Page 75 of The Contract

The entire conversation is a masterclass in control, and I find myself quietly impressed—by his intelligence, by his ruthless ability to dismantle Adrian’s every attempt at sabotage without breaking a sweat.

He isn’t just a powerful businessman.

He’s a strategist. A tactician. A man who always plays to win.

And Adrian—whether he realizes it or not—is already losing.

I lean my elbow on the arm of my chair, my hand wrapping around Damien’s as he rubs my knee. Both of us looking to Adrian for his next quip.

A couple. United and supportive.

Exactly what Margo wants to see. And based on the way she looks at where Damien and I are touching, then gives her own husband an appreciative smile, I’d say we’re on the right track.

The pissing match between them lasts the rest of breakfast, tension simmering beneath the surface of every exchange. Adrian smirks, Damien remains infuriatingly composed, and I sip my coffee, pretending not to notice the verbal chess match taking place between them.

Margo, enthusiastically unaware, finally claps her hands together. “Alright, enough business. It’s time for a proper day on the water. Go change, boys. We’re heading to the yacht.”

I exhale, relieved as everyone starts to rise from the table.

It’s beautiful out today, a perfect sky stretching over the horizon. The yacht, anchored just offshore, gleams in themorning light, its sleek white frame cutting a beautiful contrast against the blue.

I don’t swim—I never learned—but I love being on the water.

Excusing myself from the table, I head inside to freshen up.

A moment alone. To gather my thoughts. To push Adrian’s presence out of my mind.

I run cold water over my wrists, watching the drip of condensation from the porcelain sink, inhaling deeply.

Just get through the weekend.

I dry my hands, smoothing the plush towel over my palms before tossing it aside.

But the second I pull open the door, my stomach drops.

Adrian is leaning casually against the opposite wall, waiting.

Before I can react—before I can so much as inhale to tell him tofuck off—he rushes me.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

His other hand shoves the door open wider, pushing me backward as he steps inside, closing it swiftly behind him.

My back collides with the wood, heart hammering as I push against his chest, my fingers digging in, struggling.

“Shhh,” he whispers, his breath hot against my cheek. “Shhh, now. You don’t want your fiancé to hear you in here with another man, do you?”

I freeze.

Not because I’m scared—though fury burns through my veins like acid—but because right on cue, I hear Damien’s voice from just outside the door.

“Elena is just freshening up before we head out.”

His deep timbre rolls through the hallway, smooth and composed.

He has no idea what’s happening on the other side of this door.

If he finds me locked in the bathroom with Adrian after this morning’s charade, he’ll get the wrong idea. That there’s something between Adrian and me. Or worse—that I’m working with him.

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