The Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #1)

Chapter 1

“ M iss Moreau, lovely to see you again. We have your table ready.”

The hostess leads me through the softly lit restaurant, the familiar hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space.

“Thank you for taking me without a reservation.”

“Of course.”

She walks ahead of me—sleek black heels, a black form-fitting dress ending just above the knee. The air carries the rich scent of seared steak and expensive wine—comforting, in a way.

My phone buzzes in my hand just as she stops next to a small table for two.

A long-cushioned booth, wrapped in buttery-smooth leather the color of whiskey, is cool against the back of my legs as I slide in. A single, empty chair sits across from me, giving me a full view of the dining room—an old habit.

The cloth napkin glides across my lap as the heavy gaze of the man seated at the next table brushes against me.

I ignore him.

I’m accustomed to pulling the attention of powerful men.

Used to being stared at.

Sized up. Admired. Wanted.

It’s my job.

And I’m damn good at it.

But I’m not working tonight.

My new contract starts tomorrow, and coming to Ember & Ash for my favorite steak has become my ritual. My last indulgence before I become whatever version of myself a man has paid for.

I swipe open my phone, seeing a text from my real estate agent, Nina.

NINA: You are spot on. This little bakery is in the perfect location. I can’t believe no one has scooped it up yet.

ELENA: So, still good for Monday then?

NINA: Still good! We’ll get you in before anyone else snatches it up. This place is meant for you.

A small smile tugs at my lips.

It is meant for me.

I’ve worked and saved for four years to buy this place. And with this last contract’s bonus, I’ll finally have enough.

Sliding my phone onto the table just as a waiter approaches with a glass of water, I place my order without needing to glance at the menu.

I’ve been here enough times to know what I want—something indulgent. Something real. A reminder of who I am before I spend the next two weeks pretending to be someone else.

“The Velvet Ash, please.” I hand my menu over.

At the same time, a deep voice from the table next to me orders, “Ember Reserve.”

The sound of it sends a chill running up my arm, and I can’t help but glance at him.

And God—what a man.

The kind of devastatingly handsome that makes women ruin their lives.

Tall. Broad-shouldered beneath the tailored cut of his black button-down. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal strong, tanned forearms, veins pronounced along the back of his hands.

But it’s his face that really does it—strong jaw, dark hair tousled just enough to look effortlessly expensive , and piercing blue eyes.

Blue, like the sharp edge of a blade.

And right now, they’re looking directly at me.

I feel the weight of his gaze settle over me.

Assessing. Lingering.

Not in a way that feels intrusive.

But rather… intrigued.

I hold his stare, raising one sharp eyebrow in silent response.

“Would you like to pair that with the Siren’s Pour?”

I nearly forgot the waiter was still at my table.

“Yes, thank you.”

The 2015 vintage merlot. My favorite. Along with the slow-braised short rib I ordered, it’s my go-to.

“The Wolfe’s Reserve.”

The man gives his wine order just as bluntly as he ordered his meal.

The most expensive bottle in the collection.

Someone trying to prove something?

“And what are you celebrating tonight?”

It’s him.

I barely turn my head, only enough to know he’s talking to me.

“Who says I’m celebrating?”

These men of power expect everyone to dance at their feet.

Well.

I came here for my favorite meal.

Not to be someone’s meal.

Two sommeliers descend the blackened steel-and-glass staircase to retrieve our wine.

It’s the showpiece of the restaurant—directly behind the main dining area—a stunning glass-enclosed wine tower.

You can see it from all three levels of the restaurant.

Tall shelves, backlit and surrounded by glass walls, house rare and expensive bottles of wine, reserved for the elite wealth of New York to enjoy.

“You smiled.”

Mystery Man says, half turning his body toward me.

“I didn’t realize that was forbidden at The Wolfe. ”

I still don’t look at him.

His chuckle is low. Smooth.

Like the deep timbre of a cello against silk.

It slides down my spine, brushing against something instinctual.

Something dangerous.

“Not forbidden,” he muses, his voice laced with amusement. “Just curious.”

I tilt my head, finally turning toward him.

His expression is unreadable.

But there’s something in his gaze that makes my pulse slow.

Deliberate. Calculating.

Like a puzzle he wants to solve.

Or a secret he wants to unravel.

He’s studying me.

I let him.

“So, what brings you here?”

He lifts his glass of water, his fingers wrapped around the crystal like he owns everything he touches.

I shrug. “The steak.”

That slow smirk tugs at his mouth again.

“You don’t strike me as the type to indulge in something as simple as food.”

I arch a brow, feigning boredom.

“And what type do I strike you as?”

His blue eyes flicker over me. Just for a beat.

“The type that gets what she wants.”

For a fraction of a second, something inside me falters.

It’s an unsettling feeling.

To be seen so quickly. So precisely.

He doesn’t know me.

Doesn’t know how many times I’ve had to claw my way toward the things I want.

Doesn’t know how long I’ve been saving for something that finally feels like mine.

