Chapter 27
T he ride to the stadium is torturous.
I should be focused on the game, on Calloway’s birthday, on anything other than the woman sitting next to me.
But all I can think about is how close she was to falling apart for me in my office.
If James and Marcus hadn’t walked in when they did, how far would Elena have let herself go? How far would I have let her take me?
She was unbuttoning my shirt, dragging her nails down my stomach, her hand so close to wrapping around my cock. The moment her fingers barely grazed me, I knew—I was fucking done for.
And now we’re in the back of my limo, rolling through the city, exactly how I imagined it the night I took her panties.
That night, I pictured it in excruciating detail—Elena, pressed against the cool leather seats, her legs spread for me, her head thrown back as I devoured her.
I thought about her gasping my name, moaning for me, her body trembling under my hands as I licked, sucked, and fucked her into oblivion.
I thought about pulling her into my lap, yanking that silky dress up around her waist, and slamming my cock inside her as the city blurred past us.
I thought about all the ways I’d ruin her.
And how much I’d fucking love every second of it.
I came so hard that night, fisting her panties in my hand, her name on my lips.
And now she’s right here.
Next to me.
So fucking close.
Her thigh brushes against mine every time the limo turns.
She’s chatting with Marcus and James, laughing, completely unaware that I’m sitting here, gripping my own knee to keep from grabbing her and finishing what she started.
She smells like vanilla and something sweet, something decadent—and I swear to fucking God, if I look at her lips one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.
Marcus is talking. James is making a joke. Elena is smiling.
And I?
I’m sitting here, drowning in frustration, shifting slightly in my seat because my cock is aching against my slacks, throbbing with the memory of her mouth, her hands, the fucking control she had over me in my office just now.
It’s ridiculous.
I’m ridiculous.
Because she is right here.
And I can’t touch her.
And it’s driving me insane.
Elena’s voice is soft, barely above the hum of the city outside, but it rips me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Her fingers graze my knee, a light, gentle touch. “You’re sweating.”
I blink, forcing myself to breathe, to register where the fuck I am—who I’m with.
Her.
Marcus and James.
Not in my office with her on her knees. Not in my penthouse, with her moans echoing across my home. Not in my damn fantasies, where I’m sinking inside her, claiming her.
I clear my throat, forcing my body to relax, my grip loosening from where I hadn’t even realized I was clenching my own knee.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I manage, my voice steady, controlled.
Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t push.
She’s still watching me, though. That calm, steady focus in her gaze—like she can feel the way my pulse is hammering beneath my skin.
I want to cover her hand with mine. Just… sit there, touching her, feeling that warmth, the way we had at the opera.
But Marcus and James are here, and I know she wouldn’t want to play into the performance of this contract any more than necessary. They know what this is.
And yet, she’s relaxed around them.
She enjoys their company. Genuinely.
Especially James.
They hit it off that first night at The Scallop, when we had dinner with Calloway, their easy conversation filling the space between my own careful, measured words.
That feels like a lifetime ago now.
Like we’ve been in this contract for years, not just a little over a week.
Three more days.
That’s all the time I have left with her.
Three more days until she walks away from The Black Ledger, until she takes her money and finally builds the future she’s been working toward.
A future that, until recently, I hadn’t pictured myself in.
Now?
I want to be there.
I want to be included in the future she’s carving out for herself. I want to see her bakery open its doors, to watch her build something that belongs only to her.
But more than that—I want her to be mine.
Not just for three more days but for as long as she’ll fucking have me.
Marcus mutters a curse under his breath, sharp and low, slicing through the easy rhythm of conversation.
I glance over, instantly on alert.
“This might be bad, Wolfe,” he says, his tone weighted with something that makes my spine stiffen.
The atmosphere in the limo shifts instantly—the lighthearted ease evaporating, replaced with something thick, heavy.
Marcus turns his phone toward me, the glow of the screen casting shadows across his face.
