Chapter 17
T he guests have begun to mingle, the hum of conversation blending seamlessly with the soft notes of the live string quartet playing in the background.
With Damien momentarily pulled into a discussion with Mr. Calloway, I find myself drifting, my eyes scanning the candlelit terrace—until they land on James and Marcus.
The two of them stand a few feet away, glasses in hand, watching me with the kind of amused smirks that make my stomach tighten.
I narrow my eyes at them in silent warning, but their expressions only deepen in mischief as they approach.
Marcus reins in his smirk, joining Damien and Mr. Calloway. James leans in, his voice low and teasing. “That little display back there? The way Damien couldn’t take his eyes off you? Yeah, we saw it. And we’re not buying your act for a second.”
I give his arm a playful smack. “It’s all part of the gig,” I whisper back, my eyes darting to make sure no one heard.
James lifts his brows in mock disbelief, while Marcus simply takes a sip of his drink, the glint in his eyes making me roll mine.
“Sure it is, sweetheart.”
My cheeks warm, and I turn away, cursing them both under my breath as we’re called to dinner. “Behave yourself,” I scold, but it’s all in good fun.
“I should be telling you that, apparently.” He leaves with the last word, joining his husband as we take our seats.
The arrangement is a careful orchestration of power and influence. Mr. and Mrs. Calloway are seated to Damien’s right, while I am on his left. The rest of the long table is a mix of Calloway and Wolfe associates, key figures in the merger, and a few esteemed guests meant to add to the prestige of the evening.
Unfortunately, Adrian is directly across from me.
Even more unfortunately, the floral centerpieces are low and unobtrusive, ensuring a perfectly clear view of the man I’d rather pretend didn’t exist.
I feel his eyes on me, so I don’t even bother looking up.
He’s sure to have a smug smirk in place the entire evening—wanting, waiting for me to react to his proximity.
I don’t. I won’t.
Instead, I place my napkin on my lap, keeping my posture poised as the servers begin presenting the first course.
I don’t even realize I’m reaching for Damien’s hand. My arm snakes beneath his, my fingers mingling between his.
Still talking with Mr. Calloway, he raises my hand, kissing my knuckles as if it’s the most natural thing in the world—like we do this every day.
It’s a small, subtle touch.
Part of the charade because Margo is right there, watching our every move.
Damien puts my hand back in his lap, his fingers still threaded between mine, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
A reminder.
We’re in this together tonight. It’s the final game, and he’s in my corner as much as I am in his.
The servers move seamlessly around us, placing down the first course with practiced precision. The presentation is impeccable—a silver charger set before me, the pristine white plate showcasing a decadent display of escargot in their shells, each nestled in a bed of herbed garlic butter.
The scent alone is mouthwatering—rich, warm, laced with the intoxicating aroma of butter and white wine, mingled with the faintest hint of freshly chopped parsley.
The escargot are perfectly prepared, their shells gleaming under the candlelight, each one a tiny treasure chest of indulgence. The delicate spiral grooves hold pools of golden butter, shimmering under the glow of the overhead chandeliers. A sprinkle of sea salt and finely minced shallots adds to the anticipation curling low in my stomach.
A small hum of approval escapes me before I can stop it, and I hear Damien’s low chuckle beside me. I glance up, only to find his amused gaze fixed on me.
“You’re a fan,” he muses, watching as I take the special two-pronged fork in one hand and the snail tongs in the other, securing my first bite with practiced ease.
I smile. “One of my favorites.”
The conversation around us resumes as I focus on my plate, maneuvering the tongs around the smooth curve of the shell to keep it steady while I spear the tender meat.
But just as I lift it to my plate, the shell slips—snapping free of my grip and launching across the table.
Time slows.
I watch in horror as it spins through the air, bouncing once against the rim of a wine glass before Mr. Calloway, with reflexes impressive for a man of his age, reaches out and catches it midair.
The conversation around me stops.
Heat crawls up my neck, spreading fast across my cheeks as every eye in our immediate vicinity lands on me.
Then, without thinking, I flash a smile. “Slippery little suckers.”
Silence stretches for the briefest moment before Damien lets out a low, rumbling chuckle beside me.
Margo joins in, her laughter light and genuine.
Mr. Calloway grins, placing the rogue shell back onto my plate with a wink. “Happens to me all the time,” he assures, his voice warm and indulgent.
