Page 118 of The Contract

As the doors slide shut behind us, I steal another glance at her, watching the way the diamonds catch the light, the way she carries herself with effortless grace.

The night hasn’t even started yet, and I already know?—

No matter how this ends, I’ll never forget the way she looks right now.

The limo pulls up to an exclusive restaurant, discreet and understated, tucked away on one of the quieter streets of Manhattan. The kind of place with no sign out front, where reservations don’t exist because only a select few even know it’s here.

I step out first and help Elena from the limo, her gaze drifting up the length of the sleek, modern façade before she turns to me, one brow arched.

“Of course,” she muses, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Let me guess—Wolfe Industries is stitched into the linens somewhere?”

I smirk, offering my arm as I guide her inside. “I like to have options.”

The maître d’ greets us without a word, simply nodding before leading us toward an intimate, candlelit table near the back. The space is warm, ambient, the sound of soft jazz floating through the air.

The moment we’re seated, the tension of the day seems to bleed away.

We take our time.

There’s no rush, no formality. No pressure to perform for anyone else.

Conversation flows between us as effortlessly as breathing.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel—light.

Happy.

Like I’ve finally realized just how empty my life was before her.

Work, mergers, money—powerful, yes. But hollow.

I don’t know when I started measuring my success in bank accounts and acquisitions instead of in moments like these. The kind where laughter sneaks up on me. Where the taste of a drink lingers a little longer because I don’t feel the need to rush to the next thing.

Where a woman sits across from me, holding my gaze, my attention, and I want to stay in this moment just a little while longer.

She takes a sip of wine, and I watch the way her lips press against the glass before setting it down, licking the faint taste of red from the corner of her mouth.

“So,” I say, cutting through the lull in conversation, “your turn to tell me.”

She blinks, tilting her head. “Tell you what?”

I lean back in my chair, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “I told you about little Damien. Tell me about little Elena.”

For the first time tonight, she stiffens.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it.

The slight way she tenses, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

I know that look.

It’s the look of someone deciding whether to let a secret slip or to bury it deeper.

I’m about to brush it off, tell her to forget it, when she exhales softly and lifts her gaze to meet mine.

“Well,” she starts, voice even but quiet, “there’s not much to tell.”

She pauses.

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