Page 140 of The Contract

Marcus nods, already typing.

James exhales slowly. “What about who ordered the new survey. Who signed off on it.”

He’s right. If this was pushed now, there’s a reason.

But I don’t have time for speculation.

I need facts.

I glance at Elena, expecting concern, maybe unease—but instead, her expression is sharp. Focused.

Like she’s already thinking five steps ahead.

Good.

Because this could change the game.

And I have three days to make sure I don’t lose.

The energy of the stadium is electric, a steady hum of excitement woven through the roar of the crowd. The scent of buttered popcorn, grilled hot dogs, and freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mixing with the crisp evening breeze filtering through the open VIP suite.

The luxury box is tucked away from the main concourse, offering privacy, yet the pulsing atmosphere still surrounds us—a steady thrum of anticipation in the background.

Marcus and I linger near the entrance, our conversation still circling the land survey issue, voices low but edged with tension.

Elena and James walk ahead of us, enjoying a much more casual conversation.

She throws her head back, laughing at whatever James said, and it seems like Marcus and I come to the same realization.

This can wait until tomorrow.

A headache builds at my temples, tension winding tight across my shoulders, but I force myself to push it aside.

This isn’t the time to let it consume me. Not tonight.

I release a frustrated sigh, hoping I can push this to the back of my mind for a few hours.

Elena appears at my side, her fingers grazing the bend of my arm—a barely there touch—and warmth spreads through me.

She doesn’t say anything.

Her presence alone is enough to tether me back to the moment.

We’re at a public event, surrounded by people who believe she’s my fiancée, which means we can appear to enjoy these small touches. These little embraces that any typical couple would do, and I get the sense that she’s using that excuse to pull me out of my own head.

As we move through the suite, mingling with guests and making our way through the buffet, she continues to keep that thread of contact between us—her fingers slipping into mine, the gentle pressure of her hand resting lightly on my forearm, the warmth of her body close enough to brush against mine.

They’re small gestures, casual enough to anyone looking, but with each fleeting touch, I can feel the tension draining from my muscles, the sharp edges of my thoughts softening.

By the time Calloway steps onto the field for the ceremonial first pitch, I’m no longer thinking about the merger or the land surveys or the dozen ways this could go sideways.

I’m thinking about her and the way the golden light inside the suite seems to follow her.

Within minutes, Calloway joins his party guests, his wife linking her arm through his with a radiant smile. He waves off the applause, ever the composed businessman, greeting and thanking everyone.

Margo, however, is practically glowing.

“I think it’s time for presents,” she announces, clapping her hands together, her excitement effortlessly commanding the attention of the room.

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