Chapter 16
T he estate’s private spa is a haven of luxury, the kind of place most people dream about but never get to experience.
Everything is meticulously curated—the crisp white robes, the gentle trickle of a marble fountain in the background, and the lingering scent of eucalyptus and lavender.
Margo Calloway has spared no expense.
Not with yesterday’s yacht event or our girls-only private spa day.
I stretch out on the massage table, my muscles melting under the skilled hands of the masseuse.
Across from me, Margo mirrors my position, her eyes closed in contentment as warm oil is kneaded into her skin.
It’s heavenly.
And yet, I know this isn’t just about indulgence.
The conversation started harmlessly enough—light, easy chatter about the St. James Orphanage.
I shared a few carefully chosen details—nothing too revealing. Margo listened, nodding thoughtfully before shifting the conversation to the wedding.
A seamless transition. A natural one.
But I know where this is going.
At the end of this weekend, Mrs. Calloway’s opinion will decide everything.
She may not sit on the board. She may not have an official title.
But Mr. Calloway listens to his wife.
And after this weekend, if she says Damien Wolfe is the right man to take over, her husband will sign the papers without a second thought.
So, I let her lead.
I answer her questions with ease, painting a picture of a woman hopelessly devoted to the man she’s about to marry. But Margo Calloway is sharp.
I feel the shift before she even speaks—the way her words slow as the massage therapists press deep into the muscles along our spines.
“You know, my husband can talk numbers all day long. He can analyze market projections, dive into balance sheets, and play the long game with the best of them. But at the end of the day . . .” She pauses, turning her head slightly toward me. “He always says the same thing: The man matters more than the numbers. ”
I keep my expression neutral, my tone even. “What do you mean?”
Margo’s lips curve slightly. “You can have the most impressive business plan in the world, but if the man leading it isn’t the right one—someone with integrity, vision, and a steady hand—it won’t matter. The foundation will eventually crack.” She studies me for a long moment. “I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
My fingers tighten slightly against the plush towel beneath me.
“Damien has worked hard for this deal,” I say carefully.
She nods, acknowledging that much. “And he’s an impressive man. Brilliant. Ruthless when necessary . . . but controlled. My husband respects him. That’s a rare thing.”
Something about the way she says it makes me pause.
“And you?” I ask, watching her reaction. “Do you respect him?”
A knowing smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “I’ve been watching him. Watching the way he moves in these circles. He’s different from the others.”
Her tone shifts, her words slower now, deliberate. The therapists take it as a cue to prepare their supplies for facials, giving us this moment of focus.
“But I have to know . . . is he the kind of man who values legacy? Or just conquest?”
I don’t answer right away, thoughtfully navigating through my mind, hoping to pick the right words.
The details of Damien’s childhood and early years are a mystery to me.
I have no idea what drove him to the ambition he seeks as an adult, but I know he made every penny of his fortune on his own—one of the few men in the modern world who can make that claim.
It’s something I respect about him immensely.
I know exactly what it means to crawl and fight for every crumb, too—something I bet the Calloways know nothing about.
“Mr. Calloway had his fortune handed to him.”
Margo has the good sense to hide her shock, but I can tell by the flash in her eyes that she wasn’t expecting me to say that.
But she is quiet, allowing me to continue.
“He took that fortune and multiplied it, turning it into something greater. But that starting point—the Calloway name, the weight it carried—was given to him as a birthright.”
I meet her gaze, steady and sure.
“Damien has had no such luxury. Every hill he has climbed, every mountain he’s conquered, he’s done it on his own.”
She can see where I’m going with this, and I catch the subtle change in her calculated expressions.
“You see conquests, but I see something else.” I exhale slowly, choosing my words carefully. “I see the first foundation of a legacy being laid—brick by brick, deal by deal—right before our very eyes. I wonder if the early Calloways didn’t appear similar to those observing from the sidelines.”
For a moment, Margo is silent. Then, finally, she lets out a soft, thoughtful hum.
“You are quite the persuasive woman, Elena.”
She turns her head in the other direction just as our massage therapists return at the perfect moment.
“I like that about you.” she says, her voice traveling across the room.
And just like that, the weight of the evening settles over me.
Because now I understand.
Tonight isn’t just about business.
It’s about proving—through every interaction, every glance, every whispered conversation—that Damien Wolfe isn’t just here to win a game.
He’s here to stay. And so am I.
T he soft hum of conversation filters through the night air as I step onto the path leading toward the pavilion. Overhead, strands of delicate golden lights glow beneath the canopy of the outdoor tent, casting a warm, intimate ambiance over the evening’s formal dinner.
Margo walks beside me, gushing over the perfect weather for our final gathering of the weekend.
