Page 127 of The Contract

And as satisfying as it is to watch this dumbass get publicly castrated, a cold wave of unease slithers down my spine.

Because nutsack or not, I absolutely cannot afford to get tossed out alongside Mr. Nutsack here.

Or shot.

I suck in a breath, slap on a smile—fake and bright as the candles flickering behind her—and chirp, “Pink! I’ll take pink.”

Her nod is cool, approving. “As you wish.”

I swear I almost hear the walls whisper, Good girl. You’ve chosen wisely.

The flicker of a tantrum in Jabba’s eyes isn’t lost on me. But since Morticia just dismissed him entirely—with all the significance of a gnat swimming in her champagne—I gladly follow suit.

Besides, considering we narrowly avoided a two-for-one turkey shoot special, would a little gratitude kill him?

Small victories, buddy. Savor them.

Gold-tipped nails slide a crisp sheet of paper across the podium. The text is microscopic, written in the kind of legalese designed to feed off human suffering and loopholes.

I squint. “What’s this?”

“Your contract.”

“My… contract?”

I scan it quickly, hunting frantically for red flags—subscription scams, multi-level marketing cult initiations, soul-selling rituals. But all my eyes manage to snag are ominous snippets like binding agreement and non-disclosure.

Sheesh. Rich people and their secrecy kink.

Still, it makes me wonder—are there celebrities behind that door? Untouchable elites who get off on absolute privacy?

And more importantly, are they all as insufferably douchey as Mr. Nutsack?

I’m halfway through deciphering paragraph two when something heavy drops onto the page—a necklace drowning in oversized pink gems, shimmering hypnotically enough to short-circuit my brain.

“You requested the pink diamonds, correct?”

My gaze flicks to the necklace, and every internal alarm screaming make smart choices grinds to a dead halt.

Holy shit.

“Diamonds?” I breathe, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Are those…real?”

“Very real. And very yours. The second you sign.” Her wicked smile curls at the edges, eyes glittering. Apparently, this is exactly where the line forms to sell your soul.

My hand moves on autopilot, scrawling my name across the line before my brain catches up. God only knows what I just agreed to.

She rounds the podium, her gaze pins mine like a butterfly to a corkboard.

When all I offer is a blank, awkward staring contest, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches in a silent but universal threat: Any day now.

Huh?

“If you’d be so kind as to bare your neck,” she prompts, voice soft yet edged with impatience.

A sharp prickle races down my spine. So you can make me undead?

Then my gaze drops back to the glittering diamonds.

---