I take it, eyes locking onto the subject line first—an official email from a city planning commission member.
My gut tightens.
Then I read the first line.
Environmental review on the East River project site.
My grip tightens.
I don’t need to read the rest. I already know this is bad.
But I do anyway.
Mr. Wolfe,
Following our preliminary assessment of the proposed development site at the East River location, surveyors have identified critical environmental obstructions that may impede construction. Due to protected wetland status and recent soil integrity concerns, the feasibility of the development as outlined in your proposal is now under formal review. A full report is pending, but alternative site evaluations are strongly recommended at this time.
We will be in touch as soon as additional information is available.
A slow exhale pushes through my nose.
Protected wetland status?
Soil integrity concerns?
Bullshit.
We did the work. We were prepared. Every clearance, every permit, every environmental study—approved.
This was not an issue. This should not be an issue.
But now, suddenly, it is.
I think back to the Hamptons, to Adrian’s smug little comments about our ambitious timeline. How he chastised us, hinting that we were cutting corners.
I shut him down that night—told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was a fucking idiot if he thought we hadn’t done our due diligence.
Because we had.
And yet, here we are.
A major piece of our development plan—the key site our financial projections are hitched to—is now suddenly in question.
If this site is pulled…
If Calloway catches wind before we have a solution…
This merger could be dead in the water.
My fingers flex against the phone before I shove it back at Marcus.
“Get our land-use attorneys on this,” I say, my voice calm, clipped, controlled. “I want a full breakdown of every environmental study, every clearance we obtained before this project was approved.”
Marcus nods, already typing.
James exhales slowly. “What about who ordered the new survey. Who signed off on it.”
He’s right. If this was pushed now, there’s a reason.
But I don’t have time for speculation.
I need facts.
I glance at Elena, expecting concern, maybe unease—but instead, her expression is sharp. Focused.
Like she’s already thinking five steps ahead.
Good.
Because this could change the game.
And I have three days to make sure I don’t lose.
T he energy of the stadium is electric, a steady hum of excitement woven through the roar of the crowd. The scent of buttered popcorn, grilled hot dogs, and freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mixing with the crisp evening breeze filtering through the open VIP suite.
The luxury box is tucked away from the main concourse, offering privacy, yet the pulsing atmosphere still surrounds us—a steady thrum of anticipation in the background.
Marcus and I linger near the entrance, our conversation still circling the land survey issue, voices low but edged with tension.
Elena and James walk ahead of us, enjoying a much more casual conversation.
She throws her head back, laughing at whatever James said, and it seems like Marcus and I come to the same realization.
This can wait until tomorrow.
A headache builds at my temples, tension winding tight across my shoulders, but I force myself to push it aside.
This isn’t the time to let it consume me. Not tonight.
I release a frustrated sigh, hoping I can push this to the back of my mind for a few hours.
Elena appears at my side, her fingers grazing the bend of my arm—a barely there touch—and warmth spreads through me.
She doesn’t say anything.
Her presence alone is enough to tether me back to the moment.
We’re at a public event, surrounded by people who believe she’s my fiancée, which means we can appear to enjoy these small touches. These little embraces that any typical couple would do, and I get the sense that she’s using that excuse to pull me out of my own head.
As we move through the suite, mingling with guests and making our way through the buffet, she continues to keep that thread of contact between us—her fingers slipping into mine, the gentle pressure of her hand resting lightly on my forearm, the warmth of her body close enough to brush against mine.
They’re small gestures, casual enough to anyone looking, but with each fleeting touch, I can feel the tension draining from my muscles, the sharp edges of my thoughts softening.
By the time Calloway steps onto the field for the ceremonial first pitch, I’m no longer thinking about the merger or the land surveys or the dozen ways this could go sideways.
I’m thinking about her and the way the golden light inside the suite seems to follow her.
Within minutes, Calloway joins his party guests, his wife linking her arm through his with a radiant smile. He waves off the applause, ever the composed businessman, greeting and thanking everyone.
