Page 32 of The Final Contract
Then Killian straightens, hand firm at the small of my back as he steers me into the dimly lit dining room.
Daniel Ruiz is already there. My date.
Older. Not old. Silver just starting at his temples—the kind that looks deliberate, like he could’ve dyed it in that way politicians do: enough to look dignified, not enough to look frail. His posture screams for a camera—one hand resting casually onthe table, chin lifted, eyes scanning the room like there’s a press corps hiding behind the ficus plants.
When he stands, his smile is the practiced, calculated kind. Perfect teeth. Perfect angle. He leans in for the obligatory cheek kiss, and I let him, noting how even his cologne feels rehearsed.
“Seraphina.” He says my name like it’s a campaign slogan. “You look radiant.”
I thank him as Killian pulls my chair out, same as he did at the last date. His hand brushes my back as I lower myself, and I let my dress shift just enough that the silk climbs higher on my thigh. When I glance back to murmur a quiet “thank you,” I catch him staring—not at my face, but lower. Eyes sharp, unblinking.
A thrill skates down my spine.
Daniel talks. I half listen. His words are slick, polished, designed for an audience. The country needs fresh leadership. I have eyes on me everywhere I go. My opponents can’t find a single flaw in my record.
He doesn’t see me. Not really. He sees what I could be to him.
A prop.
A perfect wife for photo ops.
Killian has taken up position at the bar in my periphery. He looks like he belongs there—dark suit, sleeves rolled, forearms braced on polished wood. Watching me. Watching him.
So I play.
I let my fingers trail up the stem of my wineglass, slow and idle, like I’m flirting with the crystal itself. Later, when my napkin “slips” to the floor, I lean down to reach it—only Killian gets there first. His eyes flick down my neckline, catching the sheer lace of the bra pushing my breasts together. When I take the napkin back, I make sure our fingers brush. I offer an innocent smile of gratitude.
His return look isn’t innocent at all. It’s warning. You’re pushing it.
And it only makes me push harder.
The sharp clink of glass snaps Killian’s gaze to the table next to us as a guest fusses with spilled water. Daniel clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him. His eyes are sharp, evaluating. “Would you be comfortable converting to Catholicism?”
I blink, the commotion at the table next to me forgotten as the guest leaves with a wet lap. “Excuse me?”
“For optics.” He says it like it’s obvious. “My constituents prefer a traditional family unit. It’s important they see us aligned on faith.”
Us.
Aligned.
Like I’m already standing at his side at some podium while he raises our hands in victory.
He doesn’t pause before continuing. “And when we are married…”
When.
My stomach tightens—not with nerves, but irritation. There’s something so casually presumptuous in his tone, like the choice is already made for me.
I force a pleasant smile, leaning forward so my leg shifts again, giving just enough of a tease Daniel might think it’s for him. But I know who’s really watching. Killian’s jaw is tight, his forearm flexed against the bar like he’s holding himself back.
Good. Let him stew. Let him wonder if Daniel Ruiz will be the one to pull this dress off me and see what’s beneath.
The thought shouldn’t thrill me. But it does.
When Daniel starts talking about children—our children—I know I’ve reached my limit. Two of them, he says, with the kind of precision only a man who treats life like a campaign strategycould muster. Cesarean births. Genders chosen in a lab. A boy first, then a girl.
The smile never leaves my face, but my eyes find Killian’s. The smallest tilt of my head is all it takes. I want out, and he makes it happen in a minute.
