Page 22 of The Contract

Then—a bark of laughter. “Holy shit. That good?”

“Lucian.”Warning.

“Do I know her?”

Lucian’s still talking, oblivious to the fact that I’mone comment awayfrom throwing my phone across the room.

“I assume she was spectacular, considering you went full Sleeping Beauty over there.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Drop it.”

“Oh, come on. You expect me to justignorethis? Damien Wolfe, sleeping past sunrise? Canceling meetings?”

A pause. Then, with mock concern?—

“Do I need to send your assistant with an emergency espresso?”

I exhale sharply, alreadydonewith this conversation.

Lucian gasps in all seriousness this time.

“Wait, was itVanessa?”**

His voice pitches on the end of her name before he starts whispering like someone is eavesdropping on our goddamn phone call.

“Did you fuck your assistant?”

“Christ, Luc. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

Speaking of which?—

I pull my phone away from my ear, texting Vanessa.

DAMIEN: Clear my calendar today.

VANESSA: Everything? Are you sure? Is everything okay?

DAMIEN: I don’t pay you to be my therapist.

VANESSA: Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.

“I swear I’m interviewing for new assistants as soon as this fucking merger is done.”

I mutter it more to myself than Lucian.

Lucian snickers.

“Poor girl.”

“She’s fine.”

“Yousaythat, but I’m pretty sure she cries into her designer notebooks after every conversation with you.”

I don’t respond.

Because the crystal glass—half full of water with a red lipstick smear on the edge—has mefrozen.

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