Page 116 of The Contract

It’s perfect.

Satisfied, I slide it into the fridge, my chest rising with a deep breath.

The weight of the envelope still lingers in the back of my mind, a splinter pressing into my thoughts, but I push it aside.

Not now.

Instead, I reach for the large white box, fingers skimming over the black satin bow. My smile returns, softer this time, but still real.

I pick up the gown and head toward my room, anticipation curling low in my stomach.

As I step into my room, I let the fabric spill through my fingers, the silky weight of it grounding me, reminding me of something beyond the shadows creeping at the edges of my mind.

Tonight, I don’t have to think about Adrian. About threats scrawled across old photographs or ghosts clawing their way back into my present.

Tonight, I can focus on Damien.

On whatever he has planned.

Helping him enjoy the victory of winning his merger.

I smooth my hands over the gown one last time, exhaling slowly.

For the next few hours, I’ll let myself have this.

Tomorrow, I’ll fight my battles.

Tonight, I’ll let myself forget.

Istep into the penthouse, the city lights flickering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it’s not the skyline that stops me in my tracks.

It’s Elena.

The New York skyline silhouetting her, bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier, and for the first time in a long fucking time, I forget what I was about to say.

The gown fits her to perfection, the deep-red fabric draping over her curves in a way that should be illegal.

The slit teases the line of her leg, the delicate straps exposing the smooth expanse of her shoulders, and when she turns at the sound of my footsteps, her hazel eyes catch the light, gleaming with something unreadable.

Christ.

I’ve seen beautiful women. Been with beautiful women. Women who worked hard to be perfect, poised, polished. But this? This is something else entirely.

She isn’t just beautiful.

She’s breathtaking.

I walk toward her, loosening my tie just enough to find my breath again.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. Her eyes run down my body, taking in my black tux.

I stop just short of her, my fingers itching to reach for her, to trace the delicate straps on her shoulders, to follow the curve of her spine where the fabric dips scandalously low.

“You’re impossible not to stare at,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.

Her lips part slightly, and I take advantage of the moment, reaching into my jacket pocket and pulling out the small navy-blue box.

“Before we go,” I say, flipping it open, “one last thing.”

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