Chapter 10
T he sleek black town car glides up the winding drive of the Westbury Country Club, its pristine grounds sprawling in all directions, bathed in the golden morning light.
It’s the kind of place where old money is inherited, not earned, and where women like Mrs. Calloway—graceful, poised, and influential—hold court like modern-day aristocracy.
As the car rolls to a stop beneath the covered entryway, I exhale, smoothing my hands down the white pleated tennis skirt I chose for today.
Classic. Elegant.
The kind of attire that blends in effortlessly among the ranks of country-club wives while still making an impression.
A crisp-uniformed valet opens my door, offering a polite smile as I step out, my white sneakers barely making a sound against the smooth pavement.
I nod in acknowledgment, offering a small smile before stepping forward into the club’s grand entrance.
The air is cool, scented with expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee, the quiet murmur of moneyed conversations echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
Confidence, I remind myself. This isn’t just a game of appearances—it’s a battle of positioning.
My positioning.
If this deal goes through, it won’t just solidify Damien’s merger—it will be my success, too.
My payout. My future.
The ten million dollars at the end of this contract is the key to my freedom. The key to finally owning something of my own. To finally walking away from the Black Ledger with enough to never look back.
I’m so close I can feel it.
And I’ll be damned if I let anything—or anyone—get in the way.
Stepping past the entrance, I follow the concierge’s direction toward the club’s private courts. The sound of tennis balls hitting taut strings echoes through the manicured hedges, the distant chatter of the morning social crowd humming in the air.
I spot Mrs. Calloway immediately.
Dressed in a crisp white tennis dress, she’s the picture of effortless wealth, her sleek blonde ponytail pulled high, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the sunlight as she gestures animatedly to one of her friends.
She’s exactly the kind of woman who holds the power to make or break men like Damien Wolfe.
And today, I need to ensure that power works in our favor.
Straightening my posture, I push my shoulders back and stride toward her, a warm, confident smile curving my lips.
“Mrs. Calloway,” I greet smoothly as I approach. “I hope I’m not too late.”
She turns, her sharp eyes sweeping over me with appraisal before softening into a pleased smile.
“Not at all, dear. And call me Margo,” she says, reaching out to clasp my hand in a delicate but firm grip. “I was just telling Sandra about you. She’s absolutely dying to hear more about your work with St. James.”
I smile at the mention—perfectly timed, perfectly placed.
The game begins.
Sandra’s daughter arrives—another blushing bride planning a lavish spring wedding next year.
Mrs. Calloway—Margo—wants to know my plans. She hasn’t read anything about our engagement in any of the papers.
Ah, she’s been looking.
“Damien has paid a pretty penny to keep our relationship private.” I take a sip of cool water. “Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing he can’t do.”
I find myself staring off for a moment, the weight of that statement settling deep inside me.
“Young love,” Sandra teases, nudging Margo with her elbow and a smirk.
“It looks beautiful on you, Elena.” Margo’s eyes gleam with something almost maternal. “So, tell us—where do you plan to marry? Richard and I couldn’t have children, so allow me to live vicariously through you and pretend I’m the mother of the bride.”
We chuckle, but I hide the burn in my chest that comment causes.
“I bet your parents are just thrilled?—”
She’s cut off, noticing someone behind us. Margo smiles and raises her hand.
“Over here, dear.” With her hands on each side of her chair, she stands. “My nephew.”
Sandra falls into a quiet chat with her daughter, and I rise as well, turning around to make a polite greeting to the newcomer.
My breath stalls mid-inhale. A cold grip seizes my spine, locking me in place as my eyes meet his.
Familiar. Unmistakable.
A ghost I thought I’d buried for good.
Adrian Kingston.
He’s every inch the same spoiled rich boy he was back then—tailored sportswear, designer sunglasses perched atop his head, that same lazy, self-satisfied smirk that used to make my skin crawl.
It still does.
My hands curl into the fabric of my skirt before I force them to relax.
Breathe. Stay calm.
“What a surprise, Adrian.” Margo beams as she hugs him.
He watches me over her shoulder, never looking away.
The shock barely has time to register before his lips stretch into a slow, sinister smile. It’s the same arrogant, entitled smirk I remember—one that once made me feel small, insignificant.
Powerless.
Not anymore.
I smooth my expression, shuttering the moment of recognition, slipping into the role I’ve perfected over the years. The woman I am now doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t cower.
