contract Bonds

chapter 2

ANGELA

I don't remember the Uber ride.

I don’t remember what excuse I gave the hostess when I stumbled out of La Belle Maison like a ghost in lipstick and heels.

All I remember is the sharpness of the air, the numbness in my fingers, and the way the city blurred around me like a painting someone spilled water on.

My phone buzzes in my purse for the fifth time.

Mason.

Again.

I let it ring. I can’t do this—not tonight. Maybe not ever again.

I pull up the hood of my coat and keep walking.

I don’t even know where I’m going until I see it: The Ember Room, a pulsing neon-lit bar sandwiched between a Thai place and a tattoo parlor. The kind of place I would’ve judged once.

Too dark.

Too loud.

Too chaotic.

Tonight, it looks perfect.

I push open the heavy door and step inside, swallowing the thud of bass and body heat. Red lights, dark wood, low ceilings.

It smells like whiskey and mistakes.

A woman bumps into me, sloshing her drink. She apologizes. I smile. I think. Everything feels dreamlike, like I’m watching myself in third person.

I make my way to the bar and slide onto a stool, dropping my purse like it’s a dead weight. The bartender doesn’t ask questions—he just pours. Something amber and sharp.

I knock it back before I can change my mind.

“Another?” he asks.

I nod.

The second one burns a little less. So does the third.

“You look like someone who just buried a body,” a deep voice murmurs beside me.

I blink, startled.

Turning to face the voice.

The man sitting one seat over is watching me, but not in the greasy, predatory way men in bars usually do. He’s got the kind of face that doesn't belong in real life. All sharp lines and cold beauty. A suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

And eyes.

God. His eyes are stormy blue, focused, unreadable. Not kind, not cruel—just aware. Like he sees right through me.

“You’re bleeding confidence,” he adds, swirling his drink. “But that ring of mascara under your eyes says otherwise.”

I huff out something between a laugh and a scoff.

“Wow. Do you flirt like that often? It’s… impressive.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t flirting. Just making an observation.”

I turn away, signaling the bartender again, but the man doesn’t go.

“I’m Jaden.”

Of course you are, I think. Of course your name is Jaden.

The kind of name that belongs to a man who never gets ghosted, never gets cheated on, never sits in the dark questioning his worth.

I don’t tell him my name. Instead, I ask, “Do you always talk to strangers in bars?”

“Only when they look like they’re about to shatter.”

“Maybe I am.”

He says nothing, just lifts his glass and sips, watching me over the rim.

“I just found out my fiancé is sleeping with my sister,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His brows lift slightly, but there’s no pity in his expression.

Just interest. Quiet and unnerving.

“You said that like you needed to hear it out loud,” he replies.

“Maybe I did.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “You’re very composed for someone talking to a woman with emotional whiplash and wine-stained trauma.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

Of course you don’t.

I should walk away. I should go home, cry into my overpriced pillows, and delete every picture of Mason and me from my phone. But I don’t.

Instead, I lean in.

“Do you dance?”

He lifts a brow. “Do I look like I dance?”

“Didn’t ask what you look like. Asked if you do.”

His lips twitch—barely—but it’s the first crack in his icy demeanor. He stands, offers a hand. I take it.

The music is loud, the lights too dim, but none of it matters. On the dance floor, pressed against a stranger with hands that know exactly where to rest without being invasive, I forget.

Just a little.

He doesn’t ask for my number. Doesn’t pretend this is anything more than what it is: two broken people colliding in the dark.

Eventually, the crowd swells around us, and we’re just breath and heartbeat and heat.

One dance turns into another.

And another.

Then we’re back at the bar. More drinks. More silence.

And then, like gravity has decided to rewrite the rules, I’m standing outside with him in the cold, my coat forgotten, my shame a foggy afterthought.

“You coming with me?” he asks, voice low, careful.

I should say no.

But tonight, I’m not the strong one. I’m not the careful one.

Tonight, I’m the woman who watched her life implode through candlelight and wine glasses.

-----

“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t gloat.

He just nods once and offers me his hand again, like he’s done this before—led women into the unknown.

The ride to his place is quiet, thick with tension and breath we’re not releasing.

He doesn’t touch me.

Doesn’t need to.

His presence is enough—magnetic, commanding. My skin burns just from sitting beside him.

The elevator ride is worse. Or better. I don’t know.

He leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s waiting for me to run. Like he wants me to.

But I don’t.

The doors slide open to a penthouse that looks like it belongs in a luxury magazine—dark marble floors, dim lighting, city skyline glowing beyond floor-to-ceiling windows.

“You live here alone?” I ask, breathless.

“For now.”

His jacket is the first thing to go. He drapes it over a chair like he’s done it a thousand times, then turns to face me.

I don’t wait for him to make the first move.

I walk straight into him.

His hands go to my waist, firm and patient, but when I press my lips to his, everything shifts.

The kiss is rough.

Urgent.

Like we’re both trying to drink the other in fast before one of us disappears.

His mouth moves over mine with intention—no fumbling, no guessing. He tastes like whiskey and want, his tongue sliding against mine as if he’s known me longer than a few hours.

I gasp when he lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing, carrying me down the hall. I don't ask where.

I don’t care.

We crash into the bedroom, mouths still fused. He pins me gently to the bed, then pulls back just enough to look at me.

“This is your chance to walk away,” he says, voice hoarse, low.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at me for a long second, then his mouth crashes into mine again—and this time, there’s no pause.

He undresses me slowly at first, deliberately.

Like I’m something valuable he’s unwrapping, not a woman trying to forget.

His fingers skim over the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the space between my thighs—until I’m trembling beneath him, bare and burning.

He strips, and everything about him is overwhelming—lean muscle, tattooed ink disappearing beneath his waistband, and a hunger in his eyes that steals the air from my lungs.

When he presses against me, skin to skin, my back arches automatically. His hand cups my jaw, forcing my gaze to meet his.

“Look at me,” he growls against my throat.

" I want you to know who’s making you forget him.”

Then he’s inside me.

And I do forget.

I forget my name.

I forget the pain.

I forget that hours ago I was a woman crumbling in a restaurant.

He moves slow at first, every thrust controlled, deliberate—until I dig my nails into his back and whisper his name.

Then he breaks.

He takes me harder.

Deeper.

One hand gripping my thigh, the other tangled in my hair as he claims every part of me. Our moans fill the room, lost between fevered kisses and tangled sheets.

I cry out when I come—his name slipping from my lips like a plea, a curse, a confession.

He follows after, cursing into my neck, body trembling as he spills inside me, still holding me like he never wants to let go.

And for a moment—just a breath in time—I feel something like peace.

He collapses beside me, chest rising and falling, the space between us charged but soft.

Neither of us speaks, falling asleep in blissful silence.

-----

I wake up to sunlight.

And regret.

And… sheets that don’t smell like mine.

The room is vast and modern, all clean lines and masculine luxury. I blink, trying to remember.

Jaden.

Last night.

The ache between my thighs confirms what my memory is still processing.

I sit up carefully, tugging the sheet around me. My dress lies in a crumpled heap on the floor beside my shoes and purse.

And something else.

A business card.

Black. Sleek. Minimal.

JADEN DAVENPORT,

it reads, in bold silver letters. No title. No number.

I stare at it for a long second, heart thudding. It feels too intentional. Like he left it knowing I’d see it.

I glance at the door. No sign of him.

Something clenches inside me—a cocktail of humiliation and curiosity.

I dig into my purse, pull out a crisp $100 bill, and place it on the nightstand like I’m trying to reclaim the last sliver of control.

Then I get dressed and leave without looking back.