The Christmas Contract (Silver Fox Daddies #4)

Chapter 1

CASSANDRA

The moment the silk slips over my eyes, I know I’m fucked.

There are a thousand ways to wreck your life. Getting blindfolded in a ruthless billionaire’s penthouse happens to be mine.

Cuffs bite into my wrists, firm and unyielding, forcing my body into stillness.

The air thickens, heavy with authority and heat.

Every instinct I have screams for control.

The darkness behind the blindfold sharpens everything. The faint creak of expensive leather beneath me. The distant hum of the city forty floors below. The unmistakable slide of power in the air, slow and deliberate.

My heart is pounding so loudly I’m convinced it’s echoing off the marble floors.

Pretty sure he can hear it, wherever he’s lurking in this palace built for gods and devils.

Why the hell am I even here?

Not because submission comes naturally to me. Certainly not because I've got a closet full of leather bondage and whips. I don’t.

I’m a type-A control freak. Own sensible, beige bras. And my sex résumé is humiliatingly vanilla.

I’m here because the alternative is far worse.

Clara’s heart is running out of time. And I’ll be damned if I let the world steal my sister from me.

The room hums with quiet power. Faint music I can't quite place, the soft click of a fireplace somewhere to my left.

The normalcy of it all makes my skin prickle. Like tying women to chairs is just another Thursday for him.

I breathe in leather, smoke, and expensive cologne—the scent of a man who’s never been denied.

I swallow hard and force my shoulders back.

Get it together, Cassandra.

You signed up for this gamble.

To be fair, this was never part of the plan.

Three months ago, I walked into The Velvet Ledger with a forged resume and Clara's medical bills burning a hole in my purse.

On the surface, the company appears to be an executive placement agency.

Technically true. Underneath, it's an escort service for the obscenely wealthy, and everyone who signs their NDA knows it.

When I signed the documents, I let them believe I was a professional submissive.

A woman trained to kneel, to obey, to perform the role without flinching.

A lie that got me through the door.

And maybe, just maybe, into hell.

"You'll wait here," Damien's assistant had said, all pleasant professionalism.

She was tall and thin, the kind of slender that looked effortless. All long lines and calm confidence.

I’d grown to love my curves. The softness. The way I filled space.

But standing in front of her, I still felt that old, unwanted flicker of envy—of how easily she moved through the world that judges a woman by her God-given curves.

"Do you consent to light restraints?"

The word no sat on my tongue.

So did Clara’s face. The monitors beeping. The doctor’s careful voice telling me my sister has months—if we’re lucky.

So I said yes.

Yes to the restraints.

Yes to the blindfold.

She tied me up with the efficiency of someone who's done this a hundred times before. Professional. Almost kind. Which somehow made it worse.

Kindness makes it feel like I agreed to this, not that I was cornered into it by a universe with a sick sense of humor.

Now I'm alone in the dark, testing the rope around my wrists. It holds firm but doesn't bite.

Professional knot work. Of course.

I haven't been this helpless in a long time.

In truth, I’ve spent the past three months carefully picking assignments that were strictly non-sexual. Safe. Controlled. Clearly defined.

Appearances only. No doors closing behind me. No hands lingering.

The fact that I could choose my assignments made me feel like I still had control. Like I was using them, not the other way around.

I’m not tall or delicate like most of the Ledger girls. I’m soft in all the right places—and young enough to still pass for naive if I smile the right way. That made me perfect for appearances.

Public-facing, arm-candy escort work. I’ve been going home alone, pockets heavier, conscience intact.

Until now.

I thought I was here for a party.

High-end Christmas event. Smile, serve champagne, go home with a fat check for Clara's medications secured.

Desperation, however, has a way of rewriting fine print.

No one at The Velvet Ledger says Damien Kozlov’s name casually.

He isn’t just rich.

He’s the kind of rich that makes people nervous to ask questions. The kind that wears silence like a second skin.

I knew his Christmas parties were infamous.

Invitation-only. Scandalous. The kind of events people pretended they didn’t attend.

I told myself “hostess” meant distance.

Witness, not participant.