Margo, however, is practically glowing.
“I think it’s time for presents,” she announces, clapping her hands together, her excitement effortlessly commanding the attention of the room.
Calloway smirks, shaking his head as if already resigned to whatever extravagant display she has planned. “Darling, you know I don’t need anything.”
She waves him off, her expression playful yet utterly self-assured. “I know. That’s why I had to get creative.”
A small black box is handed to him, and a hush falls over the suite as he lifts the lid.
Inside, resting against the velvet lining, is a single key.
Calloway’s brow furrows slightly, his sharp gaze flicking up to meet his wife’s.
Margo merely smiles. “And what, Mrs. Calloway, does this key unlock?”
“The stadium,” she purrs, her hands gesturing around her. “You are now the proud owner of the New York Giants.”
For a beat, the room is silent before it breaks into chaos.
Laughter, applause, murmured disbelief. Someone swears under their breath, clearly grasping the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
We’re off to the side, watching the spectacle, me sitting in a chair as Elena’s fingers trace slow, absentminded circles along my back.
It’s instinctive, that touch. Natural.
And I let myself lean into it.
She leans in as well, her voice laced with amusement. “She bought him a fucking baseball team. You billionaires—I swear.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, my hand trailing in slow strokes along the back of her thigh. “Well, what else do you get a man who has everything?”
“I suppose.” She scoffs softly. “But now I have to know—what’s the most absurd gift someone’s ever given you?”
I arch a brow, considering.
Without warning, I pull her down into my lap. A small yelp escapes her lips, her hands flying to my shoulders as she steadies herself.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t get up.
I should let her go.
But I don’t.
Because this—her in my arms, her weight pressed against me, her warmth seeping into my skin—feels too fucking good.
I let out a slow breath, my thumb brushing along the outside of her thigh, fingers flexing as I grip her just a little tighter.
She’s watching me now, searching my face, waiting for my answer.
“Well…” I finally say, my voice quieter now. “Don’t be sad for the poor little billionaire, but… I don’t really receive gifts of a personal nature.”
Her brows knit together slightly. “What do you mean?”
I hesitate, then tilt my head slightly, my gaze steady on hers. “They’re always business-related. Impersonal. Practical.”
She doesn’t speak right away, but I see something shift in her expression.
Sympathy.
And fuck, I don’t want that.
“What about your family?” Her voice is softer now, careful, as if she already knows the answer.
My fingers brush a lock of hair behind her ear, a deliberate touch to help soften my answer.
“There is no family.”
Her lips part slightly, the realization sinking in.
Because suddenly, she understands.
When my parents died, I didn’t just lose them. I lost everything.
I became an orphan, just like her.
When my mother was buried, my father should have just climbed into the grave with her. I was eighteen when he died, but he had been vacant for years. And then it was just me—for real.
A slow ache burns behind her gaze, but she doesn’t say anything.
I offer a small, almost amused smile, rubbing my hand up and down her thigh, as if I can wipe that look from her face.
“But I had Marcus,” I say, my gaze flicking toward where he and James are engaged in conversation. “And now James.”
Her expression softens just a fraction, the hint of something warmer behind her eyes.
“And I prefer experiences over gifts anyway,” I continue, my lips curling at the corner. “So… maybe swimming with the sharks off the coast of South Africa?”
Elena laughs, shaking her head. “Of course. Just a casual, heart-stopping near-death experience.”
I smirk. “Adrenaline rush. Better than a gold-plated watch.”
I say it like it’s nothing. Like none of this is a big deal.
But she’s still looking at me like it is.
And the way her fingers toy with the soft hair at the nape of my neck—like she’s trying to give me something, even if it’s just this moment.
I shouldn’t let it get to me.
But it does.
And all I can think about now…
Is what I would give her.
If she would let me.
If we were different people.
If this weren’t just a contract.
There isn’t anything in this world I wouldn’t give her.