Page 147 of The Contract

Adrian won’t fucking get away with this.

That smug asshole is going to pay.

The city lights filter through my bedroom window, casting a soft glow that reflects off the full-length mirror in front of me.

I stare at myself, fingers toying with the buttons of my jersey—the one Margo gifted me, the words FUTURE MRS. WOLFE pressed bold across my back.

The lettering feels heavier than fabric, like it’s pressing into my skin, branding me with something I shouldn’t want.

But I do.

I exhale slowly, my breath shaky as I undo the buttons one by one. The soft material parts, revealing smooth skin, the delicate lace of my bra.

My pulse kicks up as I reach behind me, unhooking the clasp, slipping the straps from my shoulders, and letting it fall to the floor, where it joins my discarded shoes and jeans.

Now, I stand there in nothing but the jersey and my black lace panties, the cool air teasing across my bare skin. My fingersskim the fabric, adjusting it, feeling the absurdity of wearing something so oversized yet feeling so exposed.

I should talk myself out of this.

I should turn around, get under the covers, and pretend that this is just another night.

But I don’t want to.

I’m tired of lying to myself. Tired of pretending I don’t know exactly what I want.

Damien.

The thought sends a heat curling low in my stomach, and before I can overthink it, I step out of my bedroom, barefoot, moving on instinct.

The penthouse is dark, the city skyline the only thing illuminating the space. A quiet stillness lingers in the air, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s already gone to bed.

He was quiet after we left the ballgame—brooding, his mind still caught on Adrian’s words.

I know he wasn’t upset with me, but still, I didn’t like seeing him that way—tense, locked in his own head.

A soft gust of wind stirs the living room, and I realize the large sliding doors are open.

The sheer curtains billow gently with the night breeze, their ghostlike movement pulling my gaze to the verandah.

Damien is sitting outside, his posture relaxed but his grip tight around a dark-amber beer bottle, fingers flexing around the glass.

He’s leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted slightly as he stares out over the city.

In an almost lazy motion, he lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a slow drink, his throat working as he swallows.

The movement is unhurried, but there’s something about it—something raw, something starved.

I step forward, pushing the curtain aside, letting the fabric brush against my skin as I walk onto the terrace. I don’t say anything. I simply lean against the frame of the door, waiting, letting the moment stretch.

The wind lifts my hair, a soft whisper of movement, and he notices.

His head turns toward me, and everything inside me tightens at the way his breath hitches.

His eyes darken as they rake down my body, slow and deliberate, taking in the way the jersey hangs open, the way the fabric shifts as I move, teasing glimpses of bare skin beneath.

I see the way his grip on the bottle tightens, the flicker of tension in his jaw as he drags his tongue along his bottom lip.

Heat coils low in my stomach, my confidence solidifying, my resolve firm.

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