Chapter 18
C alloway is talking.
That much I am aware of. The words he says, whether he is directing them at me—no fucking idea.
Marcus responds when I don’t, his expression clearly questioning me, but I don’t register a single word.
Because my focus is locked elsewhere.
On her.
On him.
Adrian’s hand rests too low on Elena’s back, his grip firm, possessive in a way that sets my teeth on edge. His lips move close to her ear, whispering something meant only for her, and the way his fingers linger against the delicate fabric of her dress makes my grip tighten around my glass.
I know his type.
The ones who take because they think they can. The ones who wear their arrogance like a second skin, convinced the world owes them something.
And right now, I can see it—the way he’s toying with her, testing her boundaries, pushing just enough to see how far he can go before she pushes back.
The sharp burn in my chest is immediate, creeping up my throat, my jaw locking tight as I watch the interaction unfold.
I don’t do jealousy.
It’s pointless. Useless. A distraction at best.
But this?
This isn’t jealousy. This is something else.
Something far more dangerous.
I should look away.
I should stay focused on the larger picture, on the merger, on the endgame we’re so close to achieving.
But I don’t.
Because I fucking can’t.
Adrian shifts closer, his fingers pressing slightly into the curve of her waist.
She tenses, her body language giving away more than she realizes.
That’s it.
I set my glass down with a little more force than needed, already moving before I’ve fully processed the thought.
Elena catches sight of me just as I reach them. Relief flashes in her eyes for the briefest second before she smooths her expression into something composed. Unreadable.
I don’t break stride.
“Mind if I cut in?”
My voice is calm, deceptively smooth, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it.
Adrian, predictably smug, offers a lazy smirk.
“Actually, we were just?—”
“I wasn’t asking.”
I step forward, sliding an arm around Elena’s waist, pulling her against me in one fluid movement.
The shift is immediate—she’s in my arms, and he’s dismissed.
Adrian exhales sharply through his nose, clearly irritated but not foolish enough to press the issue. Instead, he salutes lazily with two fingers on his forehead, some mock acknowledgment before strolling away.
I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to wipe a look off someone’s face more.
Exhaling slowly, I fight the tension coiling inside me, redirecting my focus to the woman now in my arms.
Her pulse is racing beneath my fingertips. Her pupils blown wide, a clear sign of high adrenaline.
“Are you okay?” I murmur, my voice lower now, meant only for her.
She hesitates, just barely, before forcing a small smile.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not.
“Elena,” I press gently, tightening my hold just slightly.
She exhales, her lashes lowering before she speaks.
“I just don’t want to cause a scene,” she admits, her voice quieter now. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But . . . Adrian makes me uncomfortable.”
Those words are all it takes.
A slow, simmering protectiveness flares inside me, raging in an instant to a boil, and I look for him.
My mind immediately rewinds—to the yacht, to the way Adrian looked at her in that bikini, his eyes lingering too long, like he had any fucking right.
To his hands on her just now, holding her too tightly, too familiarly.
To the way she tried to lean away, her shoulders stiff, every muscle locked in discomfort.
The thought of it burns through me like gasoline on an open flame.
I clench my jaw, forcing my grip to remain steady, controlled, even as my blood simmers with something dangerously close to rage.
I want to go find him, smash his smug face into a brick wall.
Elena must sense it because her hands come up, palms pressing gently against the sides of my face.
“Hey, eyes on me, Wolfe.”
It stops me cold.
My focus shifts, locking onto hers as my heart stutters in my chest.
“That’s it. It’s just you and me.”
They’re the same words I said to her when I scared the shit out of her on the yacht.
Her calm, sweet voice is a soothing balm, cooling the heat threatening to explode within me.
“He’s not worth it,” she whispers.
But you are.
She’s calming me, her thumbs barely brushing against my skin in quiet reassurance, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
And in return, my hands move against the smooth, bare expanse of her back, stroking up and down, a silent promise that she is safe.
That no one will ever hurt her while she is in my arms.
Something about the moment shifts everything in my mind.
She isn’t just my contract.
She isn’t just part of the game we’re playing.
She’s Elena.
And I would burn the fucking world down before I let anyone make her feel unsafe.
I lean in, lowering my voice so only she can hear.
“No one will hurt you,” I vow. “Not him. Not anyone. Not as long as I’m here.”
Her fingers press slightly into my skin, and I feel the tension in her frame begin to ease.
The weight of the moment lingers between us, stretching too tight, pulling too close.
But I don’t want to be the one crashing through her barriers.
I want her to meet me there, at that line her rules have drawn in the sand, and I want the both of us to cross them together.
So, I do the only thing I can before I do something I shouldn’t—I shift it.
My lips curve slightly, my tone feigning casual consideration.
“But if you’d like . . . there are a few alternative solutions we could consider.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “What?”
