Page 31 of The Contract

I shouldn’t be nervous.

But I am.

Not because of the contract.

Because of him.

Because the moment I step inside that penthouse, there will be no distractions.

No polite small talk.

No audience.

We will be alone.

And we’ll have to talk about last night.

I swallow hard as the elevator reaches the top floor, the doors sliding open with a softding.

The penthouse is beautiful—sleek, expensive, immaculate.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, the glittering skyline spread before me like something out of a dream.

It’s rich and warm, instantly comforting.

Until I find him.

Standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, his broad, powerful frame silhouetted against the city lights.

His head turns slightly, pausing—as if still deciding how this second meeting will go.

His phone is pressed to his ear, likely listening to the caller on the other end.

“Thanks for checking on it, Cal.”

He ends the call.

Then finally, his piercing blue gaze settles on me.

The air charges between us.

And then—he speaks.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

His voice is deep, the timbre smooth and low, dripping down my spine like warm silk.

I tilt my chin. “Neither did I.”

And just like that—the game begins.

Icould kick my own ass for setting up this dinner.

At the time, it had seemed like a logical move—a necessary step to break the ice before introducing her as my fiancée at tomorrow night’s formal dinner with the executives involved in the merger.

A simple, controlled environment where I could gauge her approach and ensure we were on the same page before stepping into the spotlight together.

But now?

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