The table relaxes, the moment passing as others chuckle and return to their meals. I let out a breath, willing my pulse to steady, and glance sideways at Damien.
He sets me at ease with a quick wink, his grin pulling out the dimple on his left cheek. I look at it quickly before meeting his blue eyes once again.
His smile only gets bigger for just a beat before he turns back to his plate and the conversation. “So, what were you saying, Richard?”
The courses continue, each one as exquisite as the last. Every plate is a masterpiece—tender filet with a red wine reduction, delicate seafood bisque with a hint of saffron, a fresh citrus sorbet to cleanse the palate before the next indulgence.
I pace myself, knowing meals of this caliber are meant to be savored, not rushed.
The conversation at the table remains mostly business, the merger still the center of attention, though a few personal remarks are thrown in between bites. Mr. Calloway reminisces about his early years in the company, Margo chimes in with her own perspective, and Damien holds his own, his words confident and assured. I listen, nodding where appropriate, inserting small, strategic remarks to keep Margo engaged.
The servers move seamlessly around us, clearing the last remnants of dinner. I take a sip of my wine, thinking the evening is winding down, thankful for the lack of dramatics.
Then Adrian speaks.
I clearly celebrated too early.
“It’s an ambitious plan,” he says smoothly, swirling his drink lazily in his hand. “But I have concerns about the developments in those lower-income areas. We’ve all seen projects like this before—big promises, even bigger failures. Sink money into them, and before long, you’re looking at a ghost town of half-finished buildings and a PR nightmare.”
He leans back, the picture of nonchalance, but his words are pointed. A calculated jab meant to shake Calloway’s confidence in Damien.
I set my wine down and meet Adrian’s stare head-on.
Damien takes a breath to respond, but I beat him to it.
“Actually, I’d have to disagree,” I say smoothly, my voice carrying across the table with certainty. “There was a real estate development in a struggling district just over ten years ago—similar scale, similar concerns. And yet, here we are a decade later, and that same project is now widely credited with revitalizing the entire area. Job creation, infrastructure improvements, increased property values—by all accounts, it was a resounding success. The Lennox Square Redevelopment, if I’m not mistaken.”
Adrian scoffs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in what your fiancé tells you, Elena. He’s going to make sure you hear exactly what he wants you to believe.”
Damien physically tenses beside me, but I place my hand on his thigh, a silent signal. I keep my expression poised, unaffected. Then, with a knowing smile, I lift my glass.
“On the contrary,” I counter, tilting my head slightly. “That wasn’t one of Damien’s investments.”
I let the words settle, enjoying the slight flicker of confusion in Adrian’s gaze before I deliver the final blow.
“That was an initiative led by Margo.” I look to her with a proud smile.
Adrian’s jaw tightens as Margo lets out a soft laugh, utterly delighted.
“Oh, Elena, you’ve done your research,” she muses, lifting her own glass. “That project was one of the ones I was most proud of.”
“You set a precedent that makes it easy for others to follow. I have confidence the impressive Wolfe Industries CEO has accounted for this in his plans.”
I turn my warm smile to Damien, my hand moving from his leg to his cheek. I tuck a short tuft of hair behind his ear and brush my thumb along his jaw.
His returning expression is one of awe, mixed with something that looks too much like adoration.
I push away the warmth settling over me, bringing my structured rules back to the forefront of my mind.
It’s all part of the gig.
Calloway, watching the exchange with obvious amusement, chuckles and shakes his head. “Damien, you really have found yourself a sharp one, haven’t you? A woman who can keep up with you.”
He looks at Margo, his expression softening as he lifts his own glass.
“Reminds me of us.”
Margo smiles at her husband, touching his arm affectionately.
Adrian stays silent, barely masking his irritation.
“Well, I think this calls for a toast.” Calloway raises his glass higher.
“To Damien and Elena—two forces to be reckoned with. This is not just a match for love, but a match of prowess and power. A partnership that will shape our city in ways we’ve yet to see.”
He grins, nodding toward Damien and I feel him tense.
At something Calloway said? Or perhaps the toast in general, I’m not sure.
“New York better get ready.”
The rest of the table follows suit, glasses clinking together as they echo the toast.
I feel Damien’s fingers thread through mine again beneath the table, a small squeeze of approval.
He holds my stare and that tension eases away.