I exhale, as if weighing the options.
“Drowning. Spoiled little rich boys drown all the time.”
She smiles, catching onto my teasing as it has its intended effect.
“A tragic croquet accident.”
I look at her as if I just had a bright idea.
“I saw him go to the bathroom kind of quickly after the snails. We could feed him a bunch and make him shit himself to death.”
Her eyes widen in shock as a genuine laugh escapes her, the sound breaking through the tension and sending a surge of satisfaction through me.
“Damien,” she chides, shaking her head, but she’s smiling now, and I feel the tension in my own shoulders ease in response.
I smirk, leaning in just enough to murmur, “What? I’m a problem solver.”
Her laughter is soft, breathless, still lingering as she shakes her head.
I should leave it at that. Should let this moment slip by before I do something I shouldn’t.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
Instead, I study her. The way her lips are still parted slightly, the way her eyes are warm but guarded, like she’s not sure whether to let her walls down or rebuild them higher than before.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.
Not with me.
But I’d be the biggest fucking hypocrite that ever lived.
Instead, I settle for something lighter. Something that won’t shatter whatever fragile thing has been built between us tonight.
“You’re beautiful when you laugh, Trouble.”
The nickname slips out effortlessly, my voice quieter now, rougher.
Elena’s smile falters slightly, and something flickers in her hazel eyes—something I can’t quite grasp before she hides it away.
Her lashes lower, and she exhales softly, her fingers still resting lightly against my chest.
“Careful, Wolfie,” she murmurs. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, something almost wistful in her expression. “You almost sound like you mean that.”
I don’t blink. Don’t breathe.
Because fuck.
I do.
I mean every damn word.
But before I can say anything, before I can do anything, a crack of thunder rolls across the sky, the distant storm drawing closer.
Elena glances up, distracted, her lips parting slightly as she watches the sky flicker with lightning over the ocean.
I take the out she’s given me, exhaling slowly as I step back, creating space between us.
“We should head out before it downpours,” I murmur, running a hand through my hair.
She nods, like she’s been snapped back into reality, and I recognize the way she swallows thickly, how she subtly puts distance between us.
Like she needs to.
Like she’s afraid of what might happen if she doesn’t.
Still, she lets me take her hand as we move away from the dance floor, making our way down the wooden deck and onto the moonlit beach that leads back to our bungalow.
I slip off my shoes, holding them in one hand, and Elena follows suit, lifting the hem of her gown as she steps barefoot onto the cool sand.
For a while, we walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of the distant party fading behind us, replaced by the steady rhythm of the waves.
After a beat, Elena stops, glancing at me before holding out her shoes.
I lift a brow, and she smirks.
“You’re already carrying yours,” she points out. “Might as well add mine to the collection.”
I huff out a low laugh, but I take them, adding them to mine.
She watches me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression before she finally asks, “Tell me why?”
I glance at her, brow lifting slightly. “Why what?”
She hesitates, then gestures vaguely with her free hand, the motion encompassing more than just the merger—the empire, the relentless drive, the insatiable hunger for more.
“Why do you chase all of this so much?” she asks, her voice curious, not judgmental.
Something about the way she asks—like she genuinely wants to understand me—makes my chest tighten.
“What made little Damien Wolfe want to grow up and own half the world's biggest cities?” she presses, tilting her head slightly.
I let out a slow breath, my eyes fixed ahead on the ocean as I consider her question.
She’s not the first person to ask.
But she is the first person I actually want to answer.
“You talk about it like it was always inevitable,” I muse, my tone dry but not unkind.
She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Well, you don’t exactly do anything halfway, Mr. Wolfe. From where I’m standing, it seems like every move you’ve ever made has been leading up to this. Like you always knew exactly where you were going.”
I hum, shifting the shoes in my hand before tucking my free hand into my pocket.
“I didn’t.”
She waits, patient, giving me the space to continue if I want to.
I exhale, my gaze tracing the horizon before I finally say it.
“My father was a mid-level corporate man who lost everything on a bad investment.”
Her brows furrow slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“He made a bet on something too risky. Didn’t hedge it properly. And when it crashed, so did we.”
I shake my head slightly. “Lost the house. The savings. Everything.”
Elena stays quiet, listening.
“My mother . . .” I swallow, my voice steady, but the memory burns like an old wound.
“She never recovered from it,” I continue. “She fell into a deep depression. Eventually, she took her own life.”
Elena sucks in a quiet breath, but I don’t look at her.
This part has always felt so detached from me.
“I had no idea, Damien,” she whispers.
“You won’t find any records of it. No stories. No headlines. Just . . . gone.”
I keep my voice flat, because if I don’t, something inside me might crack open completely.
“When I was able to, I paid a lot of money to make it that way.”
I finally glance at her, my lips twitching into something humorless.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the weight of her sorrow as she looks at me.
