Page 68 of The Contract

“I’m not?—”

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “Don’t tell me you have a crush on your contract.”

I laugh at that—actually laugh—because the idea of having a crush on Damien Wolfe is absurd. He’s a client. This is business. There are rules.

But then my laughter dies in my throat.

Because there are also exceptions.

And we’ve already made one.

Eve hears the silence stretch and knows. “Wait… no way.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It was before the contract started. I didn’t know he washim.”

“Shut up,” she breathes, utterly scandalized. “You slept with Damien Wolfe before the contract even started?”

I groan. “Eve?—”

“Oh my God, this is so much better than anything I was expecting. I thought maybe you were crushing, but no, youfuckedhim. Elena, that’s?—”

“Dangerous,” I cut in. “It’s dangerous, Eve.”

She sobers, quiet for a second. “Yeah,” she admits. “It is.”

We both know what this means. The job works because of boundaries. Clear-cut lines.

This is a professional arrangement—ithasto be—and yet, I’ve already blurred it.

“And now?” she prompts. “Is it just business?”

I exhale. “It has to be.”

“Does it?”

I don’t answer.

Because we both already know.

I just don’t want to admit it.

The room is supposed to be casual.

That much is clear from the leather armchairs arranged around the glass-top coffee table, the open bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and the expansive view of the Calloway estate’s pristine lawn through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

But it doesn’t feel casual.

Not with the tension thick enough to strangle.

Mr. Calloway sits at the head of the informal gathering, nursing a glass of scotch as he leans back, completely at ease. He has the comfortable air of a man who owns everything in the room—including the men sitting in it.

To his right, Marcus occupies an armchair, equally relaxed, but I can tell he’s assessing the room the same way I am.

And then there’s Adrian Kingston.

The nephew.

The wildcard.

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