Page 179 of The Contract

"Damien, what are you talking about?" I breathe, my voice uneven, my mind racing.

His laugh is low, humorless. Dangerous.

"Don’t fucking lie to me," he bites out, closing the distance between us in three slow, measured steps. His anger is controlled—too controlled. Like he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I saw the pictures, Elena," he spits my name like it’s poison. "I fucking heard you."

My breath catches. Oh my God.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

“You told me everything about these next two weeks would be a lie.”

He sniffs, and even that is filled with resentment. “I guess that was the only truth that came out of your mouth this whole time.”

I try to speak, try to force out something—anything—that will slow him down, make him listen. "Damien, please, just let me?—"

"Explain?" he snaps. His eyes are dark, sharp. Unrelenting. "Explain what? That you’ve been playing me since the fucking beginning? That you and Adrian had this whole thing mapped out before I even set eyes on you?"

My panic spikes. This is all getting away from me.

He’s spiraling, his rage blinding him, twisting everything until he can’t see the truth.

I shake my head, my throat tightening. "That’s not what happened?—"

"Are you fucking proud of yourself?" His voice lowers to something almost guttural, something raw and aching beneath the rage. "Did you two laugh about it afterward? Did he fuck you in celebration after you signed the contract? Or did you wait to fuck him here in my goddamn home?"

His words cut through me, sharp and deep, making me physically recoil.

"Stop it." I’m surprised by the strength in my tone, despite the claws of my panic choking me. My vision blurring. "That’s not?—"

"Did you like hearing him taunt me when he answered my call?" he demands suddenly, and I freeze.

Oh God.

I don’t dare look back because if I do, I know I’ll shatter.

His voice is low and controlled when he finally speaks.

"Let them go."

The last thing I see is Damien.

His face—hard, unforgiving. His eyes—a storm.

Then he’s gone.

The elevator descends without a sound.

I press my lips together, swallowing the sob that threatens to break free because I know—I just lost the first man I’ve fallen in love with.

The whiskey burns its way down my throat—smooth and unforgiving. The glass is heavy in my grip, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the penthouse.

I shouldn’t be drinking.

Shouldn’t be thinking about Elena.

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