Page 28 of The Contract

Lucian has an account there—a standing arrangement for his most exclusive companions.

I hear his voice in my memory, casual over drinks one night.

"An old friend owns it. We go way back."

An old friend.

Damien Wolfe.

The man whose name I wanted to moan into a pillow just hours ago.

I grip the contract folder a little tighter, my nails pressing into the glossy surface, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

This is a joke.

A fucking disaster.

But I’ve spent years mastering the art of composure.

So I don’t react.

Not visibly.

I tilt my chin, keeping my expression carefully neutral—even as my pulse jackhammers in my throat.

I can’t let him see it. Can’t let him know just how badly this is throwing me off balance.

I’ve spent years ensuring men like Damien Wolfe don’t get to me.

That they see only what I want them to see.

But this man?

He’s already seen too much.

Touched too much.

He’s in dangerous territory, and I need to put him back where he belongs.

As a job.

As a contract.

As nothing more than another temporary illusion.

I lift my chin, my voice steady, my mask perfectly in place.

Lucian is watching me, waiting.

“Mr. Wolfe.”

Damien, to his credit, doesn’t let anything slip.

But his jaw tightens, his fingers flex slightly around the folder in his grip—like he’s seconds from crushing it.

He exhales sharply through his nose, shifting his weight slightly.

Then—his voice.

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