But I don’t let any of that show.

Instead, I sip my water and glance toward the wine tower, where the sommelier is returning with our bottles.

“If that’s meant to be a compliment, you should work on your delivery.”

His lips press together, hiding another smirk.

“Noted.”

A beat of silence passes between us.

Not awkward. Not strained.

Just… something unspoken.

A shift in the air that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

Before I can decide whether to ignore it, the sommelier approaches, a bottle of deep merlot in his gloved hands.

“The Siren’s Pour for the lady,” he says smoothly, presenting the label. “A rich vintage, deep berry undertones with a warm oak finish. Shall I pour?”

“Please.”

I watch as the wine slips into the crystal glass like liquid velvet.

I pick it up, bringing it to my lips, and take a slow sip. The flavors bloom across my tongue—dark cherry, a hint of spice, and something deeper, something that lingers.

It tastes like indulgence.

Like something that belongs to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching.

His own wine has been poured—Wolfe’s Reserve, of course—but he hasn’t taken a sip.

He’s too busy watching me.

For a man with an air of effortless confidence, there’s a distinct sharpness in the way he observes, as if he’s used to gathering information.

Used to controlling the game before anyone else realizes they’re even playing.

I set my glass down, unfazed.

“Your turn,” I say, gesturing toward his untouched wine.

His fingers curl around the stem, lifting it with slow precision. He brings it to his lips, but he doesn’t drink right away.

Instead, he watches me over the rim, holding my gaze.

Dragging out the moment until the tension stretches thin between us.

And then—he drinks.

My breath hitches—not that I’d ever let him see.

His throat moves, the column of his neck tightening briefly as he swallows.

The way he sets his glass back down is purposeful, as if this , too, is a move in the game.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, voice quiet, but something in it feels like a challenge.

I set my glass down, arching a brow. “I wasn’t aware I was offering a review.”

His lips twitch at the edges, but he doesn’t break. Doesn’t falter.

Instead, he leans back slightly in the booth, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers like he has all the time in the world.

“I imagine you have a discerning palate, Miss…”

He leaves the space open for me to fill.

Waiting for my name.

I don’t give it to him.

Instead, I take another slow sip of my wine. “I imagine you like to ask for things you don’t get.”

His smirk deepens, and he sets his glass down with deliberate ease.

“Ah. A woman of mystery.”

I give a one-shouldered shrug. “Or just a woman who doesn’t hand over personal information to men who stare at her in restaurants.”

He chuckles, the sound rich, amused. “That’s fair.”

He doesn’t offer his name either.

Doesn’t fill the space between us with useless pleasantries.

I like that.

“Tell me,” he says, tilting his head slightly, his eyes sharper than before. “What was the news?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“The news,” he repeats, unbothered. “Whatever it was that made you smile at your phone just before the waiter arrived.”

I lean back in my booth, fingers smoothing over my napkin as I study him.

"Bold assumption, thinking a woman should share the details of her life with a stranger.”

His smirk doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens.

Like he was hoping I’d say that.

And then—he moves.

Not away.

But up.

Standing.

And—fuck, he’s tall.

“Then let’s fix that.”

His voice carries a weight that suggests he’s used to commanding a room without saying a word.

I watch, expression carefully neutral, as he steps around the small space between our tables, reaching for the chair across from me.

He doesn’t sit—not yet.

Instead, he rests his hands against the back of it, tilting his head slightly.

Waiting for my permission.

“Sharing a meal means we won’t be strangers anymore.”

It’s a line. A simple one.

But the way he says it—like he’s already decided how this will go, like he knows I’ll let him sit—that is what makes me want to say no.

But the tattoo over his right forearm makes me rethink my choice.

It’s Latin:

Fortis fortuna adiuvat.

Fortune favors the bold.

A mantra I adopted during college.

I shouldn’t.

But something about him...

Something about this moment...

It feels like fate is pulling us together.

And who am I to say no to fate?

Feigning irritation, I make a show of exhaling as I roll my shoulders.

“Fine.”

I pretend to adjust the angle of my seat. “If only to spare my neck the strain of looking over at you since you refuse to leave me alone.”

He hums, amused, as he pulls out the chair and takes his seat.

There’s a distinct shift in the energy of the table.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but I can feel it—the game changing.

And he can too.

I see it in the way he settles in.

The way he leans back in his chair with a confidence that feels like an unspoken declaration.

He likes this.

This push and pull.

This game between us.

And I can tell—he wants to win it.

The scent of seared steak and warm, whiskey-infused butter fills the space between us, decadent and heavy in the air.

My slow-braised short rib sits before me, glazed in a deep espresso-balsamic reduction that glistens under the low, golden light. Beneath it, a truffle-infused parsnip purée spreads across the plate like silk.

Across from me, his meal is just as indulgent—a bone-in, dry-aged Wagyu ribeye, flame-seared, finished with black garlic and whiskey-infused butter, served alongside charred rosemary potatoes.

