Page 122 of The Contract

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

The opulence of the Met is almost overwhelming—the rich reds and golds, the towering chandeliers, the intricate carvings adorning every surface.

It commands a kind of reverence, the kind of place that feels like it belongs in fairy tales rather than real life. It’s breathtaking, magnificent, everything I imagined it would be and more.

But none of it holds my attention the way he does.

Damien Wolfe, who rented out one of the most famous opera houses in the world just for tonight. Just for us.

For me.

I smooth a hand over the fabric of my dress, trying to ground myself, trying not to let the weight of the moment press too deeply into my chest.

The dazzling beauty of this place, the gown I’m wearing, the diamonds in my ears—it’s all temporary. A fleeting glimpse into a world that isn’t mine.

I can’t afford to get swept up in it.

Still, I feel his eyes on me before I even turn my head, the weight of his gaze warm, unwavering.

“Why did you really do this?” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the hush of the grand, empty theater, it carries between us.

He doesn’t look away. “To celebrate.”

I arch a brow, unconvinced. “To celebrate your merger?”

He exhales, tilting his head slightly as he studies me. “Not just mine.”

I shake my head, a small scoff escaping. “I was just along for the ride.”

“That’s bullshit,” he murmurs, and the certainty in his voice makes my breath catch.

Before I can counter, he leans in, bringing with him the dark, clean scent of him, something rich and expensive, something that makes my pulse stutter before I can stop it.

“Margo wouldn’t have given it to just me,” he continues, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. “You know that.”

And I do.

The realization settles into me, undeniable, humming in the space between us.

Damien Wolfe is a man who doesn’t need anyone. He commands rooms, bends people to his will, shapes entire industries with a single decision. But that wasn’t enough for Margo Calloway.

She needed to believe in more than his ambition.

She needed to believe in us.

He watches me closely, waiting for me to challenge him, to tell him he’s wrong.

But I don’t.

Because he isn’t.

Still, I force an easy smirk, needing to pull this conversation back to safer ground, needing to shake off the way he’s looking at me, like he sees something in me I don’t know how to give. “So what you’re saying is… I’m your secret weapon?”

The corner of his mouth curves, but there’s something different about his smile this time, something softer, something that makes my stomach flip in a way I’m not prepared for. “That’s what I’m saying.”

I should let it go. Let the conversation drift away, laugh it off, shift to something lighter.

But I don’t.

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