Chapter 19
T he vibration in my pocket pulls me out of the rain and into the bungalow.
I reach for my phone, swiping away the droplets still clinging to the screen. A message from Calloway.
Calloway (Group Text—Marcus & Me): Conference call—five minutes.
That was three minutes ago.
I exhale sharply, shaking off the lingering tension from the storm, from her, from everything. My clothes are soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to my skin, and the last thing I need is to sit through this call looking like I just crawled out of the Atlantic.
I head to my bathroom, peeling off the wet fabric and tossing it onto the counter. The muscles in my back protest as I scrub a towel over my skin, trying to wipe away the chill that has settled deep inside me. But it isn’t the cold that’s gotten under my skin. It’s her.
It’s the way she looked at me when I told her about my past.
The way her hands settled on my face when she was trying to calm me down.
The way she almost let me kiss her.
I rub a hand over my face, forcing my mind to shift. Focus, Wolfe.
Sliding on a dry shirt and comfortable lounge pants, I run my fingers through my damp hair just as the conference call rings.
From the living room, I answer, and the flatscreen flickers to life.
And just like that, my mood sours because sitting next to Calloway, smug as ever, is Adrian Kingston.
Of course, he’s here.
Marcus’s face appears in another box, his usual easy expression slightly more alert. He notices Adrian too. The flicker of irritation in his gaze is subtle, but I catch it.
Calloway leans forward, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “All right, gentlemen, let’s get this squared away before the night is over.”
I settle onto the couch, gripping the remote a little tighter than necessary. I already know exactly what this is about.
And I already know I’m not going to like it.
The second Calloway clears his throat, I know exactly where this is going.
I lean back against the couch, arms stretched along the top, my posture deceptively relaxed. I’ve played this game long enough to recognize when a man is gearing up for yet another round of Adrian’s bullshit.
Sure enough, Calloway sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw before speaking.
“Adrian has raised another concern,” he starts, his voice measured. “Something about the long-term scalability of the Wolfe Industries development strategy as it pertains to?—”
I cut him off, my patience already running thin. “Why don’t we let Adrian explain it himself?”
Adrian shifts slightly in his chair, adjusting his cuffs like the extra second will help him find an answer worth saying. His smirk is still there, but I see the crack in it.
“Of course,” he says, clearing his throat. “I just think we need to take a closer look at the, uh... the projected growth model, particularly in the?—”
“Which model?” I ask smoothly.
His lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to be put on the spot so quickly. “The... uh, the one outlining?—”
I cock my head. “You mean the one already vetted by Calloway’s board? The one that’s been analyzed, projected, and confirmed three times over?”
His mouth clamps shut.
I press forward, my voice silk over steel. “Or do you mean the alternate model you proposed yesterday? The one that—remind me—was missing half its financial projections and fundamentally misunderstood market demand?”
Marcus lets out a barely contained chuckle.
Adrian’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what I?—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I say, my patience snapping. “Every so-called ‘concern’ you’ve raised has been nothing but an attempt to derail this deal. And quite frankly, I’m done entertaining your amateur-hour tactics.”
Adrian bristles. Calloway sits back, watching me carefully.
I level my stare at him through the screen. “Your nephew has tried to lob bombs at our plans that, frankly, have no merit. So make a choice, Calloway: Are we doing this, or are we going to keep playing twenty questions while your competitors circle you like sharks?”
Silence.
Then—Calloway lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he beams.
“You’ve got a spine, Wolfe,” he says with something like pride. “Damn good trait in a partner.”
I lift my glass to the screen in mock salute. “Then let’s get this merger done. And you’ll have the biggest shark in the tank on your side.”
His laughter is warm, genuine. “Hell yes, we will.”
Before Adrian can muster another weak attempt at interference, Margo enters the frame, settling gracefully onto the arm of her husband’s chair, her arm slipping around his shoulders.