We clink our glasses together, our eyes never leaving each other as we take a sip.
And as I meet Adrian’s gaze across the table, the sour downturn of his mouth telling me exactly how much he hated losing this round, I can’t help the small, satisfied smile that curls at the corner of my lips.
“In fact,” Mr. Calloway stands and nods to the musicians who have been playing softly in the background of our meal. “I demand the first dance with the blushing bride-to-be.”
Calloway rounds his chair and holds his hand to help me up.
“Need to show these young ones how it’s done.” He teases, his words a playful jab at Damien as he pats his shoulder twice, escorting me to the dancefloor.
The music swells, the soft hum of a jazz standard filling the air as Mr. Calloway leads me effortlessly across the dance floor. His grip is firm but gentle, the kind of steady confidence that comes from years of practice.
I expected this to be awkward, but it isn’t.
He’s easy to talk to, his conversation lighthearted as he spins me with ease.
“You’re a natural,” he compliments, his voice warm with amusement.
I smile. “You’re a very good lead.”
“Decades of keeping up with Margo will do that to a man.” He grins.
“Speaking of which, I mean it when I say, you and Damien make quite the pair.”
I don’t let my smile falter.
“I’d like to think so.”
“True love can be rare for men like us,” he continues, guiding me into another smooth turn.
“A woman with beauty and brains? That’s a once-in-a-lifetime treasure. I knew Margo was the one the moment I saw her handle herself in a room full of men who underestimated her. She proved them all wrong.”
He eyes me with approval.
“And I suspect you’re no stranger to doing the same.”
The compliment is genuine, and I tuck it away like a small victory.
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Calloway.”
He laughs.
“Oh, none of that. We’re past such formalities. Call me Richard.”
I don’t miss the way Damien’s gaze lingers on me from across the room.
He’s standing with Marcus, but his attention is solely on me.
The weight of his stare is something I can feel even with my back turned.
The song winds to an end, and before I can return to my seat, another hand extends toward me.
“May I?”
James’ eyes twinkle with mischief, and I can’t help but smile as I let him take my hand.
“Of course.”
Richard claps him on the shoulder before heading toward Damien and Marcus, likely to return to business.
James pulls me in with an easy grace, his touch light as we fall into step.
“Well, you know how to liven up a dinner party,” he teases, his voice pitched low.
I roll my eyes playfully. “If by liven up you mean nearly taking Calloway’s eye out with a snail projectile, then yes—I’m a real showstopper.”
He throws his head back in genuine laughter.
Dancing with James is effortless.
He makes me laugh, relax even.
And I know that if circumstances were different—if I were allowed friendships outside of this contract—he and I would be fast friends.
But then, just as the song shifts into something slower, a shadow looms over us.
“Mind if I cut in?”
The tar-like sound of Adrian’s voice oozes down my back uncomfortably.
The lightheartedness I felt just moments ago vanishes, replaced by a sharp tension curling in my stomach.
My body goes rigid, but I don’t want to make a scene.
James hesitates, his eyes flicking to mine as if asking if I’m okay to be left with him.
I nod once. “It’s fine.”
Reluctantly, James steps back, giving me one last glance before turning toward Marcus and Damien.
Adrian’s hand finds my waist as he pulls me closer than necessary.
I resist the urge to shove him away, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
“I have to admit,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, “I didn’t expect you to play this role so well. It’s almost believable.”
I inhale through my nose, forcing myself to stay composed.
“Let go of me.”
“Now, now.” His fingers tighten slightly on my waist. “No need for theatrics. We’re just two old friends catching up, aren’t we?”
I grit my teeth.
“You and I were never friends.”
He chuckles.
“That’s true. We were so much more than that.”
His fingers trail slightly lower, and I jerk away from him.
He only smirks.
“Tell me, Elena . . . have you given my offer some thought?”
I meet his stare, unblinking.
“I don’t need to.”
“Why not?” His tone is smug.
“What’s he offering you, Elena? A pretend ring and an NDA? A condo, maybe?”
He leans in, his voice a low whisper against my ear, and I grit my teeth so hard it hurts.
“I’ll give you something real. One hundred million dollars, Elena. Something life changing.”
The number is outrageous.
Just like his desperation.
And his misguided belief that anything he could ever say would make me consider his offer for even a second.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance.
“I’d rather set myself on fire, you stupid piece of shit.”