The Contract

POV: Chloe

The email landed on a Tuesday morning, buried in my inbox between a parking ticket and a coffee coupon.

Adams Corporation: Riverside Development Initiative, Request for Design Proposal.

I almost deleted it. We were a tiny firm. We didn’t get invites to billion-dollar bids, especially not from Adams Corporation—the city's biggest conglomerate, with Tristan’s name stamped at the top.

I should have known. I should have felt the trap snapping shut the second I saw his name.

Instead, I clicked open.

I froze at my desk for ten minutes, staring at the screen. Three lines down, typed in crisp font, was a sentence that turned my blood to ice:

Lead Designer: Chloe Wynn, Wynn & Associates.

He’d named me specifically. He had no business knowing this internal document even existed, let alone deciding who would run it.

My first instinct was to run. Slam the laptop shut, call them, and state that Wynn & Associates wanted absolutely nothing to do with Adams Corp. But then Marcus knocked on my door. He held a stack of unpaid invoices, and the tight lines around his eyes meant payroll was looming and we were broke. Again.

“Chloe, I know it’s not my place,” he said carefully. “But did you see the email from Adams Corp? If we land even a fraction of that contract...”

“I saw it,” I muttered.

“It would save us,” he replied bluntly.

And it was true. Six employees. Six families. A firm I’d built from scratch over seven grueling years. Now, it was hanging by a thread that this single email could either snap or reinforce.

I closed my eyes. Damn you, Tristan.

Of course he knew. He’d had someone dig through my finances, exposing the desperate state of everything I’d built. And he ruthlessly exploited it.

“I’ll look into it,” I told Marcus, my voice steadier than my shaking hands.

That night, alone in my apartment, I opened the full file. And my world stopped turning.

It wasn’t just another luxury tower or a commercial complex slapped with a green rooftop for marketing.

It was Tomorrowland.

I stared at the screen. Organic structures curved like living things. Vertical gardens cascaded down glass walls. The central plaza was designed around natural light instead of traffic. My chest caved in. I recognized this.

I had drawn this. Seven years ago, in my cramped apartment, I’d hunched over a drafting table with Tristan pressed against my back. We were in our twenties—recklessly in love—dreaming up a city that didn't exist.

Tomorrowland, we called it. Half-joke, half-dream.

I remembered sketching the plaza on a takeout menu. Tristan tracing his thick finger along my lines, his rough voice completely certain. “One day, I’ll build this with you.”

I thought I threw those sketches away.

He kept them. I scrolled through page after page. Every concept was rooted in the dreams I’d abandoned when I ran. The vertical gardens. The community ground floor. The light-channeling atrium I’d once called a cathedral of sky.

He’d spent seven years making it real. Piece by piece, building by building. Long after he had every reason to hate me. Long after any sane alpha would have burned my drawings and knotted someone else.

He never moved on. He built a massive monument to us, right in the city I walked through every day. I sat in the dark, the screen lighting up my tears. I cried for the girl I was, and the fierce mate I left behind. By the time my tears dried, I knew I was trapped. I couldn't say no to this dream.

The meeting happened three days later on the fortieth floor of Adams Tower. Tristan sat at the head of the glass table. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick forearms where my scratch marks had already healed. He looked exactly as he had at the manor: cold, lethal, and untouchable.

A thick contract sat in front of me, flagged with sticky tabs. His assistant had briefed me, and it sounded reasonable.

Until I read the fine print.

“Section fourteen,” I stated, tapping the paper. “Exclusivity clause. Wynn & Associates becomes a subsidiary under Adams Corp, not an independent contractor.”

“Correct.” Tristan didn’t even blink.

“And section twenty-two.” My chest tightened. “Early withdrawal penalty. Three hundred million dollars.” I gasped.

The boardroom went dead silent.

“Tristan, this isn't business. This is a fucking cage. No sane firm would sign this.”

“A leash,” he corrected smoothly, his glowing eyes finally meeting mine.

The blunt truth knocked the wind out of me. “You’re not even denying it!” I shoved my chair back, scraping the floor. “You can’t do this to an innocent company!”

“My issue isn't with the company.” His voice was a low rumble. Underneath his calm exterior, a raw tension buzzed—like a wire about to snap. “Seven years ago, you vanished. No note. No goodbye. I spent years not knowing if my mate was dead or alive in a ditch.”

“Tristan—”

He tapped the contract. “This is the only leverage I have left to ensure you never run again.”

“You’re using my firm's bankruptcy to trap me,” I spat, my hands shaking. “You’re holding my entire staff hostage just to force me into your bed.”

“Yes.” He didn't flinch. No shame. Just a dominant stare that made heat flood straight to my wet core despite my anger. “I told you. This is what abandonment costs.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the paper up and walk out. But underneath his ruthless mask, I saw the feral desperation of an alpha holding his beast back through sheer will. My staff needed this money. And God help me, my traitorous body wanted him.

I grabbed the pen and signed my name. Tristan watched the ink flow, and for a split second, his iron mask cracked. Pure, desperate relief washed over his sharp features. Then it vanished. He slid the folder away.

“Welcome to the team, Ms. Wynn.”

I scoffed, grabbed my bag, and fled the room. I didn't trust myself to speak without sounding like a desperate, dripping mess. I practically ran to the elevator.

God, I am so fucked. How am I supposed to work with him?

POV: Tristan

The moment she stepped through my door, her sweet scent slammed into me.

Seven years, and she still smelled like mine. Clean. Warm. Vanilla, layered with city stress and a thick spike of arousal that made my wolf thrash against his cage.

I gripped the table edge, white-knuckled, fighting the urge to take her right on the conference table.

Mine. Zain snarled, desperate to rip her clothes off. I forced him down.

I tracked her every move. The delicate curve of her throat. That furious crease between her brows when she read the trap I'd laid. When she shifted in her seat and crossed her bare legs, my eyes dropped. I couldn't stop them. She caught me staring, and an electric spark snapped between us before I forced my gaze away.

But she felt it. A dark flush crept up her neck. Her breathing hitched—a tiny, helpless gasp. Her scent thickened instantly, the heavy musk of a wet, aroused female choking the room.

Seven years of pure agony, and here she was, sitting four feet away. I stayed glued to my chair, letting the lust burn through my veins. If I gave myself an inch, I wouldn't stop until I was buried deep inside her.

I watched her scribble her signature with that familiar flourish, sealing her fate. I signed my half with brutal focus, then locked my face into a cold mask before my hands could reach out and claim what was mine.

“Welcome to the team, Ms. Wynn.”

She practically ran out the door. The second she was gone, a dark smirk touched my lips. The room still reeked of her slick arousal. I sat there, breathing her in, thinking about how easily I could have dragged her over the desk.

God help us both. This contract was going to be a very long, very filthy game.

Mine. Finally. And she is never leaving again.