Page 39 of The Contract

For a moment, we eat in silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain, the hum of the city stretching high beyond the penthouse windows.

Then, after another bite, Damien speaks again, his voice even.

“I’ll usually be gone before you wake up.”

It’s not an apology. Just a statement of fact—a warning of sorts.

I nod, unbothered. “That will be no problem. I keep busy.”

His gaze flicks up, studying me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Doing what?”

There’s something about the way he asks—not just the words, but the hesitation before them.

Like he’s debating how to phrase it.

I already know what he’s really asking.

What do you do all day until I need you?

I set my fork down, leveling my gaze with his. “You mean until my contract requires me?”

I don’t miss the way his grip tightens slightly around his coffee mug.

He doesn’t correct me, doesn’t clarify.

Instead, he just watches me. “Yeah.” He nods once.

I hold his gaze, my voice smooth. “I do have my own affairs to manage.” A small pause, letting it settle. “I don’t need to be entertained, Mr. Wolfe.”

Something flickers across his face. It’s so small, so quick, but I see it.

“Damien.” He corrects me, and I nod.

Something switches in him in an instant. For just a moment, it’s as if the polished, controlled version of Damien Wolfe slips, and what’s left behind is something quieter. Something simpler.

Not a billionaire. Not the infamous Wolf of Fifth Avenue.

Just a man.

A man sitting at his own kitchen counter, eating breakfast with someone else.

And for the briefest moment, I wonder if anyone has ever actually seen him like this.

He takes a breath as if to say something—holds it—then wars with some decision in his mind before releasing it.

I see thefuck itmoment happen, and he snaps his eyes to mine.

“If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?” His voice is steady, but there’s a quiet intensity behind it.

“I’ve answered every question honestly.”

Even at Ember & Ash.I want to add, but I don’t.

“What made you smile?” His voice deepens, like we’re sharing a secret. Like he’s daring me to answer.

A fraction of a grin spreads across my face, and he looks at my mouth before returning to my eyes.

“I smile often. Be specific.”

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