Margo beams, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beneath my skin. “Elena, dear, this is my nephew, Adrian. Adrian, meet Elena—Damien Wolfe’s fiancée.”
The amusement in his gaze sharpens.
I extend my hand as if I’ve never seen him before, as if the touch of his skin on mine wouldn’t make me want to scrub it raw.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Adrian takes it. Holds it a second too long.
His grip is firm, his thumb brushing over my wrist—subtle, intentional. Testing me.
“Haven’t we met before?” His voice is smooth, laced with mock curiosity.
My stomach twists, but I don’t blink.
I keep a polite smile on my face, slipping my fingers from his grasp. “No, I don’t believe so.”
His smirk deepens.
“Hmm.” He tilts his head like he’s picking apart a puzzle. “I never forget a pretty face, and someone as beautiful as you would leave an impression.”
The words slither through the space between us, wrapping around my ribs like a slow constriction.
Before I have to reply, Margo calls for the server.
“Oh, let’s have some iced teas brought over, please.” She waves a hand, distracted, her warm attention still blissfully unaware of the tension radiating from me.
I rip my hand away from him.
His eyes gleam with something wicked. Calculating.
And suddenly, the stakes of this entire charade feel so much higher.
Because Adrian isn’t just some old flame.
He’s the kind of problem that doesn’t go away quietly.
And he’s just found his favorite plaything again.
Sandra and her daughter are already moving back toward the court, rackets in hand, chatting about their last set.
Perfect. A distraction.
I move to join them, eager to put as much space between myself and Adrian as possible. My grip tightens around my racket as I exhale slowly, resetting.
I can do this. Just one more round, then lunch, and I can leave.
But fate—or rather, Margo—has other plans.
“Oh, one second, dear.” She frowns, glancing at her phone as it rings on the side table. “It’s Richard. I need to take this.” She stands, already answering. “Adrian, you go ahead and play in my place.”
Shit.
I school my expression, even as dread lurches in my stomach.
Adrian smirks, already stepping onto the court. “Love to.”
Sandra and her daughter are oblivious to the sudden shift in energy, already positioning themselves for play. I force my feet forward, gripping my racket so hard it creaks.
The game is tense.
I keep to my side, moving quickly, efficiently, avoiding him at every opportunity. But Adrian is determined to do the opposite.
He lingers too close. Moves into my space under the guise of gameplay.
When I call a shot and move to return it, he’s suddenly there, right behind me.
“Nice reflexes, baby,” he murmurs, just low enough for only me to hear.
My spine stiffens.
I don’t respond. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I focus on the game—on anything but the dark, simmering satisfaction in his voice.
The round is over quickly—too quickly.
Margo, now off the phone, calls out from the sidelines, “Lunchtime, ladies! Sorry, Adrian—girls only!”
Adrian feigns offense at his aunt, who chuckles. Sandra and her daughter are already walking toward the umbrella-covered table, distracted as they chat.
Margo turns, heading in the same direction, leaving Adrian and me a few paces behind.
Too close.
“We should get coffee sometime,” he says smoothly.
“No.”
I raise my hand just enough for the sunlight to catch the glint of my engagement ring. “I’m engaged, remember.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens, dark amusement flashing in his eyes.
His fingers tighten around my wrist, pressing against my pulse—a slow, deliberate squeeze. My stomach turns, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck as he tugs me just close enough for his breath to ghost my cheek.
My eyes dart to Margo, but she’s not looking.
No one is.
“We both know you’re not.”
A chill slithers down my spine.
Not because he’s guessing. Because he’s certain.
His tone isn’t curiosity. It’s a threat.
“Get your hands off me,” I say, my voice cold, steady as I rip myself away from him.
He lets go, but his smirk stays, tilting his head slightly, like he’s toying with a puzzle he already knows the answer to.
I don’t wait for another word.
I turn sharply, walking away toward the safety of Margo and the others, already slipping my mask back on.
“I’ll be in touch,” Adrian calls after me.
I don’t stop.
But my heart pounds so hard against my ribs I swear the entire country club can hear it.
This doesn’t happen. The Ledger does exhaustive background checks—on clients, on anyone in their orbit.
Especially for a high-stakes contract like this.
A Ledger Companion faking an engagement to a prior client?
Impossible.
So how the fuck did Lucian miss this?
I need to get a moment away so I can text him. Because this may very well bring this contract, this merger, and my dreams crashing down around us.