One night. One party. One Russian billionaire with a reputation that makes grown men flinch.

Versus my sister's last shot at survival.

Put like that, it almost sounds rational.

The Velvet Ledger sold me easy money.

What they didn't mention? Damien Kozlov doesn't actually need a hostess.

He needs control.

A new toy. A warm body. Someone who'll say yes no matter what.

Breathe, Cassandra.

You walked in here.

You can walk out.

Preferably alive. Definitely paid.

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

Unhurried. Heavy. Male.

The kind of footsteps that don’t rush for anyone. The kind of footsteps that own the room before they even enter it.

My pulse kicks into my throat.

The door opens. Footsteps glide across plush rug.

Slow. Deliberate. Absolutely not friendly. They stop.

Right behind me.

And even though I can’t see him, I feel him. That awful, thrilling pressure.

The kind of presence that makes your skin hum and your dignity consider running for the hills.

The weight of his attention settles over me like a physical touch. I can feel him looking. Taking inventory. Deciding.

My skin prickles. My pulse stutters.

Every inch of me is awake, and none of it makes sense.

He moves. I track him by sound alone: the whisper of expensive fabric, the barely-there creak of leather shoes on hardwood. He's circling. Slow. Predatory.

His scent reaches me. Smoke. Leather. Something darker underneath.

It curls low in my belly.

Unwelcome.

Unmistakable.

And absolutely not helping.

He’s taking his time.

Looking. Deciding.

Like a man choosing which piece to move first on a board only he understands.

My thighs clench.

My back arches involuntarily. Heat floods my cheeks.

And somewhere in my brain, a tiny voice whispers: This is a terrible fucking idea.

“Miss Hewitt.”

The voice wraps around me like smoke. Deeply masculine. Russian accent threading through each syllable. It holds power. Control.

The kind of voice that makes you want to obey before he even gives an order.

My body reacts before my brain can slap it back into line.

I straighten my spine, forcing confidence into my posture even as my pulse stutters.

"Mr. Kozlov."

"You're early."

"Your assistant said you liked punctuality.”

Silence. I can feel him still watching me.

“Allow me...”

Then fingers skim the knot at the back of my head. The blindfold loosens.

When he lifts it, he does it slowly.

Like he’s savoring it.

Light spills in. Dim and golden. Intimate.

Then I’m looking at him.

Oh.

Oh no.

God help me, he’s devastating.

Winter in a tailored suit. Beautiful in a way that should come with a warning label.

He stands a few feet away, dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Broad shoulders. Stillness that radiates control.

His eyes are blue. Not friendly blue. Not warm blue.

Steel blue. Assessing. Deciding.

The kind of eyes that don’t blink when men beg.

He doesn’t smile.

He studies me like I’m a contract he hasn’t decided whether to sign… or burn.

Close up, the details sharpen. Black hair threaded with silver at the temples. Short graying beard framing a jaw cut to command.

The kind of silver fox women fantasize about.

The kind who ruins you and makes you beg him to do it again.

He's tall and broad-shouldered. Built like a fighter who knows how to hurt people and enjoys it. A monster with a perfect tie.

“So,” he says calmly. “You’re the professional.”

I clear my throat. “I…sure am.”

Wow. Eloquence. Bravo.

One dark eyebrow lifts. Amusement flickers.

He circles me slowly, shoes silent against the floor. I track him with my eyes, refusing to look away even when instinct screams at me to drop my gaze.

He steps closer.

“Sit still.”

Not a request.

I do.

Christmas lights glow faintly behind him. Outside, sleet and snow tap against the glass.

Reality hits me. He’s testing me. Waiting.

My eyes catch on the glint at his wrist.

"Audemars Piguet," I murmur.

His brow lifts. Like I've cracked a code he didn't expect me to know. Like I've just made myself interesting.

"You're a watch aficionado?"

"Not exactly. But in my time with the company, I've developed an eye."

His attention settles more fully on me, the air tightening.

“Most women notice the diamonds,” he says. “You notice the mechanism.”

There’s something almost like respect in the way he says it, like we’ve both just admitted we prefer the moving parts to the pretty surface.

