Page 86 of The Contract

“I should be telling you that, apparently.” He leaves with the last word, joining his husband as we take our seats.

The arrangement is a careful orchestration of power and influence. Mr. and Mrs. Calloway are seated to Damien’s right, while I am on his left. The rest of the long table is a mix of Calloway and Wolfe associates, key figures in the merger, and a few esteemed guests meant to add to the prestige of the evening.

Unfortunately, Adrian is directly across from me.

Even more unfortunately, the floral centerpieces are low and unobtrusive, ensuring a perfectly clear view of the man I’d rather pretend didn’t exist.

I feel his eyes on me, so I don’t even bother looking up.

He’s sure to have a smug smirk in place the entire evening—wanting, waiting for me to react to his proximity.

I don’t. I won’t.

Instead, I place my napkin on my lap, keeping my posture poised as the servers begin presenting the first course.

I don’t even realize I’m reaching for Damien’s hand. My arm snakes beneath his, my fingers mingling between his.

Still talking with Mr. Calloway, he raises my hand, kissing my knuckles as if it’s the most natural thing in the world—like we do this every day.

It’s a small, subtle touch.

Part of the charade because Margo is right there, watching our every move.

Damien puts my hand back in his lap, his fingers still threaded between mine, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.

A reminder.

We’re in this together tonight. It’s the final game, and he’s in my corner as much as I am in his.

The servers move seamlessly around us, placing down the first course with practiced precision. The presentation is impeccable—a silver charger set before me, the pristine white plate showcasing a decadent display of escargot in their shells, each nestled in a bed of herbed garlic butter.

The scent alone is mouthwatering—rich, warm, laced with the intoxicating aroma of butter and white wine, mingled with the faintest hint of freshly chopped parsley.

The escargot are perfectly prepared, their shells gleaming under the candlelight, each one a tiny treasure chest of indulgence. The delicate spiral grooves hold pools of golden butter, shimmering under the glow of the overhead chandeliers. A sprinkle of sea salt and finely minced shallots adds to the anticipation curling low in my stomach.

A small hum of approval escapes me before I can stop it, and I hear Damien’s low chuckle beside me. I glance up, only to find his amused gaze fixed on me.

“You’re a fan,” he muses, watching as I take the special two-pronged fork in one hand and the snail tongs in the other, securing my first bite with practiced ease.

I smile. “One of my favorites.”

The conversation around us resumes as I focus on my plate, maneuvering the tongs around the smooth curve of the shell to keep it steady while I spear the tender meat.

But just as I lift it to my plate, the shell slips—snapping free of my grip and launching across the table.

Time slows.

I watch in horror as it spins through the air, bouncing once against the rim of a wine glass before Mr. Calloway, with reflexesimpressive for a man of his age, reaches out and catches it midair.

The conversation around me stops.

Heat crawls up my neck, spreading fast across my cheeks as every eye in our immediate vicinity lands on me.

Then, without thinking, I flash a smile. “Slippery little suckers.”

Silence stretches for the briefest moment before Damien lets out a low, rumbling chuckle beside me.

Margo joins in, her laughter light and genuine.

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