn't interest me," he said.
Her lips brushed close to his jaw. "Then what does?"
He caught her wrist mid-motion and held it firmly—not bruising, just a quiet warning.
"I'm not one of your parties, Ariel," he said. "You don't get to dress me up and call it love."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't pull away. "So what is this? You playing poor protector with that little journalist girl? You think she can survive this world?"
Arnold's grip tightened slightly.
"She has nothing to do with this. And even if she does, I think that's none of your business."
Ariel exhaled a short laugh, slipping her wrist from his grip. She turned and walked to the door.
Just before she stepped out, she looked over her shoulder. "Let's hope she knows how to swim in deep waters. I'd hate for her to drown."
And with that, the door shut behind her.