Scarlett Edwards - Uncovering You - The Contract

“So you were just out here waiting for me?” I ask. “Who else comes through the elevator?”

“Only Mr. Stonehart.”

“Then, why is your desk there?”

The girl’s eyes dart to her feet. “Mr. Stonehart prefers his secretaries to have privacy while still in, um… training.”

An uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine. I have a strong suspicion about the type of training she is talking about.

“Anyway,” she perks back up, “6:40 tonight. Don’t forget. The driver will be waiting for you. Oh, and there’s a certain dress code…” She trails off. “Here, let me just write it down for you.”

She runs back to her desk, and I see no choice but to follow. She takes out a business card from the drawer and writes on the back:

6:40PM. Today. Dress code: Professional .

She beams when she hands the card to me. I stuff it into my pocket without any further thought. It’s not like I’m dumb enough to forget those instructions.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I wonder. Does Mr. Stonehart expect such compliance from everyone he meets?”

“Oh yes,” the girl nods. “Jeremy always gets what he wants.”

(Present day)

Jeremy.

Jeremy Stonehart .

My hand trembles as I reach into the pocket I’d forgotten all about. I feel the edges of the card in the dark.

The one I was not supposed to be given.

My trembling thumbs slide over the slightly-raised letters of his signature. The letters imprinted in my mind are the same ones I feel under my fingers:

J.S.

(Three weeks ago)

I rush after the hostess as she leads me through a maze of tables. I’d only decided to come at the last minute—and only after I saw the black limousine waiting for me outside.

In fact, all day I was certain I’d blow Stonehart off.

It was not curiosity that changed my mind, but desperation. Tonight is the last night I am allowed to stay at the apartment. Tomorrow I get evicted, with only a half-baked plan for what I will do next.

Maybe Stonehart has something to offer other than stark arrogance.

I see him alone in a secluded corner. His eyes are dark and his jaw is set. He does not dignify me with a greeting as I sit down.

“Can I offer you…” the hostess starts.

“No,” Stonehart barks. His tone makes the hostess swallow and turn away.

“You’re late,” he growls at me.

“Your driver—”

“Was at your door at precisely 6:40.” Stonehart’s entire body is like a coiled spring. It makes me fidget uncomfortably. “You came to the car at 6:58. Eighteen minutes , Lilly. That’s how long I’ve been waiting here for you.”

I glance at my watch. It shows six minutes after eight. “Reservations were for eight…” I begin.

“Which still makes you late,” Stonehart snaps. “Precision is important to me. Do you know how many people I have waited for as long as I’ve waited for you in the last ten years?” He looks up, then, and his dark eyes burn with a rage unlike any I’ve seen contained in another human. It shocks me how little of it seeps into his voice.

The contrast of it to his manner, cold as ice, frightens me.

“I—”

“ Two ,” he answers. “Two people. Less than the fingers I have on one hand.” He holds his left hand in front of his face and rotates it back and forth.

Without warning he slams it down on the table. I jump, and he surges up.

“It seems I was mistaken about you,” he says, and starts to walk away.

Desperate, I reach out and grab his sleeve. “Wait,” I say. “Please.”

Stonehart looks down at me. He sneers. Then, he rips his arm back and walks away.

I slump down in my seat. That was such bullshit ! He didn’t even give me a chance to explain! What type of psychotic man waits twenty—no, “ eighteen ”—minutes only to leave the second his guest arrives?

“Miss?” A waiter interrupts my thoughts. “The gentleman ordered wine?”

I am poured two glasses before I can say a word. One is set on Stonehart’s side of the table, the other, in front of me.

I sigh and pick up my glass. The aroma of the wine is soothing. I sip at the rim.

I guess I am not cut out for this world, after all.

(Present day)

Stonehart.

The bastard. It’s been him this whole time!

Who else would have the power, the influence, to organize all this? I curse myself for not thinking of him before. I’ve been starving because of him. I’ve been dying because of him.

My war has been all for naught. If I truly want to hurt Stonehart, holding out like this won’t help. He may not know it, but he gave me the most valuable piece of information the morning we met in his building.

He is taking his company public.

He has left his king vulnerable.

Let him think me broken. Let him think me weak. I will play his sick game. I will sign the damned contract.

Because I know, when the time comes, I will strike.

And I will destroy his empire.

(One day later)

An elderly woman comes in to bathe and clothe me. I do not know what she must think when she sees me, for she says nothing at all.

Once I am cleaned, fed, and dressed, I ask her casually, “When will Mr. Stonehart be presenting himself?”

The woman’s manner falters. She drops the rags she is holding and looks at me, really at me , as if seeing the person I am instead of the broken shell of a human she found last night. Something akin to pity shows in her eyes.

The break in composure lasts only a second. She picks up my soiled clothes and addresses me formally. “Mr. Stonehart will be informed of your request.”

As she bustles out, I try to temper the growing smile on my lips.

I am not supposed to know it’s him yet.

Score one for Lilly Ryder.

The End.