Mr. Calloway is on the walkway, headed toward us. His eyes gleam as he watches his wife, and she beams back at him, her coral gown a perfect complement to his tailored white suit and matching bow tie.
A carefully curated image of unity—one I should have anticipated.
I run my hands down the beaded front of my gown, suddenly second-guessing my choice for the evening.
The soft seafoam-colored fabric is delicate, ethereal—Margo nearly died when I stepped out of the dressing room, saying it was perfect for tonight. I love the way it drapes over my frame, the way the light shimmers off the subtle beading, how the open back feels like the right mix of elegant and daring.
But I should have considered what Damien was wearing. We should have coordinated before leaving New York.
I internally scold myself. I’m a better Companion than this. These are the details I get paid to make perfect.
“Ladies.” Mr. Calloway offers his arm to both of us—a gentlemanly escort the rest of the way to the tent. The sound of conversation, laughter, and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses drifts through the air.
My eyes dart from person to person nervously, until I find Damien—and the rest of the world falls away.
Standing near the elegantly set dining tables, dressed in a light-gray suit that fits his broad frame to perfection, he looks effortlessly powerful, undeniably in control. The crisp white of his shirt is open at the collar—a deliberate contrast to the more rigidly buttoned-up men surrounding him. His mother-of-pearl cuff links catch the flickering glow of candlelight, and he is, in one word, stunning.
But it isn’t the suit, or the way we accidentally match, or even the setting that has my breath catching in my throat.
It’s the way he is looking at me.
Damien Wolfe is a man who does not react easily.
A man who does not give anything away unless he intends to.
And yet, as his eyes sweep over me, there is no mistaking what I see in them.
His expression is unreadable, his stance deceptively relaxed, but his gaze is slow, deliberate—like he’s taking his time, committing every detail to memory.
The way my floor-length gown shimmers under the lights, the seafoam color making my skin glow, my hazel eyes turn more green than gold. The way the low-draped back exposes the smooth curve of my spine, drawing attention to bare skin begging to be touched.
Something shifts in his posture, barely perceptible.
One hand slips into his pocket. The other swirls his crystal glass of amber liquor.
Heat licks up my spine, my cheeks warming despite the evening breeze.
He takes a step toward me, then another, placing his glass down on a nearby table.
I force myself to breathe, to focus, to close the distance between us.
We come together like two magnets, pulled by an invisible tether.
He wraps one arm low around my waist, his hold commanding, possessive.
The other slips beneath my hair, firm between my shoulder blades as he turns me, dipping me back ever so slightly—just enough that I am at his mercy.
My hands go to him on instinct. One around his waist, the other clutching his bicep.
His muscles ripple as he holds me.
Running his nose up the column of my neck, his lips barely touch the surface of my skin—the whispered memory of how they felt only a week ago.
He takes in the scent of my perfume in an almost reverent way.
“Damien.” I gasp his name, and it doesn’t come out as the warning I intend. It’s a breathy plea that sounds dangerously like a cry for more—for those lips to place kisses along my neck, behind my ear. To mold to mine as a public claim of who I belong to.
A rumble in his throat sends a wave of chills down my body.
“Be careful saying my name like that, Trouble , when you look as beautiful as you do.”
He sets me upright again, a triumphant gleam in his stare that looks almost boyish—carefree.
“Thank you.” The smile that comes to my face is a real one. “You look quite handsome yourself.”
My hand runs up his chest to the piece of his lapel that is tucked under, out of place.
I correct it, my mind going back to the evening at Ember & Ash.
“There. Perfect.” The last word is a whisper, and he takes in a sharp breath, stepping closer to me.
“Elena,” he starts, catching my wrist as it retreats—just like he did when he asked me to stay with him. The moment stretches, pulling tight between us, and I’m afraid if one of us doesn’t break it soon, my rules will become nonexistent.
His eyes move to my mouth, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.
Wondering what will happen if he pushes through the invisible barrier of my rules to taste me again.
Our savior comes in the form of Margo. Her voice cuts in smoothly, distracting us both.
“I do love a couple who knows how to dress in sync,” she muses, sipping her champagne.
Damien doesn’t release my wrist right away, his thumb brushing once against the delicate skin before he finally lets go. But he doesn’t step back. Instead, he turns slightly toward Margo, his expression shifting into something effortlessly composed—though the heat behind his gaze doesn’t fully disappear.
His hand drifts down to my lower back, resting there in a way that feels both protective and possessive.
“When something”—he pauses, his eyes flicking back to mine—“or someone is meant to stand beside you, things tend to align naturally.”
Margo, ever perceptive, lifts a knowing brow, pleased by the sentiment.
But I know the words aren’t for her.
They’re for me.
And the slow, deliberate way Damien’s fingers trace the curve of my spine before finally falling away tells me—he knows I know it too.