The slightest tick of a smile ghosts across his mouth. Gone as fast as it appears. But it's enough to tell me I've impressed him.

Enough to tell me I might survive this.

"Turn your chin," he says softly.

I do.

He doesn’t touch me.

Doesn’t circle.

Doesn’t rush.

That restraint is worse than hands.

Instead, he inhales slowly.

Not like a man enjoying a scent.

“You’re not what I asked for,” he says calmly. “I can smell your…lack of experience.”

The words land like a slap.

My pulse spikes. Heat crawls up my spine, chased by fear. He knew. From the moment he walked in.

“I didn’t realize that had a scent,” I say, keeping my voice even. Light. Deliberate.

His eyes sharpen. That got his attention. Good.

“I asked The Velvet Ledger for a trained submissive,” he continues, ignoring the question. “Someone conditioned. Experienced. You are neither.”

This is my out. I should retreat.

I should pretend this was a misunderstanding.

I don’t.

Because Clara's surgery is weeks away. Because this gig is exactly what I need.

Because, right now, being forgettable is worse than being exposed.

Walking away empty-handed feels more dangerous than staying tied to this chair.

“And yet,” I say carefully, “you’re still speaking to me.”

His gaze drags over my body. Sharp. Hungry.

My pulse kicks. My thighs clench.

I hate the way he makes me feel.

“Curiosity,” he says. His accent thickens slightly. Just enough that I notice. “And because you haven’t denied it.”

“No,” I admit. “I’m not trained.”

He studies me further. Almost taken aback by my honesty.

For a second, something like approval flickers—quick, reluctant, as if the truth is rarer in his world than obedience.

“Why are you here?”

“For the Christmas party,” I say. “That’s the position I was given.”

His mouth curves faintly. Not a smile. Something colder.

“And what do you think that party entails?”

The question shifts the ground beneath me.

I replay the rumors about his kinks.

Different parties.

Private parties.

Sex parties.

My stomach tightens.

“I assumed,” I say slowly, “that it was a public-facing role.”

“You assumed wrong.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

“You’re not hosting,” he says. “You’re participating.”

Fear hits hard enough to steal my breath.

I should leave. I should say no.

“The Ledger mentioned the possibility of an extension,” I say instead. “If I proved suitable.”

“Suitable,” he repeats. “For what I actually requested.”

“Yes.”

He steps closer. Still not touching. His presence presses in anyway.

“You know what happens to untrained women at my parties?”

I swallow. “They get overwhelmed.”

“They get broken,” he corrects calmly.

A shiver races down my spine.

“You heard the rumors,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And you still came.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because my sister's life has a deadline.

“Because you pay well,” I say. “And because I don’t have the luxury of being naive.”

His gaze drags over me again. Slower now. Calculating.

"You are not ready for the party," he says quietly. "You are not trained for what I require."

"I can learn."

"You can." His thumb traces a line at the hinge of my jaw. "But not as a hostess."

He considers for a beat. His eyes rake over me one more time. Measuring. Calculating.

"I have a different job in mind for you."

My breath catches. Relief. Terror. They taste the same.

Then: “One month.”

This time my breath lodges in my chest and refuses to move.

He continues, voice smooth as ice. “You belong to me. You go where I tell you. You wear what I choose. You do what I ask.”

My pulse pounds.

“And if I say no?” I ask.

His gaze darkens.

“You won’t.”

I lift my chin. “I’m not as obedient as you think.”

Something dangerous glints in his eyes.

“We’ll see.”

He steps closer again, invading my space without touching me. The heat of him is overwhelming. Like standing too close to a fire you're not sure you'll survive.

“No refusals. No limits.”

"Do you renegotiate all your contracts like this?"

"Those are my terms, Cassandra."

And that’s when I realize the most dangerous thing of all:

He knows.

Not suspects.

Not guesses.

He knows I walked in here pretending to be something I’m not.

And instead of turning me away…

He wants me more.

Not for the party.

Not for his guests.

Not to be shared or displayed or passed between shadows.

He wants me for himself.

And I’m not sure if that makes me safer—or so much more screwed.