Page 58 of The Contract

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to slip in like a ninja—quiet, invisible, unnoticed. My gaze drops sheepishly to my worn-in black Chucks. Comfortable. Practical. Currently screaming Seen better days.

The taller woman’s lips curl into a ruby-red smirk. “Hate to break it to you, honey, but second-hand chic isn’t exactly Mr. D’Angelo’s style.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks with the unsettling realization that Mink Lash Barbie might actually be right.

I’m barely memorable enough to qualify as a half-notch on his bedpost, let alone as a runway model who frequents his bar.

Her words slice deeper than they should, effortlessly resurrecting every humiliating second of yesterday’s disaster, and my mortifying leg-humping performance, grinding shamelessly on Dante’s thigh.

In public.

God, what the hell was I thinking?

Dante D’Angelo isn’t into me.

He’s into mind-fucking me.

And worse—I’m into letting him.

Right now, all I want is to vanish into the nearest sewer grate. To erase every trace of the last twenty-four hours and Gorilla Glue what’s left of my shredded dignity back together.

I twist away sharply when another woman about my age sidles up, breathless, perfectly made-up, both hands grabbing my arms for support. She’s legs and hair that stretch for miles. Basically, everything I’m painfully, glaringly not.

“Oh, thank God I’m not late for the audition,” she gushes, bubbly enough to make my head spin. Her gaze sweeps over me approvingly. “Love your dress.”

I frown, confused. “Audition?”

She thrusts out her phone, brandishing a sleek ad featuring an impossibly elegant, stick-thin silhouette showered in an avalanche of dollar signs.

Open Auditions

Top-End Dancers Only.

Must be 21.

Perfect. Out on both counts.

And why twenty-one?

I’ve danced before—eighteen was always the cutoff. Hell, technically I’ve already been hired here.

Though I never auditioned.

Just took the wad of cash mysteriously dropped at my doorstep, lied straight to Kennedy’s face about getting the gig, and followed exactly what the smooth voice on the phone instructed.

At the time, I’d thought it was Dante.

Now, I know better.

That voice was too cool. Too controlled.

And if there’s one thing Dante D’Angelo isn’t, it’s controlled.

Beneath that cold, calculated mask is a volcano.

Molten-hot. Simmering.

Always one breath away from a devastating eruption.

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