Page 55 of The Contract

But formore.

More access. More power.More of me.

Just like all the others who have wanted to use my name to cement their place in this city.

To take what they could before Iinevitablycut them loose.

That thought—thatfuckingthought—is what kills me the most.

Because if she tried—if she looked at me and saw nothing but another mark to conquer?—

I don’t think I’d let her.

Not withoutprovingexactly who holds the leash in this game.

And that?

That would bedangerousfor both of us.

The second it’s over—disgust claws up my throat.

I exhale harshly, my grip tightening around the lace in my hand.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She’s just a contract. Just ameans to an end.

And yet here I am—fisting my cock to the thought of her like afucking obsessed man.

Like I have any fuckingclaim.

I yank open the drawer and shove the lace inside, slamming it shut so hard the wood rattles.

Two weeks.

I drag a rough hand down my face, my chest still heaving.

How the fuck am I supposed to survive two weeks of this?

The sleek black town car glides up the winding drive of the Westbury Country Club, its pristine grounds sprawling in all directions, bathed in the golden morning light.

It’s the kind of place where old money is inherited, not earned, and where women like Mrs. Calloway—graceful, poised, and influential—hold court like modern-day aristocracy.

As the car rolls to a stop beneath the covered entryway, I exhale, smoothing my hands down the white pleated tennis skirt I chose for today.

Classic. Elegant.

The kind of attire that blends in effortlessly among the ranks of country-club wives while still making an impression.

A crisp-uniformed valet opens my door, offering a polite smile as I step out, my white sneakers barely making a sound against the smooth pavement.

I nod in acknowledgment, offering a small smile before stepping forward into the club’s grand entrance.

The air is cool, scented with expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee, the quiet murmur of moneyed conversations echoing against the vaulted ceiling.

Confidence, I remind myself. This isn’t just a game of appearances—it’s a battle of positioning.

My positioning.

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