Chapter 24
M y breath catches the moment I lift my gaze to the grand entrance before me. The Met. New York’s infamous opera house, its towering columns and gilded lights standing proudly against the night sky.
I’ve seen it before, of course—walked past it, admired it from afar, even lingered outside once or twice, watching as elegant patrons filed inside.
But I’ve never stepped through its doors. Never had the luxury of sitting beneath its chandeliers, listening to voices so powerful they could shake the walls.
And now, not only am I here, but I have it all to myself.
Or rather, we do.
I glance at Damien, who stands beside me, calm and composed, as if buying out the Met for an evening is as easy as making dinner reservations.
He barely blinks as the doorman opens the grand entrance for us, as if this isn’t a big deal. As if this isn’t?—
“Damien,” I murmur, still taking in the sight before me. “You did not rent out the Met for the night.”
His lips twitch, but he keeps his expression neutral. “I may have.”
I turn fully toward him now, eyes narrowing. “You may have?”
He tilts his head slightly, that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already had this arranged. It was supposed to be for… something else.”
I arch a brow, waiting.
He hesitates, then clears his throat, adding, “I just forgot to cancel it.”
I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “Right. Like you could ever forget you rented out one of the world’s most famous opera houses.”
He shrugs, his hand resting at the small of my back as he guides me inside. “What can I say? My calendar is very full.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading through me, the way my pulse flutters as we step into the lavish, gold-lined lobby. A stunning red carpet stretches up the grand staircase, leading to opulent balconies overlooking the main floor.
The theater is empty, silent, yet full of a hushed magic. Like it’s waiting for us.
For me.
I swallow, my fingers tightening around the folds of my gown. I’ve never felt this way before—dressed in something breathtaking, wearing diamonds I have no business owning, on the arm of one of the city’s most powerful men, walking into a place I’ve only dreamed of.
It’s not real.
I know that.
It’s a fantasy, a life I only get to indulge in for a few more days. But standing here, under the soft glow of chandeliers, surrounded by velvet and gold, with Damien’s touch warm against my back?—
It feels real.
And that’s what makes it dangerous.
The opulence of the Met is almost overwhelming—the rich reds and golds, the towering chandeliers, the intricate carvings adorning every surface.
It commands a kind of reverence, the kind of place that feels like it belongs in fairy tales rather than real life. It’s breathtaking, magnificent, everything I imagined it would be and more.
But none of it holds my attention the way he does.
Damien Wolfe, who rented out one of the most famous opera houses in the world just for tonight. Just for us.
For me.
I smooth a hand over the fabric of my dress, trying to ground myself, trying not to let the weight of the moment press too deeply into my chest.
The dazzling beauty of this place, the gown I’m wearing, the diamonds in my ears—it’s all temporary. A fleeting glimpse into a world that isn’t mine.
I can’t afford to get swept up in it.
Still, I feel his eyes on me before I even turn my head, the weight of his gaze warm, unwavering.
“Why did you really do this?” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the hush of the grand, empty theater, it carries between us.
He doesn’t look away. “To celebrate.”
I arch a brow, unconvinced. “To celebrate your merger?”
He exhales, tilting his head slightly as he studies me. “Not just mine.”
I shake my head, a small scoff escaping. “I was just along for the ride.”
“That’s bullshit,” he murmurs, and the certainty in his voice makes my breath catch.
Before I can counter, he leans in, bringing with him the dark, clean scent of him, something rich and expensive, something that makes my pulse stutter before I can stop it.
“Margo wouldn’t have given it to just me,” he continues, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. “You know that.”
And I do.
The realization settles into me, undeniable, humming in the space between us.
Damien Wolfe is a man who doesn’t need anyone. He commands rooms, bends people to his will, shapes entire industries with a single decision. But that wasn’t enough for Margo Calloway.
She needed to believe in more than his ambition.
She needed to believe in us.
He watches me closely, waiting for me to challenge him, to tell him he’s wrong.
But I don’t.
Because he isn’t.
Still, I force an easy smirk, needing to pull this conversation back to safer ground, needing to shake off the way he’s looking at me, like he sees something in me I don’t know how to give. “So what you’re saying is… I’m your secret weapon?”
The corner of his mouth curves, but there’s something different about his smile this time, something softer, something that makes my stomach flip in a way I’m not prepared for. “That’s what I’m saying.”
I should let it go. Let the conversation drift away, laugh it off, shift to something lighter.
But I don’t.
Because he’s still watching me like that.
Like I matter.
Like I mean something to him.
His hand moves before I can think, his thumb grazing over the silky fabric just above my knee. It’s the barest touch, barely anything at all, but it steals my breath, the warmth of it sinking beneath my skin, setting fire to something I can’t name.
He lingers, his fingers brushing together after, like he’s memorizing the feel of me against them.
Like he knows he shouldn’t have touched me but couldn’t stop himself.
My heart pounds, but I manage to keep my voice light. “Well, if I forget to tell you later…” I pause, letting myself take him in—the sharp edges of his jaw, the way the dim light softens him in a way I’m not used to seeing. “I had a really great time tonight.”
The air between us tightens, the weight of something unsaid pressing down on my chest, making it harder to breathe.
His expression shifts, the usual sharpness replaced by something softer, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before.
He looks happy.
Genuinely happy.
And for a moment, I forget that any of this is temporary.
That the contract ends soon.
That none of this is real.
I can’t look away and neither can he.
The space between us could vanish so easily. His minty breath would mingle with mine.
Damien drops his gaze to my mouth, and I know he’s thinking about it too. The tension stretches, so tight it might snap, and I know—if he leans in, I won’t stop him.
But I’m not going to be the one that makes it happen. I’ll not be the paid escort who seduces her Contract. Who could be blamed for taking things too far, coercing the agreement for some kind of gain.
He demanded the contract have no physical aspect to it. The sexual bargaining that is common in a profession such as mine. A Ledger Companion.
He didn’t want it. Didn’t want it to complicate the arrangement.
But now–the way he is looking at me–
The lights dim.
The hush of the opera house fills the space between us, shattering the fragile moment before it can break me completely.
A waiter appears, setting down two delicate flutes of champagne, the bubbles rising in tiny streams.
We take the flutes. Our glasses sharing a soft clink before we both take a sip. Damien nearly drains his. A look of exasperation in his eyes nearly makes me chuckle but I tamper it down.
Thankful the darker theatre is helping to hide the rosy burn creeping up my cheeks.
The first notes rise, thick with emotion, wrapping around me in waves. It’s powerful in a way I hadn’t expected, the rawness of the voices, the way they carry through the vast space, filling every empty corner.
I sit frozen, my lips parting slightly as the performance unfolds before me.
I’ve never been to the opera before.
Never had something like this done for me.
Never felt so completely swept away .
The performance is breathtaking and somewhere between the second and third act, I realize my hand is resting against something warm and solid.
Damien.
The second I notice, I begin to pull away, but before I can, his hand moves over mine.
Catching it. Holding it.
Not letting go.
I still, my pulse hammering in my ears, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
His attention stays forward, eyes locked on the stage, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against my skin.
Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Like touching me is the most natural thing in the world.
And I let him.
I shouldn’t. But I let him.