Page 141 of The Contract

Calloway smirks, shaking his head as if already resigned to whatever extravagant display she has planned. “Darling, you know I don’t need anything.”

She waves him off, her expression playful yet utterly self-assured. “I know. That’s why I had to get creative.”

A small black box is handed to him, and a hush falls over the suite as he lifts the lid.

Inside, resting against the velvet lining, is a single key.

Calloway’s brow furrows slightly, his sharp gaze flicking up to meet his wife’s.

Margo merely smiles. “And what, Mrs. Calloway, does this key unlock?”

“The stadium,” she purrs, her hands gesturing around her. “You are now the proud owner of the New York Giants.”

For a beat, the room is silent before it breaks into chaos.

Laughter, applause, murmured disbelief. Someone swears under their breath, clearly grasping the sheer magnitude of what just happened.

We’re off to the side, watching the spectacle, me sitting in a chair as Elena’s fingers trace slow, absentminded circles along my back.

It’s instinctive, that touch. Natural.

And I let myself lean into it.

She leans in as well, her voice laced with amusement. “She bought him a fucking baseball team. You billionaires—I swear.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, my hand trailing in slow strokes along the back of her thigh. “Well, what else do you get a man who has everything?”

“I suppose.” She scoffs softly. “But now I have to know—what’s the most absurd gift someone’s ever given you?”

I arch a brow, considering.

Without warning, I pull her down into my lap. A small yelp escapes her lips, her hands flying to my shoulders as she steadies herself.

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t get up.

I should let her go.

But I don’t.

Because this—her in my arms, her weight pressed against me, her warmth seeping into my skin—feels too fucking good.

I let out a slow breath, my thumb brushing along the outside of her thigh, fingers flexing as I grip her just a little tighter.

She’s watching me now, searching my face, waiting for my answer.

“Well…” I finally say, my voice quieter now. “Don’t be sad for the poor little billionaire, but… I don’t really receive gifts of a personal nature.”

Her brows knit together slightly. “What do you mean?”

I hesitate, then tilt my head slightly, my gaze steady on hers. “They’re always business-related. Impersonal. Practical.”

She doesn’t speak right away, but I see something shift in her expression.

Sympathy.

And fuck, I don’t want that.

“What about your family?” Her voice is softer now, careful, as if she already knows the answer.

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