I turn back to the ocean, the water black and endless under the stormy sky.
“After that, it was just me and him. My father. But he didn’t even try to put us back together. He just . . . drank himself into a coffin a few years later.”
“Damien.”
Her voice is barely carried by the wind, soft and aching with something I don’t want to name.
I shake my head. “I raised myself. After he lost everything, he was content to sit in the wreckage, pretending the world owed him something. I wasn’t.”
My jaw locks, that old familiar burn settling deep in my gut.
“I was never going to be like that. Never again was I going to go to bed hungry for the third day in a row.”
Her grip tightens on my arm.
I glance down at where her fingers wrap around me, the contrast of her delicate touch against the tension still coiled in my body.
I hadn’t even realized she was holding onto me.
“I clawed my way out of there,” I continue, my voice quieter now.
“Finance. Mergers. Acquisitions. Turning failing companies into powerhouses. I built everything I have from the ground up.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty.
It’s full.
When I look at her, I expect pity, maybe sympathy—but all I see is warmth.
Something deep. Something real.
Like she sees beyond the ruthless, untouchable man I’ve spent years crafting—the one people fear, the one who doesn’t break, doesn’t bend.
Like she sees the boy I once was.
And fuck if I don’t want to throw these shoes down, take her in my arms, and kiss her until there’s nothing left between us but this thing we both refuse to name.
As if the universe itself is conspiring against me, the sky opens up.
A torrential downpour hammers down in an instant, soaking us to the bone within seconds.
Elena gasps, laughing as she shrinks into herself, hands lifting in a useless attempt to shield herself from the rain.
Water streams down her shoulders, her dark hair already flattened against her skin.
“Let’s run for it!” I call out, offering my hand.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Her fingers slip into mine, gripping tightly. She pulls her dress up with the other, and together, we take off across the beach, our feet kicking up sand as we sprint toward the bungalow.
Her laughter follows us, mixing with the steady rhythm of the rain, and for once, I’m not thinking about business, deals, or the next move I have to make.
I’m just here.
Running through the rain, laughing with a woman who is completely unraveling me.
By the time we reach the deck, we’re both drenched, water dripping from our clothes, our hair, our skin.
Elena lifts the hem of her gown as we take the stairs, but the slick wood betrays her.
She slips with a curse, and my hands fly out to catch her.
Our shoes are forgotten, clattering on the ground around us.
My arms wrap around her waist, anchoring her against me before she can fall.
Her hands clutch at my chest, her breath shallow and uneven.
Now, we’re too close.
But not nearly as close as I want us.
The sound of the rain fades into the background, drowned out by the pounding of my pulse.
Her dress clings to her like a second skin, the soft fabric molding to the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
Water drips from her lips, down the line of her throat, trailing over her collarbone.
And her eyes—hazel and burning with passion—tilt up to mine, like she’s daring me to push further.
Daring me to take what we both want.
I lean in.
I don’t care about her rules.
I don’t care about this fucking contract.
I just want her.
But just as my lips nearly brush against hers, she steps back.
“Damien.”
Her voice is full of breath, and I know it’s not all from our run.
“My rules.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens.
I exhale slowly, my fingers still gripping her waist, unwilling to let go just yet.
My thumb drags over her full bottom lip, watching as arousal washes over her at my touch.
My voice is gravelly, low.
“I’ve thought about breaking your fucking rules a dozen times tonight.”
Her breath catches, and for a second, I think she’ll let me.
That she’ll let me pull her in, kiss her the way I’ve wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on her at The Ledger.
Hell, since I woke up alone in my hotel suite.
But she doesn’t.
She forces herself to step away, clearing the space between us, and I see the effort it takes.
Elena keeps her beautiful eyes on me, and I wish I fucking knew what she was thinking.
I’m goddamn desperate for it.
Then—finally—“Good night, Damien.”
She turns, walking smoothly toward the door of the bungalow.
But just before she disappears inside, she hesitates.
Looking back at me over her shoulder, her expression softer now.
One hand rests on the doorframe, like she needs it to keep her from running back to me.
“Thank you . . . for telling me.”
She’s talking about my past. My parents.
Everything I told her tonight.
She leaves me standing there in the rain, my hands aching to pull her back.
I run a hand through my soaked hair, exhaling sharply as the storm continues to rage around me.
My chest is tight, my pulse unsteady, and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely out of control.
This woman.
She’s inside me now. Beneath my skin, in my fucking head, making me want things I swore I didn’t need.
I should go inside.
I should shake this off, pour myself a drink, get my mind back where it belongs—on the merger, on Calloway, on anything but the way Elena Moreau just looked at me.
But I don’t move.
I just stand there, fists clenched, watching the door she disappeared behind, knowing that sleep will be a long, long way off tonight.