Page 37 of The Contract

Or maybe I made it for the ridiculous notion that good manners should extend even to fake engagements.

I don’t expect company.

The penthouse is so large, Damien could go about his day without crossing my path once if he wanted to. And based on the quiet atmosphere, I guess he’s already at his office.

That assumption is shattered when I hear the sound of dress shoes approaching.

I glance up just as Damien enters the kitchen.

I ignore that stab in the pit of my stomach.

He’s dressed in a tailored deep-blue suit, the crisp white shirt beneath it open at the collar, his tie hanging loose around his neck like he hasn’t quite decided whether to finish the job. The controlled energy he exudes is effortless—a man who is used to commanding a room the moment he steps into it.

I expect him to grab a coffee and go.

Instead, he hesitates.

His blue eyes flick to the extra plate sitting untouched on the counter, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t made it. His expression remains unreadable, but I don’t miss the way his fingers brush against the marble surface, as if debating something.

And then—he makes a decision.

Rather than leaving, he changes course, stepping closer and planting himself across from me on the other side of the counter.

I blink, caught off guard.

He doesn’t sit, doesn’t make himself comfortable—just stands there, all sharp edges and intensity, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.

I say nothing, waiting.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly before speaking.

“It was really no problem, you using the gym this morning.”

I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth.That’s what he came in here for?

Before I can respond, he continues. “You don’t have to check the schedule for things like that. You’re welcome to use anything in the penthouse.” A small pause, then, “The building, too, actually.”

I tilt my head, intrigued. “The building?”

He nods, picking up a stray piece of toast from the extra plate—bold, considering he didn’t even ask if it was for him.

“Yeah. Anything you need. The gym, the spa, the indoor pool, the concierge service. Hell, there are shops and plenty of restaurants.”

A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth.Is he… rambling?

Damien Wolfe.The Wolfe of Fifth Avenue.Rambling.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he keeps going anyway.

“There’s a car service on standby, too. If you ever need to go anywhere, just tell them, and they’ll take care of it.” He shifts his weight slightly, breaking off a piece of toast and popping it into his mouth.

I narrow my eyes, watching him carefully.

Is he trying to impress me?

The thought is ridiculous.

Damien Wolfe is the last man on earth who needs to impress anyone. He has wealth, power, and an entire city at his feet.

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