Semua Bab THE CEO'S CONTRACT LUNA : Bab 11 - Bab 20

​The unspoken tension resulting from the midnight encounter in the archives was a living thing, stretched taut between the two wings of the penthouse. Damon hadn't summoned Evie again, nor had he commented on her identification of the "coercion flaw" in the Northern Acquisitions. His silence was deliberate: a cold, powerful refusal to acknowledge the intimacy their shared intellect had briefly sparked.​But the Mate Bond, once awakened by their proximity and mental collaboration, refused to retreat. Evie still felt the persistent, restless heat—a deep, visceral ache that made the solitude unbearable.​The summons for the next public event came late the following afternoon, delivered not by Marcus’s official memo, but by a sudden, sharp rap on her door. It was Damon himself.​He stood in her suite for the first time—a deliberate violation of the spirit of the spatial separation—his presence instantly shrinking the enormous room. He was dressed in a dark suit, his expression severe, his

​The heavy, rhythmic thud of Damon’s retreating footsteps should have been the signal for Evie to withdraw into the safety of her suite. It should have been the end of a terrifying night. But as she stood in the center of the vast, obsidian-streaked gallery, the adrenaline that had fueled her rebellion didn't dissipate; it curdled, turning from a frantic spark into a slow-burning, righteous acid. She wasn’t a submissive wolf in his pack. She wasn’t an entry on a Rourke Industries spreadsheet. And she was certainly no longer willing to be a ghost haunting the hallways of her own life.​“Damon!” she shouted, the word echoing off the minimalist art and the cold basalt floors.​He didn’t stop. He didn't even break his stride, his broad shoulders squared as he moved toward the Eastern wing, the embodiment of a king who had finished a tiresome audience.​“Damon Rourke, look at me when I’m speaking to you!”​The command in her voice was desperate, yet it carried a sharp, human authority that

​The midnight air in the East Wing of Rourke Tower didn't carry the faint, floral scent of the West Wing’s high-end laundry detergent or the subtle, creative energy of Evie’s drafting table. Here, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of old paper, expensive leather, and the heavy, metallic tang of an Alpha on the edge of a breakdown. The "professional recovery" Damon had demanded was proving to be anything but restorative. For Damon, the silence was an echo chamber for a biological imperative he was trying to starve to death.​He sat behind his massive obsidian desk, the only light in the room provided by the dim glow of multiple security monitors and a half-empty glass of amber scotch. His tie was long gone, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the corded muscles of a neck that felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Every few seconds, his gaze would flicker to the monitor displaying the hallway between the wings—the "neutral zone." He wasn't l

The morning air in the Silver Crescent Tower tasted of ozone and expensive espresso, but for Evie, it was the sharp, metallic tang of data that kept her awake. Following the revelation that Alpha Kellen was the architect of her family’s ruin, the dynamic of her confinement had fundamentally shifted. She was no longer just a "purchased asset" or a "prisoner of circumstance." She had become something far more dangerous to Kellen: a vengeful architect with the keys to the King’s vault.​Damon had not summoned her to the East Wing today. Instead, he had sent a courier—not Marcus, but a silent, high-ranking Enforcer—with a localized server node. It was a physical manifestation of his growing trust, or perhaps, his growing desperation. Along with the server came a short, handwritten note on heavy cream stationery:​The wolves see the scent. The lawyers see the law. I need the architect to see the structure. Find where Kellen is hiding his heart.​Evie sat at her drafting table, the sprawlin

​The transition from the fragile domesticity of the shared meal to the high-stakes theater of the Pack Council was supposed to be a matter of professional discipline. Evie had barely stepped into her suite, her mind still reeling from the warmth of Damon’s admission, when the world simply ceased to exist.​There was no sound—no explosion, no mechanical failure—just an instantaneous, absolute withdrawal of light. Rourke Tower, a monument to technological perfection and structural invincibility, went blind. The humming of the servers, the subtle vibration of the climate control, and even the faint, omnipresent glow of the emergency floor-strips vanished. In the vacuum of the 100th floor, the darkness was so thick it felt like a physical weight against her lungs.​“Evie.”​Damon’s voice didn't come from the hallway. It came from right beside her. He had moved with the terrifying, silent speed of a predator who didn't need eyes to navigate his own territory. Before she could gasp, his han