Page 82 of The Contract

She wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss her.

But fine. If this is how she wants to play, we’ll play by her rules.

“Okay then.”

Stepping back, I let my hands fall from her waist, ignoring the way my palms itch to pull her back.

“Well, I suppose we should go show the Calloways who’s boss on the shuffleboard.”

Elena smiles, shaking her head as she adjusts the straps of her bikini.

And as we walk back toward the others, I can’t help but think?—

I’d jump a thousand cliffs for her.

Even if she never lets me.

The estate’s private spa is a haven of luxury, the kind of place most people dream about but never get to experience.

Everything is meticulously curated—the crisp white robes, the gentle trickle of a marble fountain in the background, and the lingering scent of eucalyptus and lavender.

Margo Calloway has spared no expense.

Not with yesterday’s yacht event or our girls-only private spa day.

I stretch out on the massage table, my muscles melting under the skilled hands of the masseuse.

Across from me, Margo mirrors my position, her eyes closed in contentment as warm oil is kneaded into her skin.

It’s heavenly.

And yet, I know this isn’t just about indulgence.

The conversation started harmlessly enough—light, easy chatter about the St. James Orphanage.

I shared a few carefully chosen details—nothing too revealing. Margo listened, nodding thoughtfully before shifting the conversation to the wedding.

A seamless transition. A natural one.

But I know where this is going.

At the end of this weekend, Mrs. Calloway’s opinion will decide everything.

She may not sit on the board. She may not have an official title.

But Mr. Calloway listens to his wife.

And after this weekend, if she says Damien Wolfe is the right man to take over, her husband will sign the papers without a second thought.

So, I let her lead.

I answer her questions with ease, painting a picture of a woman hopelessly devoted to the man she’s about to marry. But Margo Calloway is sharp.

I feel the shift before she even speaks—the way her words slow as the massage therapists press deep into the muscles along our spines.

“You know, my husband can talk numbers all day long. He can analyze market projections, dive into balance sheets, and play the long game with the best of them. But at the end of the day . . .” She pauses, turning her head slightly toward me. “He always says the same thing:The man matters more than the numbers.”

I keep my expression neutral, my tone even. “What do you mean?”

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