“Smartest decision you’ve ever made, darling,” she tells Calloway, her eyes flicking to mine with something close to satisfaction. “This isn’t just about numbers. Wolfe Industries isn’t just building an empire—it’s building a legacy.”
She looks directly at me as she says it.
And for a reason I don’t quite understand, it hits.
Harder than I expected.
Legacy.
Not just holdings. Not just assets but something that goes on longer.
A family.
For the first time, I realize that’s what Calloway sees when he looks at me. Not just a business partner—but a man with a future. With a wife.
With Elena.
I swallow, my grip tightening around the remote in my hand.
Except she isn’t mine.
Not really.
And each moment I remind myself of that truth, it sours more and more in my mind.
The screen goes dark, the room sinking into silence.
This is it. The victory I wanted. The one I’ve worked for nearly a year to finally hear.
And yet, as I sit there, staring at my own reflection in the now-black television screen, it feels... empty.
The triumph I should be reveling in is missing something. Someone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, Marcus’s name flashing across the screen.
MARCUS: “You finally put that little shit in his place. About damn time. Congrats, buddy.”
I let out a slow exhale, half-grinning as I type out a simple “Well fought. Congratulations to you too.”
The words feel hollow.
I should be celebrating. Should be pouring myself a drink, savoring the win, but instead, I find myself thinking of Elena.
Because she’s as much a part of this as I am.
Every dinner, every event, every carefully placed interaction—she was there. She played the role flawlessly, not just standing beside me but elevating me in ways I never anticipated.
And all I can think about is how I want to tell her.
I want to swoop her into my arms, feel the warmth of her body against mine as I tell her, We did it.
I want to hear her laugh when I spin her around.
I want to feel her lips on mine as she kisses me in celebration, like this is our victory, not just mine.
My grip tightens around my phone, Marcus’s message still glowing on the screen.
Margo’s words come back to me.
Legacy.
And I don’t know exactly how, but I can’t stop thinking Elena had something to do with affirming that legacy to Margo.
I run a hand through my hair, pushing up from the couch with sudden resolve.
She deserves to hear this news.
Not in the morning when we’re packed into the helicopter, heading back to New York, the real world creeping back in, but now.
I cross the bungalow, my steps quiet against the wooden floor. When I reach her door, I hesitate just a second, listening.
The rain batters down hard outside, making it difficult to tell if she’s still awake.
Then, I knock—gently.
And wait.
The knock goes unanswered, and as I raise my knuckles to try again, I hear a faint, broken sound inside her room.
A sharp edge of protectiveness flares in my chest, and my mind races to the piece of shit that’s been a thorn in my side all weekend. If Adrian made her more upset than she let on. If he said something to her, threatened her.
I hear it again, and it breaks my resolve.
I can’t stand out here, walk away from her knowing she’s in distress. Not when I can do something about it.
She’s here because of me. Thrown into a weekend with a man who made her uncomfortable for me. Keeping her unease a secret to put my needs, the merger, our contract first.
I turn the knob slowly, pushing the door open with care.
“Elena?” My voice is low, just in case she is sleeping. Maybe crying out in her dreams.
Her bed is still made, a breeze coming in through the open door that leads to the terrace. The salty night air, damp from the raging storm, rushes around the room.
I take a step toward it, thinking she may be outside, but another sound comes from behind, and I turn around.
The door of her bathroom is ajar just enough that I can see her, and the sight freezes me.
Steam billows around the shower, fogging up the glass enclosure. But I can see enough.
Another gasp escapes her. It’s so quiet, yet it blares around me.
The blood is rushing through my body, going straight to my cock. My pulse hammering, my mind screaming at me to leave.
I shouldn’t be here, watching her, but fuck if I can’t look away.
Her body is moving, writhing and beautiful.
One hand is on her breast, and I can imagine her pinching the peaks of her nipples.
My mouth goes dry, wanting to suck that breast, nip at her while she cries out.
But it’s her other hand making me jealous, driving me to near madness.
