Page 60 of The Contract

They always want something.

My money. My power. A headline.

Fifteen minutes of fame being photographed with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.

I learned that the hard way.

Once.

Before I was this man. Before Wolfe Industries became an empire. Before I understood exactly how people worked.

Her name was Genevieve Mercer—daughter of one of my first business partners. Beautiful, poised, effortlessly charming. The kind of woman bred for high society. And I was fucking stupid enough to believe she loved me.

I was on the cover of every business and finance magazine that existed. Quickly rising to the top of every list, and she was on my arm. Brought her into a world most could only dream of. Introduced her to people who could shape any future she wanted. And in return?

She fucked her ex in my own bed.

One of thoseran into each other at a barsituations.

Andone thing led to another.

I walked into my own home, found my girlfriend in my bed with another man, and she didn’t even have the decency to feel sorry about it.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t even look guilty.

Just wrapped herself in my shirt like she still had the right and gave me a long, pitying look.

"People like us don’t do love matches, Damien. We do power. Position. What we can offer each other. And when we needsomething else?"She had the audacity to shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world."We find it where we can."

And that’s when I knew relationships weren’t for me.

People don’t want love. They want leverage.

So, when Marcus brought up my problem—when he suggested I needed a fiancée to close this deal—there was only one solution that made sense.

A contract. A business exchange. Something professional. Mutual.

And The Ledger was exactly that.

No emotions. No risk. Just a perfectly packaged arrangement where everyone gets what they want.

That’s what I know. That’s what I’m good at.

But not once have I felt that with Elena.

I rake a hand through my hair, jaw clenching.

Is that part of the act? A carefully calculated move?

Or is that the real her?

And why the fuck do I care so much?

Why the fuck am I staring at a text like a man who doesn’t know better?

My assistant, Vanessa, steps into my office, tablet in hand, her usual polished smile firmly in place. She moves with ease, setting the schedule down in front of me like she does every week.

“Your schedule for next week, sir,” she says smoothly.

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