Page 134 of The Contract

“Hi, honey.” I keep mine just as even. “Your assistant seems to think you’re too busy to see your fiancée. Oh, and she hopes to be fucking you soon. Anything you’d like to come and clear up, or shall I just wait in the lobby?”

The shift in the air is immediate.

Vanessa freezes.

Her eyes widen in panic. “I—I didn’t…”

A door slams open.

Damien strides out, his presence crackling with barely restrained fury.

Every conversation in the lobby dies.

His gaze locks onto Vanessa, his expression lethal. “What the fuck did you just say to my fiancée?”

His voice is dangerously low, controlled—but I can feel the storm rolling beneath it.

Vanessa stammers, taking a step back. Her bravado evaporates in an instant.

I cross my arms, arching a brow. “Vanessa was just talking about the… arrangement you two have.”

Damien reaches for my hand, pulling me behind him. His grip is firm. Protective.

“Mr. Wolfe.” She’s pleading now. “Damien.”

He turns his head slightly, his voice dropping into something low and final.

“Vanessa,” he says, her name a death sentence. “You mistook my patience for interest. That was your first mistake.”

He takes a slow step closer, his expression unreadable, lethal in its restraint.

“Your second?” His voice softens, a mockery of kindness. “Speaking to my fiancée like you were ever competition.”

Silence razor-sharp. All color drains from Vanessa’s face.

A woman in a sharp navy suit—HR, I assume—steps forward with two security officers.

Damien takes the flowers from me, his hand still in mine as he finally looks at me. The intensity in his expression nearly takes my breath away.

When he turns back to the older woman, his expression shifts—bored, already dismissing the situation.

“Ms. Bradley no longer works for Wolfe Industries.”

Vanessa stares at Damien, eyes darting around, realizing—it’s over.

She opens her mouth, like she wants to fight, like she wants to beg, but nothing comes out. She knows she’s lost.

Damien doesn’t spare her another glance as he pulls me into his office, slamming the door behind us.

The second it shuts, he places the flowers on his desk with slow, deliberate care. Every movement is controlled, precise—like he’s forcing himself into restraint.

Then, arms crossed over his chest, he leans back against the desk, watching me with an infuriatingly smug expression.

I know that look.

The one that says he’s enjoying himself way too much.

I fold my arms, mirroring his stance, tilting my chin slightly. “What?”

---