The Double Contract Girlfriend

The First Offer

RILEY

It's been one week since I got the letter, one week of me realizing it's one thing to agree to do something, and it's another, to actually go ahead and do it. One week of Tara's constant calls trying to give me the push to finally set up a date to meet with Sloane. Those efforts of hers finally paid off as I had just gotten off the phone with Sloane, agreeing to meet up with her for tea that noon.

The café was one of those impossibly quaint places with gold-rimmed saucers and soft piano music humming in the background. I'd chosen a plain navy dress and pulled my hair back, though my hands still shook when I reached for the door.

Sloane Winthrop was already there, perched like a queen at the corner table, porcelain cup in hand. She rose as I approached, and her smile was warmer than I'd expected.

"Riley," she said, taking my hands in hers. "You look just like your mother."

"It's been too long. I should have come sooner. Your mother and I… we let time get away from us."

I looked down at my tea. "She never said why you two stopped talking."

Sloane's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was a disagreement. Nothing worth the silence it caused. But pride is a stubborn thing."

"Was it about me?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Absolutely not! Why would you even think that"

She obviously wasn't ready to talk about it, so she changed the conversation. We spoke about random things, my work at Horizon Youth Initiative, the city, her fond memories of my mother, excluding the part that set them apart. But somewhere in the middle of it, her tone shifted.

"You remember my son?" she asked without waiting for a response. "Chandler. He's… well, he keeps to himself these days. Focused on work. Too focused, if you ask me."

I sipped my tea, unsure where this was going.

"You know, when you were a little girl, your mother and I would joke about becoming in-laws one day. We imagined you and my son growing up together, falling in love, merging our worlds."

"You might find you have things in common," she added with an almost mischievous tilt to her lips. "I'd like you to meet him."

And there it was. The real reason for tea.

I sat back, heart thudding.

She can't be serious

"Mrs. Winthrop…”

"Sloane," she corrected. "And it's just a friendly introduction. No pressure."

But there was pressure. I could feel it in the gentle insistence of her eyes, the way she seemed to already be picturing it.

"Sloane, I'm sure Chandler is a wonderful guy, but I'm not really in the headspace for meeting someone in that prospect now"

"Oh if not now, when? Your mom was all you had, don't you think it's time you had someone else to love you, care for you? Just one date, that's all I ask"

"I really appreciate your concern, and even going as far as offering your son, but I'm really not…"

"Would thirty thousand dollars, get you ready for one date with my son?"

I froze.

Well, she should have started with that on the table!

CHANDLER

I knew my mother was up to something.

She gets that particular tone in her voice when she's decided my life needs "fixing." The last time, it was a position on the board of her charity. Before that, an apartment in Paris I neither asked for nor wanted.

This time, she was vague. Too vague.

I stood in my office overlooking the city, phone in hand, rereading her text:

"I met someone you might like."

The words alone were enough to make me shut the phone off.

I'm not in the market for someone. Not now. Not with the constant noise of investors, the endless cycle of expansion meetings, the vultures waiting for one mistake. Relationships are distractions. Weak spots. And totally unnecessary at this point of my life

But knowing my mother, she'll find a way to push. She always does.

I need to do something about this, I can't let her make another decision for me.

But for now I need to get set for the party that has been the talk of the town.

My penthouse was quiet except for the soft jazz drifting through hidden speakers while the city glowed beneath me in silver and gold, traffic lights bleeding across wet streets like smeared paint. Fifty-two floors up, New York looked expensive instead of exhausting.

Exactly how I liked it.

I adjusted the cuff of my shirt and studied myself in the mirror. My custom made black Tom Ford tuxedo. The platinum Patek Philippe around my wrist caught the warm lighting every time I moved, the weight familiar and satisfying. My father used to say watches were the only jewelry a serious man needed. Mine cost more than most people's yearly salaries.

Luxury wasn't something I hid. I enjoyed it too much. I never saw the point in pretending otherwise.

My penthouse alone had been featured in Architectural Digest twice. Marble floors imported from Italy. A temperature-controlled wine wall stretching across an entire room. Original Basquiat hanging near the staircase.

People called it excessive. Those people usually couldn't afford it.

I reached for the crystal tumbler beside me and took a slow sip of Macallan before setting it back down.

My phone buzzed against the marble counter.

"You're late already, aren't you?" Sebastian asked the second I answered.

"As usual."

A dramatic groan sounded through the speaker. "Chandler, the dinner starts in twenty minutes."

"And I'll arrive looking better than everyone there. You're welcome."

"That ego of yours genuinely needs medical attention."

I smirked faintly.

People always mistook confidence for arrogance when it came from men who actually had reasons to be confident.

I knew exactly what I looked like. I knew what people said about me when I entered rooms. Women stared, men admired.

And in my world; private equity, old money circles, luxury hotels, invitation-only parties, presence mattered almost as much as power. Maybe more.

"Your mother already asked if you're bringing someone," Sebastian added.

"My mother asks that every single time I see her."

"She's invested in your love life."

I scoffed.

Honestly, tonight's engagement dinner was practically my mother's fantasy for me. Grand ballroom. Elite guest list. Society photographers lurking outside like vultures. Wealthy families pretending their children married for love instead of strategic compatibility.

"If I walked in tonight with a fiancée on my arm, my mother would probably cry into her champagne"

"You joke," he said, "but she really does want this for you."

"Of course she does."

"Maybe she's right."

I grabbed my cufflinks from the counter, fastening them carefully.

