Page 91 of The Contract

Riley has become my seasonal allergy—annoying, relentless, and always back when I think I can finally breathe.

She won’t leave.

Not even when I gift-wrap her a brand-new life far the fuck away from here. An expensive life, by the way.

Not even when I demand it—point-blank. Repeatedly.

And fuck me sideways, not even for her own good.

I shake my head. I need a way to get rid of my stubborn, disobedient girl so she never comes back.

Which means there’s only one option left…

Make her hate me.

Become the villain. The monster she already believes I am. Be that same ruthless asshole who keeps showing up again and again.

Kill all traces of the good guy, and embrace the beast.

The soft rustle of the sheets tightens my chest, sharpens the ache enough to make breathing a goddamn chore.

I fight every instinct to slip back into that bed, bury myself in her warmth, and forget the oath I made to my father.

But I can’t.

I swore I would do anything to bring him back, and I will.

Fully dressed now, I give up on knotting the tie. I’m so wound up, it’s either tear it to shreds or strangle myself, and right now, the latter feels tempting.

Because there are only two ways out of this: break her heart now, or shatter her later.

And with every wall closing in, it has to be now.

Riley stirs, eyes fluttering open, searching for mine.

I refuse to meet her gaze, my chest painfully tight. Instead, I light a cigar, focusing on the slow curl of smoke. “You were great.”

“Thank you. I think.” Her voice is hesitant, wary. She stiffens visibly, sitting up and clutching the sheets as if they’re armor.

“You were. You’ll do very well,” I say coolly. “Take as much cash as you want from the drawer.”

She blinks, confusion flooding her eyes. “What?”

“The cash,” I repeat sharply. “All of it, if you want. There are new clothes on the chair. The driver will take you anywhere. Tell the concierge I approve. You can start with the standard lineup of clients tomorrow.”

Her stunned silence slices through me like the sixth pin in a voodoo doll’s heart—enough to hurt, never enough to kill.

Unfortunately.

Then, like a match to gasoline, every fiery ounce of her Scottish heritage ignites. Her eyes blaze hot enough to scorch. “You were test-driving me?”

I meet her fury with practiced indifference. “Yes. Not bad. Four stars. Would recommend.”

That’s a goddamn lie.

Pom is off-the-charts exceptional. Five stars times ten. And it’s fucking destroying me to know she can never be mine.

“I have another interview.” I still can’t knot the damn tie to save my life, so I shove one hand in my pocket and grind out the cigar with the other. My voice drops into the cold, detached tone reserved for contracts and cutting losses. “If you could get dressed in room four, that would help.”

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