Page 120 of The Contract

She meets my eyes then, something deep and searching in her expression, as if she’s measuring whether I understand.

And fuck, do I understand.

Most people wouldn’t see it that way. Most people wouldn’t have the strength to look at their past and find something morein it—something beyond the pain. But she does. And it’s just another thing that makes her different. That makes her special.

“So if someone did that to save me,” she continues, tilting her head slightly, “they had to care about me. And I wasn’t going to waste it.”

A small, sad smile plays on her lips, her voice softer now. “Maybe someone out there is wondering what happened. If I made it. If I survived.”

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, studying her. When I set my glass down, my voice is quiet, firm. “I’d say you’ve done more than survive.”

She watches me carefully.

“You’ve thrived.”

Her brows lift just a fraction, lips parting like she wasn’t expecting that.

For a moment, we just sit there, the city humming softly around us, the world narrowing to this conversation, to this moment.

Then, I raise my glass, tilting it toward her.

“To thriving.”

Her lips curve—not the full, teasing smiles I’ve pulled from her before, but something real. Something that makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

She lifts her own glass, clinking it softly against mine before taking a slow sip.

I see the sadness still lingering in her eyes, the weight of a past that has shaped her but never broken her. And I know it’s time to move on.

I set my glass down and push back from the table, rising to my feet before extending a hand toward her.

She eyes me warily. “What now?”

I smirk. “You’ll see.”

She places her hand in mine, her touch fleeting, barely there before I lead her through the restaurant, out into the night.

The city is quieter now, the distant hum of traffic muted by the stillness between us. I open the car door, watching as she slips inside, the soft rustle of silk against leather filling the space.

I slide in beside her, the limo gliding smoothly into motion, the glow of the skyline flickering against the tinted windows.

Neither of us speaks.

Her hand drifts down to the seat between us, resting lightly against the leather. I don’t move mine, but I don’t pull it away either.

Our pinkies are so close they could touch.

Almost.

I feel the warmth of her skin, just within reach. It would take nothing to close the distance, to slide my hand over hers, to offer her something—reassurance, comfort, a tether to the present instead of the past she just let me see.

I want to. Fuck, do I want to.

But I don’t.

Instead, I sit in the quiet, letting it stretch, letting it settle.

Letting her know she doesn’t have to fill the silence with anything at all.

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