"No woman wants a man like me long term."

"That's bullshit."

I said calmly. "Women love men like me temporarily. There's a difference."

He sighed. "Just get here before the party is over."

"The party is never over when I'm around."

I ended the call and slipped on my jacket.

Downstairs, the valet already had my Aston Martin waiting beneath the awning. Midnight silver, low enough to look predatory.

The engine purred when I slid inside, smooth, expensive and powerful in a way that reminded me a little too much of myself.

Rain streaked across the windshield as I pulled into Manhattan traffic.

I drove myself despite everyone insisting I should use my chauffeur.

I liked driving, I enjoy being in control. I liked the silence before events like this, engagement dinners were performances.

Tonight wasn't just about Sebastian proposing to the love of his life. It was networking disguised as romance. Billionaires shaking hands beside champagne towers. Families evaluating each other's status while pretending to admire flower arrangements.

And despite knowing exactly how artificial these nights could be, I still showed up. Probably because I was just as artificial.

The Beaumont Hotel glowed against the rain-soaked street like a jewel box. Valets hurried forward immediately as flashes from photographers sparked near the entrance.

I stepped out of my beast and adjusted my jacket once.

The subtle shift in atmosphere didn’t take time to settle in. Recognition moving through the crowd like a ripple. I’ve gotten their attention.

I walked into the ballroom to the scent of roses, candle wax, and money.

Everything gleamed. Crystal chandeliers. Gold detailing. White orchids towering over tables.

A string quartet played near the staircase while servers floated through the room carrying trays of champagne.

"Finally."

Sebastian appeared beside me looking unfairly relaxed for a man about to propose marriage publicly in front of half of Manhattan's elite.

"You look irritatingly good," he muttered.

"I know."

"You couldn't pretend humility for one evening?"

"Not in this tux."

He laughed before pulling me into a brief hug.

His fiancée approached moments later in a fitted ivory gown, smiling warmly when she saw me.

"Chandler Winthrop in the flesh."

"The rumors are true."

Her gaze moved over me approvingly. "You clean up dangerously well."

"That's because I spend alarming amounts of money maintaining the effect."

Sebastian groaned. "Please stop flirting with my fiancée."

"She started it."

She laughed softly before being pulled away by another guest.

I accepted champagne from a passing server and let my gaze drift around the ballroom.

Familiar faces everywhere. CEOs. Top Models. Trust fund heirs pretending to have careers. Women draped in couture and diamonds. Normal Friday night.

Then I saw her. And suddenly the room went silent in my head.

Blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders. Champagne-colored silk hugging curves I definitely would've remembered in high school.

Long legs, sharp cheekbones, glossed lips. A face so perfectly refined it almost looked unreal beneath the chandeliers.

Sophia Laurent.

I hadn't seen her in twelve years.

Back then, Sophia had been beautiful in a quiet way. Soft features. Minimal makeup. Rich girl elegance without trying too hard.

Now she looked devastatingly enhanced.

Every cosmetic procedure money could buy done with terrifying precision. Higher cheekbones, fuller lips, sharper jawline, breasts fuller beneath silk that clung to her body like a sin.

Someone had rebuilt her carefully. And the result was enough to make every man in the room stare without shame, including me.

My eyes stayed on her too long, till she noticed. Of course she did! Women like Sophia always noticed even when you think they didn't.

Her gaze met mine across the ballroom and something flickered across her face.

And suddenly I was eighteen again, sneaking her into the backseat of my Bentley after parties while she laughed against my mouth. I remembered every damn thing about her. The way she used to bite my lower lip when she was annoyed. The scar near her wrist.

The fact that she broke my heart without even realizing it.

She started walking toward me slowly. Every man she passed looked at her.

"Chandler."

Her voice still sounded the same; smooth and dangerous.

"Sophia."

Her eyes moved over me carefully, lingering on my watch before settling back on my face.

"You look exactly how I imagined you would."

"Rich?"

"No," she murmured. "Untouchable."

That should not have affected me the way it did. But somehow coming from her, it did.

"And you," I said slowly, "look very different."

One perfectly arched brow lifted.

"You noticed?"

"Sweetheart," I said calmly, "I noticed the second I saw you."

I took another sip of champagne, letting my eyes drag over her openly now.

"I have to say," I murmured, "your surgeon deserves a medal."

"You are unbelievable." She said with a chuckle

"I'm just observant."

"You think I'm hotter now."

I held her gaze directly.

"Very hot." I said shamelessly

"You haven't changed at all," she said softly.

"That's not true, I got richer."

She laughed and I wanted to drag her somewhere private just to hear that sound closer.

"You came alone?" she asked.

"Obviously."

"Why obviously?"

"Because women complicate events."

"That sounds like a man with commitment issues."

"That sounds like a woman preparing to ruin someone's life."

Her smile deepened.

Around us the engagement dinner continued beautifully. Music, laughter, crystal glasses clinking beneath chandeliers.

But none of it mattered anymore, because Sophia was standing too close, looking at me too long.

And then…

A man suddenly appeared beside her, sliding an arm around her waist possessively.

My stomach tightened instantly. Sophia's smile disappeared.

"Chandler," the man said smoothly, extending his hand. "Funny running into you here."

I recognized him.

Nathaniel Hastings, Wall Street royalty, Old money. The kind of man newspapers called America's most eligible bachelor three years in a row.

His arm tightened around Sophia's waist, and he gave a kiss.

"I see you’ve met my fiancée."

That was enough to ruin my night