All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Contract Wife Can't Let Go: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Alex POV: The PartyThe top is down on the convertible, and Jodie’s hair whips around her face in black strands. She’s holding her phone at arm’s length, snapping photos, the flash catching the breeze and turning her into something almost luminous. I wanted to take the black Audi, something understated, anonymous, but she’d laughed and said, “No, Alex. This is the Orsinis. We have to impress them.”So here we are, rolling into the Orsini estate. Two security guys in dark suits step forward as I kill the engine. Only two? And they carry no weapons, no phalanx of earpieces either. It throws me for a second that Orsini’s residence will not be swarmed with security. I’ve stood in rooms with presidents and oligarchs before. I know what real power looks like. It doesn’t need to shout but it is publicly protected. Still, I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Jodie. About how she’ll hold up under the weight of their scrutiny.She stops suddenly as we walk towards the big house. “A

Alex POV: Jodie Doubts His LoveI sit in my office staring at the report, feeling personally insulted by its existence. The numbers are in screaming red: Logan Ventures West, our mid-sized logistics and supply-chain tech firm based out of Seattle, has just been cut loose by Wood & Ward, their anchor investor for the past eight years. And the reason listed in the terse email attachment is: “Ongoing five-year negative cash flow trajectory inconsistent with portfolio risk parameters.”Five years. Not one bad quarter but five goddamn years.I slam the folder shut and hit the intercom. “Get me Jake Mooney on the line. Then call an emergency board meeting for Logan Ventures West. Make it virtual. Now.”Forty minutes later the screen is filled with faces. Jake is at the head of his own conference table in Seattle, CFO looking like he hasn’t slept in days, a handful of VPs near him are trying not to fidget.“What the hell is happening?” I ask without pleasantries. Jake goes still at first

Dana POV: Ben Weathers Comes TrueBen Weathers must be some kind of big shot to have a reserved table at The Dabney on a Saturday afternoon. The place isn’t like the glossy, see-and-be-seen restaurants in New York or L.A. No wall of windows flaunting the diners, no house music or bottle service. It’s tucked into a narrow row house in Blagden Alley, the kind of spot where the entrance is understated, dark wood door, brass plaque the size of a business card, and once you step inside, the world shrinks to warm lights, and the quiet clink of silverware. The open kitchen runs along one wall, so you can watch the chefs move about.It feels private, almost secretive, and that alone makes me relax. The hostess leads me through the narrow dining room to a corner table half-hidden by a low partition of reclaimed wood shelves lined with old cookbooks and bottles of wine. Ben is already there, seated, scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t stand when I approach to pull out my chair. He just looks

Dana POV: Dana Meets Hymar. I’m back at The Dabney the next day, and I almost laugh out loud at myself in the quiet foyer. Yesterday I walked out of here like my skirt was on fire after spotting Alex through the crowd. Today I’m back on purpose, reserving a table for two under my name, pretending I’m waiting for someone. The plan, if you can call it that, is simple and pathetic: if Alex is in Washington and if he ate here yesterday at roughly the same time, maybe he’ll come back today. Maybe he’ll see me and stop and talk to me. It’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, and I hatched it in the hotel shower this morning while the water ran hot. I finished the painting I’d been working on and had nothing left to do but pace. So here I am, wasting time chasing shadows.The hostess today is different, a younger woman with a neat bob and a name tag that reads “Peace.” How quaint, how ironic, that name. The other one might have remembered my abrupt exit. Peace leads me to the same corner

Dana POV: Her Dad is Back In The Hospital The screen of my phone lights up with a stack of missed calls and notifications. I rub sleep out of my eyes, my heart already picking up speed before I even unlock it. A host of reasons for so many notifications running through my head, and most of it morbid. The top message is from Stuart Hapscomb at Wood and Ward. It says: “Reports are ready for presentation. Board is assembled and waiting at your convenience this morning. Please confirm.”I frown at the message, at it's dubiousness. It’s only been a few days since the first meeting. Stuart had insisted two weeks minimum for the five-year historicals and ten-year projections. I’d cut it to one week, which was followed by an unhappy glare from them. Now they’re ready early? This is good. Suspiciously good.I swipe through the rest on my way to the bathroom, bare feet on the fluffy hotel carpet.Bert’s message is a roll of excitement: “Dana, this is insane. Reminds me of early Basquiat, th