Chapter 26
T he next morning, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone, waiting. My fingers hover over the screen, my mind looping through last night—the way I let go, let myself feel.
I should regret it.
I should feel guilty for letting myself get swept up in Damien.
But fuck, I loved every second of it. Every word he whispered. Every touch. Every look.
My skin still tingles where his hands were, where his mouth was. Just thinking about the way he devoured me makes a shiver ripple down my spine.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, shaking off the haze of last night’s pleasure.
Because today is a new day.
And I need to be in control.
Damien wasn’t looking for complications. I wasn’t supposed to be, either. Between Adrian, the pictures, and the gutting loss of my bakery, there’s already too much happening.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders before checking my messages.
Still nothing from Lucian.
Annoyance prickles under my skin, but just as I’m about to text him again, a response finally comes through.
LUCIAN: Sorry, got busy. Looking into it now.
That’s it?
Not exactly reassuring.
I clench my jaw, my irritation mounting, but I don’t have time to dwell.
Tonight is Mr. Calloway’s birthday, and we’re going to a Giants game. Margo rented out one of the luxury suites, and I need to be flawless.
I shove away every thought that doesn’t serve me and slip into form-fitting, high-waisted blue jeans, a red crop top, and simple white wedges. On my way out, I grab the floral arrangement I ordered—something elegant but not too sentimental.
By the time I step into the towering glass lobby of Wolfe Industries and the elevator doors open on the seventieth floor, my head is clearer.
But the second I approach the receptionist’s desk, something shifts.
The woman behind it—tall, stunning, and immaculately put together—barely glances up from her screen.
The cliché attractive assistant who wears too-short skirts and too-high heels for her CEO boss—it makes me roll my eyes.
“He’s not available.” Her tone is clipped, dismissive, like I’m some random visitor who doesn’t belong.
She still doesn’t check. “And he won’t be for quite some time.”
Something in her tone isn’t just dismissive. It’s personal.
My grip tightens around the flowers, the delicate paper wrapping crinkling loudly in the vast space.
“You make it sound like you’re referring to more than just today’s calendar,” I muse, my voice light, amused.
The receptionist—Vanessa, according to her nameplate—finally looks up, eyes scanning me in a slow, deliberate sweep.
“Leave the flowers. I’ll see he gets them.” She goes back to her keyboard, clacking away loudly as if that settles it.
“Thank you, but I’ll deliver them personally.”
I’m about to tell her my name when she stands, placing both hands on her desk and leveling me with a look that says she’s had enough.
My eyebrows shoot upward, and I fight back the grin threatening to push the last of her thin patience over the edge.
“I’m sure you have high hopes that Damien will put you on his rotation, but unfortunately”—she sighs dramatically—“he claims to have a surprise fiancée. One that makes him forget his assistant of two years’ birthday.”
That last part was more for herself than for me. The scoff and roll of her eyes nearly make me laugh.
Oh.
Poor thing.
I school my features, letting my lips curve into something sharp and knowing. “Damien, huh? Not Mr. Wolfe? You seem quite friendly with your boss… on a first-name basis.”
Vanessa doesn’t waver, her smirk deepening.
“Mr. Wolfe and I have an understanding.” She leans in slightly, lowering her voice like we’re old friends sharing secrets. “I fully intend for him to remember that I’m the only stable woman in his life. And I suspect I won’t be working here very long once he does.”
My blood heats, but I don’t react.
“But I’ll be sure to personally deliver these flowers to him on your behalf, Ms.…?”
She holds her arms out as if to take them from me.
With deliberate ease, I move the flowers to my other arm, holding them like a baby, careful not to squish them.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, I pull out my phone.
I’ve never called Damien before. But I know he’ll answer.
It barely rings twice before his voice comes through—smooth, low, instant.
“Elena?”
“Hi, honey.” I keep mine just as even. “Your assistant seems to think you’re too busy to see your fiancée. Oh, and she hopes to be fucking you soon. Anything you’d like to come and clear up, or shall I just wait in the lobby?”
The shift in the air is immediate.
Vanessa freezes.
Her eyes widen in panic. “I—I didn’t…”
A door slams open.
Damien strides out, his presence crackling with barely restrained fury.
Every conversation in the lobby dies.
His gaze locks onto Vanessa, his expression lethal. “What the fuck did you just say to my fiancée?”
His voice is dangerously low, controlled—but I can feel the storm rolling beneath it.
Vanessa stammers, taking a step back. Her bravado evaporates in an instant.
I cross my arms, arching a brow. “Vanessa was just talking about the… arrangement you two have.”
Damien reaches for my hand, pulling me behind him. His grip is firm. Protective.
“Mr. Wolfe.” She’s pleading now. “Damien.”
He turns his head slightly, his voice dropping into something low and final.
“Vanessa,” he says, her name a death sentence. “You mistook my patience for interest. That was your first mistake.”
He takes a slow step closer, his expression unreadable, lethal in its restraint.
“Your second?” His voice softens, a mockery of kindness. “Speaking to my fiancée like you were ever competition.”
Silence razor-sharp. All color drains from Vanessa’s face.
A woman in a sharp navy suit—HR, I assume—steps forward with two security officers.
Damien takes the flowers from me, his hand still in mine as he finally looks at me. The intensity in his expression nearly takes my breath away.
