Page 84 of The Contract

He’s here to stay. And so am I.

The soft hum of conversation filters through the night air as I step onto the path leading toward the pavilion. Overhead, strands of delicate golden lights glow beneath the canopy of the outdoor tent, casting a warm, intimate ambiance over the evening’s formal dinner.

Margo walks beside me, gushing over the perfect weather for our final gathering of the weekend.

Mr. Calloway is on the walkway, headed toward us. His eyes gleam as he watches his wife, and she beams back at him, her coral gown a perfect complement to his tailored white suit and matching bow tie.

A carefully curated image of unity—one I should have anticipated.

I run my hands down the beaded front of my gown, suddenly second-guessing my choice for the evening.

The soft seafoam-colored fabric is delicate, ethereal—Margo nearly died when I stepped out of the dressing room, saying it was perfect for tonight. I love the way it drapes over my frame, the way the light shimmers off the subtle beading, how the open back feels like the right mix of elegant and daring.

But I should have considered what Damien was wearing. We should have coordinated before leaving New York.

I internally scold myself. I’m a better Companion than this. These are the details I get paid to make perfect.

“Ladies.” Mr. Calloway offers his arm to both of us—a gentlemanly escort the rest of the way to the tent. The sound of conversation, laughter, and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses drifts through the air.

My eyes dart from person to person nervously, until I find Damien—and the rest of the world falls away.

Standing near the elegantly set dining tables, dressed in a light-gray suit that fits his broad frame to perfection, he looks effortlessly powerful, undeniably in control. The crisp white ofhis shirt is open at the collar—a deliberate contrast to the more rigidly buttoned-up men surrounding him. His mother-of-pearl cuff links catch the flickering glow of candlelight, and he is, in one word, stunning.

But it isn’t the suit, or the way we accidentally match, or even the setting that has my breath catching in my throat.

It’s the way he is looking at me.

Damien Wolfe is a man who does not react easily.

A man who does not give anything away unless he intends to.

And yet, as his eyes sweep over me, there is no mistaking what I see in them.

His expression is unreadable, his stance deceptively relaxed, but his gaze is slow, deliberate—like he’s taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

The way my floor-length gown shimmers under the lights, the seafoam color making my skin glow, my hazel eyes turn more green than gold. The way the low-draped back exposes the smooth curve of my spine, drawing attention to bare skin begging to be touched.

Something shifts in his posture, barely perceptible.

One hand slips into his pocket. The other swirls his crystal glass of amber liquor.

Heat licks up my spine, my cheeks warming despite the evening breeze.

He takes a step toward me, then another, placing his glass down on a nearby table.

I force myself to breathe, to focus, to close the distance between us.

We come together like two magnets, pulled by an invisible tether.

He wraps one arm low around my waist, his hold commanding, possessive.

The other slips beneath my hair, firm between my shoulder blades as he turns me, dipping me back ever so slightly—just enough that I am at his mercy.

My hands go to him on instinct. One around his waist, the other clutching his bicep.

His muscles ripple as he holds me.

Running his nose up the column of my neck, his lips barely touch the surface of my skin—the whispered memory of how they felt only a week ago.

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