THE VENGEANCE CONTRACT

CHAPTER 4: THE VENGEANCE CONTRACT

By 8:55 AM on Monday morning, the glass-and-steel tower of Vance Enterprises cut straight through the low gray clouds. Rain ran down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lobby in long, crooked streams.

I walked through the revolving doors, the heels of my boots clicking sharply against the white marble. I had chosen a tailored white suit, with the cream silk shirt buttoned straight to my throat to keep the dark mark on my collarbone completely hidden. I’d applied enough scent-blocker across my skin to mask a hurricane. To anyone passing me in the lobby, I was invisible—no smell, no heat, no crack in the armor.

I bypassed the main security desk, pressed my VIP guest pass against the reader, and stepped into the private elevator going straight to the top floor.

The doors opened with a soft chime into a quiet reception area lined with dark wood paneling and heavy gray carpet. A blonde assistant glanced up from her desk, her eyes widening slightly when she recognized me.

"Mr. Soren," she said, quickly straightening her blazer. "The CEO is expecting you in the corner office. Please go right in."

"Thank you," I replied.

I took a slow, steadying breath, adjusted my cuffs, and pushed open the heavy mahogany door.

"Good morning," I said as I stepped inside. "I'm here to review the final draft for the pack estate bailout—"

The rest of the sentence died in my throat.

Sitting behind a massive dark wood desk, framed by the gray skyline outside, was a man reviewing legal documents with a heavy gold fountain pen. He wore a charcoal suit cut so sharp it accentuated his broad shoulders, his dark hair combed back neatly.

He set the pen down with a quiet click.

He didn't look surprised to see me. His cold, silver-gray eyes slowly tracked me—from my shoes all the way up to my high collar—before a faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

James Vance.

The head of the Vance empire. The most feared Prime Alpha in the state.

And Matthew’s uncle.

My heart slammed against my ribs. The dark booth at Elysium... the broad hands pinned to my waist... the silver eyes watching me through the dim light...

It was him.

Before I could take a step back, James leaned back in his leather chair and let his suppression aura slip for just a fraction of a second.

Instantly, the office flooded with the scent of smoked cedar and dark tangerine. It hit me like physical weight—the exact same scent locked into the skin beneath my collar.

"Welcome, Soren," James said, his voice a deep, low rumble. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

I forced my hand to stay steady on the door handle as I clicked it shut behind me. "I came for the bailout contract for my father's land," I said, keeping my voice as smooth as glass. "I didn't realize Mr. Vance handled minor division agreements personally."

"Nothing about you is minor, Soren," James said softly.

He stood up. His sheer presence filled the room as he walked around the desk, his silver eyes fixed on mine. He stopped inches away, the heat radiating off his body filling the small space between us.

Slowly, without asking, James raised his hand. His thumb hooked under my crisp collar, pushing the silk back just far enough to expose the bruised mark at the base of my neck.

My breath caught in my throat. My pulse hammered against his thumb.

"You're wearing scent-blocker again," James murmured, his thumb resting lightly over my erratic pulse point. "Trying to hide my work, little storm?"

"I keep my personal life out of business," I said, holding his gaze. "And Saturday night was a one-time thing. No names. No questions."

A faint, dry laugh pulled at James's chest. "A deal means both sides got what they wanted. Tell me... did sleeping with a stranger in a dark booth actually fix what my nephew did?"

Matthew’s name hit like cold steel. My jaw set. "Matthew is irrelevant."

"Is he?" James reached back and tapped a leather folder lying open on his desk. "Matthew came to my house yesterday morning smelling like powdered jasmine and sweet honey. He begged me to trigger the forced bankruptcy clause on your estate. He wanted to strip your father of his voting rights so he could force you into a secondary marriage contract where you had zero control."

My stomach turned to ice. Matthew wasn't just cheating with Tyla—he was actively moving to break my family so I’d have to crawl back to him on my knees.

"What did you tell him?" I asked softly.

"I told him to get out of my house," James said flatly. "And then I tore his agreement up and redrafted this one myself."

He picked up the heavy gold pen and held it out toward me.

"I am not loaning your father money, Soren," James said, his voice completely unyielding. "I am buying your estate out outright under my personal name. In exchange, I require a legal, binding partnership."

I looked from the pen to his eyes. "What kind of partnership?"

"A marriage of convenience," James said. "You walk into the Vance family council on my arm. You wear my ring. You move into my estate. You act as my partner in public, and in return, I give you full personal ownership of your father's land, strip Matthew of his corporate succession rights, and push your half-brother out of the pack hierarchy entirely."

I stared at him. "You want to marry your nephew's ex to teach him a lesson?"

"I don't play lesson-games with boys, Soren," James growled, leaning in until his chest almost brushed mine. "Matthew is weak. He threw away gold for trash and dragged our name through the dirt. But more importantly... you don't belong to a child who doesn't know what he has. You belong somewhere that actually holds your storm."

His cedar-and-tangerine scent flared up—possessive, thick, and real. He wasn't giving me pity. He was offering me a blade and asking if I was ready to swing it.

I looked down at the contract. The line at the bottom was clean and empty.

If I signed this, everything changed. I would be declaring open war on Matthew, Tyla, and my father all at once. I would be stepping into the cage of the most dangerous man in the city.

Plain rain. Boring. Matthew’s voice floated back through my mind like bad air.

I took the pen. Our fingers brushed, a spark of pure heat tracing up my arm. I leaned over the mahogany desk and wrote my name in dark, steady ink.

Soren.

I set the pen down and met James’s gaze.

"When do we start?" I asked.

James picked up the document, his thumb running slowly over my name. He pulled a small black velvet box from his jacket pocket and popped the latch.

Inside sat a heavy, dark platinum band set with a single black diamond.

"Pack your bags," James whispered, his lips grazing the edge of my ear. "Tonight, you come home with me."