It’s an artful display of excess.

But none of it matters the second I take my first bite.

The richness coats my tongue instantly—deep, complex, perfectly tender. I can taste every note of the reduction, the way it complements the smoky sear of the beef, the creamy truffle lingering at the edges.

A quiet sound escapes me before I can stop it—a soft, appreciative hum of pleasure.

I close my eyes, letting the flavors settle.

I don’t care that he’s watching me.

I don’t care that I can feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet patience with which he observes.

This meal is mine.

And I won’t let a stranger—no matter how devastatingly handsome—ruin my indulgence.

When I finally open my eyes, his smirk is waiting.

“Good?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer.

I pick up my wineglass, leveling him with a cool look over the rim. “I don’t waste time on anything that isn’t.”

His smirk widens.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

And just like that, our evening shifts.

The conversation flows effortlessly, an endless back-and-forth where neither of us holds back.

He challenges me.

And I push right back.

Every comment, every observation, is a test—one neither of us is willing to fail.

Somewhere between the first glass of wine and the second, I forget to be cautious.

Somewhere between his sharp wit and the deep timbre of his voice, I forget to keep my distance.

I can’t recall the exact moment, but at some point—he moved next to me.

Our bodies have turned in toward each other.

The bottle he ordered, sitting between us, was another extravagant choice, the kind of expensive request he threw around without hesitation.

“Did I invite you over here?” I murmur, tilting my head slightly, suddenly aware of his close proximity.

His mouth quirks, his elbow resting on the back of the booth, his body angled more toward mine.

“No,” he admits, his voice a lazy drawl, rich and smooth. “But you didn’t stop me either.”

He’s right.

I didn’t.

And I don’t want to think about why.

Because the truth is, I don’t want this night to end.

I don’t want to admit how intoxicating he is.

The way his presence seems to fill the space.

How his cologne lingers in the air—deep, woody, with the faintest trace of spice.

The way heat rolls off of him, a quiet, steady thing that makes my own body respond in ways I don’t care to acknowledge.

The way his strength isn’t loud, isn’t forced—it just is.

I realize the restaurant is closed, the staff is cleaning, and it’s just the two of us now.

I start a new contract tomorrow.

A temporary life for the next two weeks.

I can’t afford distractions—not even the kind that smell like cedar and power and trouble.

I set my glass down, ignoring the way my fingers feel slightly unsteady against the stem.

“Well, Mr. E… I should go,” I say, my voice steady, controlled.

His gaze flickers over me, slow and deliberate. “Mr. E?”

“Mystery.”

My small grin betrays my cleverness, but he smiles too.

“My mystery man.”

There’s a shift in his posture, the slight tension in his jaw—the way his hand tightens around his own glass, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether to say the thing that’s lingering between us.

Instead, he lifts his wine to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with the same unbothered ease he’s carried all night.

He stands and helps me from the booth.

A perfect gentleman.

Instantly, a host appears with his suit jacket.

He gives a curt nod, taking it from him.

“Send the bill to my room.”

His voice is quiet, smooth. He slides one arm into his jacket, then the other.

Buttons it.

And of course—he looks amazing.

Like walking sin.

My hand moves without thought, running up the silky lapel until I reach the part that is twisted, and I correct it.

“There.”

My voice is a near whisper, softened by his proximity.

“Perfect.”

He catches my wrist as I begin to lower my hand, stepping toward me and holding it against his chest.

“Stay with me.”

Three simple words.

No elaboration. No pleading.

His voice is low, steady—but there’s weight behind it, something that makes my pulse stutter.

I should say no.

I need to say no.

But he doesn’t release my wrist.

Doesn’t pull me closer either.

He just holds me there.

Against the warmth of his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm.

I lift my gaze, meeting his.

And God help me.

The look in his eyes is lethal.

A deep, quiet hunger.

Like he’s already claimed this moment.

Already decided how this will end.

But he’s waiting.

For me to decide.

A slow inhale drags through my lungs.

“I don’t?—”

His thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist, a touch so soft, so intimate, it robs me of thought.

“No expectations,” he murmurs, stopping my words in an instant. “No names,” he continues, his voice silk and steel, weaving effortlessly around me.

Temptation wrapped in control.

Just like him.

His next words are a promise.

A damnation.

A sin spoken between us.

“Just pleasure.”

I swallow hard, my resolve slipping.

One night.

Just one.

No strings. No messy emotions. No consequences.

I should walk away.

But then what?

I go back to my apartment.

Crawl into my cold bed.

Spend the night thinking about the way he looks at me.

The way his fingers feel against my skin.

The way his voice curls around his words, dark and decadent and unyielding.

I meet his gaze again.

Blue. Sharp. Unwavering.

I already know what he wants.

And fuck— I want it too.

More than I should.

A long, slow exhale shudders through me as I press my lips together.

I should say no.

My lips even part to speak it.

But then…

“Yes.”