Page 7 of The Final Contract
“There’s a zipper too.”
Her voice is lighter now, almost casual. But when she glances back over her shoulder, her eyes catch mine, and I know she’s baiting me.
I reach again, fingers brushing the warm line of her skin as I find the zipper. Goosebumps ripple under my touch, her body betraying her even if her face doesn’t.
I could lean down, kiss that spot. Warm her with my mouth, taste the heat of her pulse.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t. Because the one rule—my cardinal rule—is never—fuck the woman you’re meant to protect.
And then the zipper drops.
The dress loosens. Fabric slides. And what greets me steals the air from my lungs.
A pale-pink thong, nothing more. A tiny bow at the waistband like it’s a gift waiting for me to unwrap.
I want to slide my hand beneath it. Feel her wet and ready for me. Drop to my knees and taste what I’ve only imagined.
But I don’t.
I take one step back. Then another.
She turns, eyes tracking me, sharp as blades and soft as sin all at once.
A third step. A fourth. Until I’m clear of the bathroom, standing in her bedroom doorway.
“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” I say.
My voice is steady, controlled.
Even if I know one day she’ll be the death of my control.
I’ve always loved it here.
Anastasia’s house has a way of wrapping around me like a memory I never earned—warm, sunlit, permanent. Even the air feels softer, salted with the Atlantic breeze, carrying the distant call of gulls and the lull of waves crashing against the shore. We’re only a short drive from Manhattan, but it feels like another world. Her world.
My twin’s life looks nothing like mine.
Stasia is a wife, a mother. She’s built this picture-perfect home with the white shutters, the trimmed hedges, the kind of laughter that sticks to the walls.
She stuck with being a nurse while I quit the hospital to play house in penthouses that don’t belong to me.
I dine in the finest restaurants wearing dresses someone else paid for and sail across the world on the yachts of men who want nothing more than a beautiful distraction on their arm. My life ispolished, glittering, enviable—yet none of it feels like it belongs to me.
But this? Sitting here in my sister’s backyard, fading golden sunlight filtering through the branches while the sea hums in the background—this feels like peace. Like breathing for the first time in weeks.
Stasia sets down a tray between us, the delicate clink of porcelain teacups breaking the quiet. “Tea with lemon,” she says, sliding one toward me. “And lemon cookies. Still your favorite?”
“Always,” I murmur, grateful for the sweetness of something that’s real.
Across the yard, Aurora runs barefoot through the grass, her sundress billowing behind her like a banner. Oliver crouches low, mud smeared on his hands, too proud of whatever creature he’s just dug up.
“Ollie, don’t you dare tease your sister with that worm!” Stasia calls, her voice carrying the edge of practiced authority.
Too late. Aurora shrieks, darting toward the porch with wild blond curls streaming behind her. She darts behind a post, clutching it like a lifeline, cheeks flushed pink.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Killian—lounging on the back steps with his phone. He hasn’t moved in half an hour, eyes flicking over the screen like he’s actually reading the news. But I know better. He’s scanning. Hunting. Waiting for my phantom to appear in the shadows.
