Chapter 4
H is voice.
Deep, smooth—commanding.
Even before I look up, my stomach clenches.
No.
It can’t be.
I lift my gaze, and everything stops.
It’s him.
Standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered, composed—the very picture of power and control.
The man I spent the night with.
The man whose touch is still burned into my skin.
The man whose name I don’t even know.
But I’m about to.
Because for the next two weeks, I’ll be playing the convincing role of his fiancée.
A slow, suffocating beat stretches between us, thick with recognition.
His sharp blue eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, but I see the flicker of realization. The shock he doesn’t want to show.
Lucian, oblivious to the sheer catastrophe unfolding between us, gestures toward him with an easy grin.
“Elena Moreau—meet Damien Wolfe.”
The name hits like a freight train.
Damien Wolfe.
A man I should have left behind in that hotel room, nothing more than a fleeting memory of heat and indulgence.
But no—he’s here, standing in front of me, threatening to unravel everything I’ve worked for.
I built my life on rules. Boundaries. Contracts that keep things clean, controlled.
And last night?
Last night was the opposite of that.
I need distance. I need separation.
I need him to be just another client I can pretend to love.
But how the fuck am I supposed to pretend when I already know exactly how he feels between my legs?
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
The Wolfe Grand.
The luxury hotel The Ledger frequently books for its highest-tier clients.
The same hotel where I spent last night with him.
Lucian has an account there—a standing arrangement for his most exclusive companions.
I hear his voice in my memory, casual over drinks one night.
"An old friend owns it. We go way back."
An old friend.
Damien Wolfe.
The man whose name I wanted to moan into a pillow just hours ago.
I grip the contract folder a little tighter, my nails pressing into the glossy surface, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
This is a joke.
A fucking disaster.
But I’ve spent years mastering the art of composure.
So I don’t react.
Not visibly.
I tilt my chin, keeping my expression carefully neutral—even as my pulse jackhammers in my throat.
I can’t let him see it. Can’t let him know just how badly this is throwing me off balance.
I’ve spent years ensuring men like Damien Wolfe don’t get to me.
That they see only what I want them to see.
But this man?
He’s already seen too much.
Touched too much.
He’s in dangerous territory, and I need to put him back where he belongs.
As a job.
As a contract.
As nothing more than another temporary illusion.
I lift my chin, my voice steady, my mask perfectly in place.
Lucian is watching me, waiting.
“Mr. Wolfe.”
Damien, to his credit, doesn’t let anything slip.
But his jaw tightens, his fingers flex slightly around the folder in his grip—like he’s seconds from crushing it.
He exhales sharply through his nose, shifting his weight slightly.
Then—his voice.
Clipped. Controlled.
“Miss Moreau.”
Lucian clasps his hands together. “Perfect. Now that you two have met, let’s go over the contract details.”
Oh, I have no doubt Damien already knows every detail.
Just like I do.
We’re supposed to be engaged.
A deeply in love, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other engagement.
My stomach clenches.
Lucian flips through the contract with ease, barely glancing up as he lists our obligations.
“Public appearances together, charity events, dinners, meetings with Wolfe Industries’ board.”
Damien stays silent.
But I can still feel his fucking eyes on me.
“Of course,” Lucian continues, flipping a page, “the engagement must appear convincing, which means there will be physical expectations in public—hand-holding, the occasional affectionate moment.”
My throat tightens.
Affectionate moment.
I already know exactly how his hands feel on my body.
How his lips feel against mine.
I feel the shift in Damien—so small, so subtle, but I sense it.
He’s thinking about it, too.
“Elena has a strict ‘No Intimacy’ rule behind closed doors. This arrangement is strictly for appearances…”
His voice, when he finally speaks, is even. Emotionless.
“That won’t be necessary.”
I swallow hard.
And I swear it echoes around the entire office.
Lucian doesn’t catch the tension snapping between us like a live wire.
“And at the completion of the contract, there is a generous ten-million-dollar payout.”
I nearly choke.
I try to play it off with a cough, reaching for one of the crystal glasses and the pitcher of water—but Damien is closer.
I feel his presence as he lifts the pitcher and pours the water.
His fingers brush mine when he hands me the glass.
I barely breathe. “Thank you.”
I force myself to look at him. A flick of my gaze—then away.
Lucian leans back in his chair, grinning. “And that’s it. Everything is settled.”
Settled.
Sure.
If pretending I don’t know how Damien Wolfe tastes counts as settled.
Then okay, we’re settled.
Lucian clasps Damien’s shoulder. “You two are a match made in heaven.” His grin is sharp. “Elena here will give you a run for your money, old friend.”
I almost laugh.
Oh, Lucian.
You have no fucking idea.
T he Blackstone
A name synonymous with prestige and power.
A high-rise that looms over Fifth Avenue like a silent, watchful king.
I read about it earlier.
Damien owns the entire damn building.
It was a side note in one of the articles I skimmed—an almost casual mention in a long list of properties under Wolfe Industries.
The Wolfe of Fifth Avenue.
And now, I’m stepping directly into his den.
After meeting my walking disaster, I excused myself while Lucian explained the final logistics to Damien.
I felt every bit of his heavy gaze on me with each step I took out of Lucian’s office.
“Elena is leading orientation for the newest companions joining The Ledger family,” Lucian had said. “She’ll meet you at your penthouse tonight. And since your first outing is tomorrow, I suggest you use the evening to get better acquainted.”
I wanted to say:
I don’t think that will be necessary.
Instead, I let the heavy door close behind me.
The doorman immediately opens the door as I step out of the car, my heels clicking against the smooth black marble of the entrance.
Inside, everything is sleek, modern—cold in its perfection.
No personal touches. No warmth.
Just power.
The elevator ride is smooth, quiet—too quiet.
I shouldn’t be nervous.
But I am.
Not because of the contract.
Because of him.
Because the moment I step inside that penthouse, there will be no distractions.
No polite small talk.
No audience.
We will be alone.
And we’ll have to talk about last night.
I swallow hard as the elevator reaches the top floor, the doors sliding open with a soft ding.
The penthouse is beautiful—sleek, expensive, immaculate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, the glittering skyline spread before me like something out of a dream.
It’s rich and warm, instantly comforting.
Until I find him.
Standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, his broad, powerful frame silhouetted against the city lights.
His head turns slightly, pausing—as if still deciding how this second meeting will go.
His phone is pressed to his ear, likely listening to the caller on the other end.
“Thanks for checking on it, Cal.”
He ends the call.
Then finally, his piercing blue gaze settles on me.
The air charges between us.
And then—he speaks.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”
His voice is deep, the timbre smooth and low, dripping down my spine like warm silk.
I tilt my chin. “Neither did I.”
And just like that—the game begins.