She’s holding a shower wand. The spray of the nozzle is centered on her pussy, and fuck if she doesn’t look like a goddess.
The way she moves is hypnotic. Sensual, unguarded, fucking devastating.
Her body arches into the spray of water, head tipped back against the tile, droplets racing down her flushed skin. Her dark hair clings in damp waves over her shoulders, and fuck, I should turn away, should give her the privacy she deserves—but I can’t.
Not when she looks like this.
Her free hand leaves her breast, trailing over her stomach, sliding lower, her thighs parting just enough to give me a glimpse of where she’s touching herself. Slow, teasing strokes, drawing out the pleasure, building it. I can see the way her muscles tighten, her breath catching as she moves the showerhead in tight little circles, sending the jet of water straight to her clit.
I swear, my fucking knees nearly buckle.
My fists tighten at my sides, my pulse hammering, my cock already painfully hard. Every sound she makes hits me like a wrecking ball—low, breathy gasps, the softest moan slipping past her lips as she tilts her hips, chasing the release she’s on the verge of falling into.
And then, my name.
Not a whisper. Not a passing thought. A plea. A fucking surrender.
The sound slams into my chest, steals the breath from my lungs. Need surges through me like a violent storm. The final thread of control holds on tight as the sight of her threatens to eviscerate it.
I want to be the one pulling those sounds from her. Want to replace that fucking showerhead with my fingers, my tongue, my cock. Want to slide inside her, stretch her open, make her beg like that for real.
For me.
The thought alone nearly undoes me, and I take a staggering step back, dragging in a ragged breath.
But I don’t go to her.
Because as much as I want her—as much as I want to bury myself so deep inside her that she forgets she ever had rules to begin with—she has to be the one to break them.
Not me.
Not yet.
The feeling is there. That thought of just falling over the edge of the cliff and surrendering to the crashing waves below. I could just take one step, and she would see me.
She would either send me away… or not.
That version of the fantasy where she invites me in, hands me the nozzle, and gives herself over to me is nearly impossible to ignore.
And just when I think I might actually do it, her phone buzzes on the bedside table.
The sound is a gunshot in the silence, breaking the haze I’ve been drowning in. I retreat fast, backing away from her door, my breath still ragged in my chest.
The screen glares up at me, the words sinking in like a dull knife.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Think about my offer. I’ll be in touch soon.
Next week.
Next week, she won’t be mine anymore.
Except, she never was.
I inhale slowly, my grip tightening around my phone. She’s an escort. This was always going to end.
But for the first time, the thought sits differently.
It sits wrong.
A bitter taste rises in my throat, and suddenly, I’m not standing in this bungalow. I’m back in Manhattan, five years ago, watching a woman I once thought I loved fuck another man in our bed.
I remember the sharp edge of betrayal cutting through me, the way I told myself never again.
Never again would I let a woman inside my walls. Never again would I put myself in a position to be the fool.
And yet, here I am.
Standing outside Elena’s door, wanting something I have no right to want.
Because at the end of the day, I signed the contract knowing exactly what this was. I paid for her presence, for her time, for her careful companionship in a world where everything is a calculated move.
But the truth?
I don’t just want her in my bed.
I don’t just want her for a fucking contract.
I want her.
Not because she makes me look good in front of Calloway.
Not because she plays her role flawlessly.
Not because our names on a paper will make us a power couple feared by everyone.
But because she’s the only person who’s ever made me feel anything real in years.
Because when I look at her, I don’t see a woman who can be bought—I see the only woman I’ve ever fucking wanted.
I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering.
I’ve spent the last five years locking the door on anything resembling real intimacy. But she’s already inside. She’s already inside, and she’s burning the place down.
And the worst part?
I want to let her.
I want to give her the gasoline and matches and watch her set fire to it all.
Let her ignite every tarnished memory and destroy every brick in the walls I’ve built.
I’ve secured my empire. Now, it’s time to secure the one thing I never saw coming.
Her.