Chapter 11
I should be reviewing the latest reports. Should be preparing for my next meeting. Should be doing anything other than sitting at my desk, phone in hand, staring at Elena’s name on the screen.
I have her number. I’m allowed to use it.
I’ve started a text at least twenty times today. Typed out the words, stared at them, then deleted them.
How’s tennis?
Did you make a good impression?
Do you need anything?
That last one makes my jaw tighten. Do you need me?
I release a slow, frustrated exhale, setting my phone facedown on the desk like that’ll stop me from picking it up again.
I feel fucking pathetic.
This isn’t a problem I have. Ever.
Women don’t make me second-guess myself. They don’t make me hesitate. If anything, I’m the one pushing them off when they start clinging too tightly, expecting something more than what I’m willing to give.
They always want something.
My money. My power. A headline.
Fifteen minutes of fame being photographed with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.
I learned that the hard way.
Once.
Before I was this man. Before Wolfe Industries became an empire. Before I understood exactly how people worked.
Her name was Genevieve Mercer—daughter of one of my first business partners. Beautiful, poised, effortlessly charming. The kind of woman bred for high society. And I was fucking stupid enough to believe she loved me.
I was on the cover of every business and finance magazine that existed. Quickly rising to the top of every list, and she was on my arm. Brought her into a world most could only dream of. Introduced her to people who could shape any future she wanted. And in return?
She fucked her ex in my own bed.
One of those ran into each other at a bar situations.
And one thing led to another.
I walked into my own home, found my girlfriend in my bed with another man, and she didn’t even have the decency to feel sorry about it.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t even look guilty.
Just wrapped herself in my shirt like she still had the right and gave me a long, pitying look.
"People like us don’t do love matches, Damien. We do power. Position. What we can offer each other. And when we need something else?" She had the audacity to shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "We find it where we can."
And that’s when I knew relationships weren’t for me.
People don’t want love. They want leverage.
So, when Marcus brought up my problem—when he suggested I needed a fiancée to close this deal—there was only one solution that made sense.
A contract. A business exchange. Something professional. Mutual.
And The Ledger was exactly that.
No emotions. No risk. Just a perfectly packaged arrangement where everyone gets what they want.
That’s what I know. That’s what I’m good at.
But not once have I felt that with Elena.
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw clenching.
Is that part of the act? A carefully calculated move?
Or is that the real her?
And why the fuck do I care so much?
Why the fuck am I staring at a text like a man who doesn’t know better?
My assistant, Vanessa, steps into my office, tablet in hand, her usual polished smile firmly in place. She moves with ease, setting the schedule down in front of me like she does every week.
“Your schedule for next week, sir,” she says smoothly.
I cringe at the way the word sir grates against me. I think it’s the way she says it that makes me want to fire her.
I barely glance at it before nodding. “Fine.” Then, without looking up, I add, “Clear my schedule Monday after four.”
There’s a slight pause—a hesitation that doesn’t belong.
“That’s… unusual,” she notes, keeping her voice light, casual. “Is it for an event?”
I flip a page in my contract notes, my attention already elsewhere. “No.”
The silence that follows is longer this time, like she’s waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t, she shifts her stance, clearly searching for another angle.
“If it’s an event, I could come along. Be close by.”
Her implication is obvious, but I don’t take the bait. My focus remains on the documents in front of me. “I won’t need anything.”
Still, she lingers. And it’s grating on my fucking nerves.
“Noted,” she finally says, though something in her tone suggests otherwise. “Should I mark it as personal, then?”
When I don’t respond right away, she presses a little further. “I am happy to make myself available to you, Mr. Wolfe… anytime you need… anything. Even outside of work.”
I finally look up, my patience nearly eviscerated. My voice is flat, final.
“Noted,” I correct. “Should my fiancée suddenly be unavailable, of course.”
Her reaction is subtle, but I don’t miss it—the way her eyes flicker, the brief hesitation like she’s recalibrating.