When he turns back to the older woman, his expression shifts—bored, already dismissing the situation.
“Ms. Bradley no longer works for Wolfe Industries.”
Vanessa stares at Damien, eyes darting around, realizing—it’s over.
She opens her mouth, like she wants to fight, like she wants to beg, but nothing comes out. She knows she’s lost.
Damien doesn’t spare her another glance as he pulls me into his office, slamming the door behind us.
The second it shuts, he places the flowers on his desk with slow, deliberate care. Every movement is controlled, precise—like he’s forcing himself into restraint.
Then, arms crossed over his chest, he leans back against the desk, watching me with an infuriatingly smug expression.
I know that look.
The one that says he’s enjoying himself way too much.
I fold my arms, mirroring his stance, tilting my chin slightly. “What?”
His smirk deepens. “You were jealous.”
I scoff, my lips parting in an incredulous laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Damien tilts his head, his gaze flickering over my face like he’s cataloging every detail, every subtle reaction I don’t want him to see.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you bristled when she called me Damien?”
His voice drops lower, smooth as silk, coaxing me into his game.
“Admit it, Trouble.” He reaches out, the back of his fingers skimming over my forearm, barely a touch at all. “You didn’t like her thinking she could have me.”
The way he says it—low and deliberate—makes something flicker hot inside me.
I hold my ground, refusing to let him see how much I’m still irritated, how much I hated the sound of her voice wrapped around his name.
I should leave it. I should brush it off, let him think he’s wrong, keep my dignity intact.
Instead, I step toward him.
His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t move back.
Another step.
He shifts just enough to press against the edge of the desk, giving me space—but not much.
Another step, and I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that his scent—his cologne—is all I can breathe in.
“During this contract, Mr. Wolfe,” I murmur, my voice steady, smooth. “You are as much mine as I am yours.”
His jaw tightens, that flicker in his blue eyes turning molten, burning beneath his careful control.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s considering something dangerous. “That almost sounds like a promise.”
I lift a hand, let my nails drag lightly down the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, down the center of his chest. “Think of it as an expectation.”
His muscles tense under my touch, his control tightening like a coiled spring.
“So you want to own me now?” His smirk is lazy, but his breathing isn’t.
I let my fingers toy with the first button of his shirt, slipping it free. “Just reminding you where you stand.”
Another button undone. My nails rake gently over his skin, dragging down to his abdomen, his breath growing heavier. The muscles in his forearm shift as his grip on the desk turns lethal.
I lean in just enough that my lips nearly brush his ear. “Reminding you of the rules.”
He exhales sharply, his knuckles nearly white as he keeps his restraint.
“Your rules,” he corrects, his voice dark. “Aren’t as firm as you pretend they are.”
He’s right, and we both know it.
My fingers move lower, undoing another button, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my touch.
I barely brush against his belt, letting my fingertips trail just along the hem of his slacks.
His breath hitches, his restraint pulled so tight it’s a wonder he’s still standing still.
I smirk. “That was a mis?—”
Two knocks followed by the door opening rip the intensity of the moment away.
I yank my hand back, stepping away just as Marcus and James stroll in, wearing matching Giants jerseys with bold lettering across the back:
MR. & MR. LANGSTON.
My body tenses instantly, and my face burns.
Damien is all cocky grins and boasting chest as he shrugs out of his shirt entirely, pulling it from his arms with smooth, easy confidence—like this moment wasn’t just teetering on the edge of something reckless.
Like my hand wasn’t about to graze over his cock to see if he was hard for me.
Like I wasn’t going to sink down to my knees and swallow every inch of Damien Wolfe’s infamous control.
James raises a brow, grinning like he just walked into something extremely interesting.
“Are we interrupting?”
“No.” I clear my throat.
“Yes,” Damien counters at the same time, his smirk downright sinful.
I shoot him a glare, but he just leans casually against the desk with a shrug, utterly unbothered.
James gives me a knowing look. “Mmm.”
Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps forward, handing me a gift box. “From Mrs. Calloway.”
Thank God for Marcus.
I take the box, eager for a distraction, but I can still feel Damien’s gaze on me, watching as I lift the lid.
Inside, folded neatly, are two jerseys. One in Damien’s size and one in mine.
I pick mine up, turning it over, and my breath catches.
FUTURE MRS. WOLFE.
My stomach drops.
It’s just a gift. A party favor. A costume for the night.
But somehow, seeing it written out—bold and clear—makes something in my chest squeeze.
My eyes lift—instinctively—to Damien.
He’s staring at the jersey, then at me.
And fuck, his expression…
There’s something behind it, something raw. Dark. Like the words on the jersey aren’t a joke to him at all.
His lips part slightly, like he has something to say, but he doesn’t speak. He just watches me, watches the way I’m holding the jersey, how I haven’t put it down.
James is the one to break the silence. “Mrs. Calloway insisted. She thinks it’ll be a nice touch. A little… couples-themed apparel for her birthday boy.”
I barely register his words, still caught in the heat of Damien’s gaze.
It’s just a jersey.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Now, if only I could believe that lie.
Then maybe I could also convince myself that I’ll be ready to walk away from Damien Wolfe in three days.
End this contract and never look back.
For some reason—a reason I know but don’t want to admit—the idea of that sickens me.