Page 42 of The Contract

Finally, I can’t handle it anymore, and I bark at my assistant to reschedule the rest of the evening and leave early. She rattles off something about her birthday, but I’m already moving to the SUV.

Within two minutes, I’m headed back to the Blackstone.

On a typical day, I’d just work at the office, change, and head to my event from there. But I have a fiancée now, and we need to arrive together.

It’s not a bother. I’ll just work in the car and take a quick shower when I get to the penthouse.

Elena is nowhere to be found, and I assume she’s putting the finishing touches on her outfit for the night.

Dinner is at The Scallop, another five-star restaurant in one of the world’s most top-rated hotels. Mine, of course.

Marcus, my best friend and business partner, will be there with his husband.

Mr. and Mrs. Calloway, our newest multibillion-dollar business takeover.

And me, with my blushing bride-to-be in tow.

Marcus and I both know tonight is a test—a big one. Which means Elena’s role will be that much more important.

I adjust the black-and-silver cufflinks and inspect my tux once more. Black on black. A spritz of cologne, and I head out of my bedroom to wait for Elena.

Elena doesn’t hear me approach, and when I step into view, she startles so hard she nearly jumps out of her heels.

Her hand flies to her chest, eyes wide. “Jesus, Damien,” she exhales, pressing a palm over her heart. “You scared me half to death.”

I arch a brow. “You didn’t hear me come up?”

She shakes her head, still catching her breath. “I thought I’d just meet you downstairs.”

I don’t answer right away, my attention snagging on something else—her hand. More specifically, the ring on her left finger.

My eyes narrow as I take it in. A simple, uninspired band with a modest stone. It barely catches the light, let alone commands it.

I frown. “What’s this?” I ask, reaching for her hand, lifting it between us.

Elena barely glances at it. “A prop,” she says, shrugging. “It’ll pass for real. I have others if you prefer something else.”

A prop. A placeholder. Something temporary and meaningless.

The thought irritates me more than it should.

Before she can react, I slide the ring off her finger, tossing it onto the counter behind me. Her brows pull together in confusion, but I’m already reaching into my pocket, pulling out a sleek black velvet box.

She notices, and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

I flick the box open with a sharp snap, revealing a real ring. One I purchased the moment I left the office after meeting her.

I hadn’t thought much of it at the time—just that my fiancée, fake or not, would wear nothing but the best. The idea of her walking around with a cheap imitation is unacceptable.

Ignoring the way the wordfakesits like ash in my mouth, I say simply, “Making sure my fiancée looks the part.”

She blinks. “Damien?—”

She’s about to argue, but I cut her off. “I won’t have my fiancée walking around with a fake diamond.”

Her lips part slightly, like she’s weighing her next move, like she’s considering fighting me on this.

I don’t give her the chance.

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