“Oh,” she says after a beat. “I… didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”
There’s something almost expectant in the way she says it. Like she’s waiting for me to clarify. To correct her.
I don’t.
The door behind her opens before she can come up with another excuse to stay. Marcus steps inside, his presence a welcome distraction.
Vanessa hesitates, clearly debating whether to press her luck. I don’t give her the chance.
“That’s all,” I say dismissively, already shifting my attention to Marcus.
She lingers just long enough to toss out one final remark. “Let me know if anything changes.”
Marcus waits for the door to click shut before shaking his head, amusement lacing his voice. “You know your assistant wants to fuck you, right?”
I exhale sharply, irritation simmering just beneath my skin. “No,” I correct, leaning back in my chair, fingers tapping once against the armrest before I let out a slow breath. “She wants me to fuck her. There’s a difference.”
Marcus smirks, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Either way…”
“She’s gone as soon as this merger is over.”
My phone buzzes twice in quick succession, the vibration rattling against my desk. Across from me, Marcus’s phone lights up as well.
I glance down, eyes catching on the name flashing across my screen.
Elena.
There’s a flicker of something I don’t want to name—a tightening in my chest that shouldn’t be there.
She’s texting me.
I ignore the feeling and open the message.
ELENA: Back at the penthouse. Tennis went great. On a first-name basis with Mrs. Calloway. Margo, as I call her. My new bestie.
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.
Fingers hovering over the keyboard, I hesitate for a second before finally typing out a response.
DAMIEN: Aw. Did you two make friendship bracelets on the tennis courts?
It’s dry, neutral—at least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not flirtation, just conversation.
Her reply comes back almost instantly.
ELENA: She said that’s next time. We’re up for a mani-pedi on Sunday.
I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head, a smirk creeping in despite my best efforts.
My thumb taps idly against the edge of the phone—one tap, then two—like I can’t quite let go of the moment.
Across from me, Marcus shifts, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with an arched brow, phone in hand.
“Please tell me you’re not smiling at the email we just got from Calloway.”
“What?” My brows furrow as I click into my inbox.
Marcus lifts his phone, shaking it once as he exhales. “Check your damn email, Wolfe.”
My fingers move, quick and efficient, navigating to my inbox. The moment I see the subject line, my focus sharpens, all thoughts of Elena momentarily shoved aside.
From : Richard Calloway
Subject : Weekend Itinerary – Hamptons Retreat
I scan the contents, reading once, then again.
A slow, creeping realization settles in.
My jaw tightens.
“What the fuck?”
Marcus lets out a low whistle, still staring at his screen in disbelief. “Tell me I’m seeing things.”
I don’t answer right away. I read the email again, slower this time, hoping I’ve misread something—that some detail will shift into place and make this all make sense.
It doesn’t.
It’s the usual bullshit—finalizing details, wrapping up negotiations in a relaxed setting—except for one line that sticks out like a fucking landmine.
Bringing in his nephew to consult on a few things.
My grip tightens on my phone as I lean back in my chair, exhaling sharply through my nose. My jaw ticks once, then again.
“What the fuck do we know about his nephew?” My voice is sharp, cutting through the quiet hum of the office.
Marcus shakes his head, already typing something on his phone. “Not a damn thing. I ran checks on the immediate family, but the nephew never came up in anything relevant.”
I mutter a curse, scanning the email again, irritation bleeding into something darker.
This just got complicated.
“We’re on high alert,” Marcus says, mirroring my thoughts. “This could bring trouble.”
“No shit.”
I don’t like trouble. I don’t like surprises. And I sure as hell don’t like unknown variables fucking up my plans.
With a slow exhale, I open my text thread with Elena.
DAMIEN: You up for that spa day to happen at the Hamptons?
Her response, once again, comes almost instantly.
ELENA: I’m your beck-and-call girl. At your service, sir.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
I stare at that last word longer than I should.
Sir.
It sinks into me, warm and slow, curling low in my stomach in a way I don’t have time to fucking analyze.
I force myself to close the text thread before I do something stupid.
Like text her again just to see what else she’d call me.