OUR SECRET CONTRACT

Chapter four: PAYBACK?

Nadia’s pov.

I hear distant footsteps closing in from down the hall.

I immediately roll my eyes back and dab the tears off my face while backing the direction of the footsteps.

“Nadia?” Mr Thompson called. She stretched her head a little forward to be certain I was the one.

I turned around and gave her a warm smile but the courtesy wasn’t returned. Instead she asked,

“What are you doing all by yourself here while Jeremiah is downstairs waiting” her tone, evidently off.

“I was just about to -”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She cut me off, coldly, then continued “don’t keep my son waiting”

Before walking off into the long hall and turning out of sight.

First son. Now mother.

I questioned who else I had to endure disrespect from, all in the name of fulfilling my role as a dutiful daughter.

Waking down the stairs my thoughts became louder, dragging me into my subconscious.

All of a sudden I hear his aggravating voice. Laughing. He seems to be having a chat with his father and mine.

At that moment, I see a servant passing by with a tray of red wine.

“For whom?” I ask.

“Mr Thompson and Mr Williams ma’am”

“Give it to me”… I reached for the tray carefully so I didn’t mess it up.

The poor girl looked scared when she saw me reaching for it.

“Don’t worry” I assured her.

“You’re not in trouble”

She nodded her head and walked away quickly. Almost as if she didn’t want anyone knowing I took the tray from her.

A sinister idea played in my mind. I had to show to that I wasn’t going down without a fight.

As luck would have it, the almighty Jeremiah was the first person I sited, seated closer to my position than the rest.

He noticed me.

A wide smile spread across my face. I’m sure he noticed that as well.

Just when I was about to hand him his glass, I let my heel twist just enough to betray me.

Or at least, that was how it would look to everyone else.

I crossed one leg deliberately over the other as I walked the final step toward him, slowing my pace, feeling his eyes tracking every movement. My smile widened—sweet, harmless, innocent.

Then I stumbled.

The tray tilted.

And the deep red wine cascaded forward in one dramatic, unforgiving splash.

A collective gasp rippled across the room.

The wine bloomed across Jeremiah’s crisp white shirt like a violent rose—soaking through the fabric, dripping down to stain the front of his expensive trousers.

For a second, the world froze.

My fingers flew to my mouth. “Oh my God!” I breathed, pitching my voice just high enough. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The glass rolled off the tray and clinked harmlessly against the table. My heart pounded, but not from fear.

From triumph.

Jeremiah didn’t move immediately. He simply looked down at himself, then back up at me. Slowly. Deliberately.

His jaw tightened.

The room waited for an explosion.

Instead, he stood.

He was taller up close. Broader. The faint scent of his cologne mixed now with sharp wine and something darker—annoyance, perhaps.

“An accident?” he asked quietly.

There it was.

That tone.

Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

I widened my eyes, letting them shimmer just slightly. “Of course it was. Why would I ever do that on purpose?”

A flicker passed through his gaze. He knew.

Oh, he knew.

But he couldn’t prove it.

His hand reached out suddenly, steadying the tray before it could fall completely. His fingers brushed mine—brief, firm, intentional.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Red stains are hard to remove.”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice to match his.

“Some stains are meant to last.”

For a split second, something shifted in his expression. Not anger.

Interest.

Challenge.

Then he stepped back, turning to address the room with effortless composure. “It’s nothing,” he announced smoothly. “Just wine.”

But when his eyes returned to mine, the silent message was clear.

This wasn’t over.

And for the first time since this arrangement began…

I felt like I had finally made my move.

“Nadia!” My father’s engrossing voice snapped me out my victory.

“Why be so careless” he continued. His voice, stern and angry.

But I couldn’t careless.

Infact I didn’t care at all how he felt.

“It’s just wine my friend” Mr Thompson spoke. His laugh, familiar, gentle.

“Don’t worry about it my dear” he continued “Even I get clumsy at times” then he laughed again.

His aura so contagious I didn’t realize when I started to laugh with him.

The feeling in that moment felt heavenly. Like something I’ve been missing for some time.

“Go on dear, go check on your husband to be”

“I have important things to discuss with your father”

I give a gentle nod. Then walk away, going to find Jeremiah.

I pushed the door open slowly, half expecting it to resist me.

It didn’t.

Jeremiah’s bedroom was exactly what I should have expected and somehow nothing like it at the same time.

The first thing I noticed was the space. It was large. Not just big, but expansive, with high ceilings and tall windows that stretched almost from floor to ceiling. The curtains were a deep charcoal gray, heavy and expensive, slightly parted to let in the late evening light. The city glowed beyond the glass, New York glittering like it belonged to him.

The room smelled like him.

Clean. Subtle. Something woody and sharp. Sandalwood, maybe. Masculine, controlled.

Everything was precise.

The bed sat at the center, king-sized, dressed in crisp white sheets and a dark slate duvet. No wrinkles. No chaos. The pillows were arranged perfectly, like they had been measured into place. It didn’t look slept in. It looked curated.

A low leather bench rested at the foot of the bed, black and smooth. To the right, a sleek nightstand held a minimalist lamp, a silver watch, and a single book placed neatly beside it. I walked closer and tilted my head.

Of course he’d be reading something strategic. Business. Power. Control.

Across from the bed was a sitting area—two dark armchairs and a small glass table between them. No clutter. No stray papers. No softness.

Even the walls felt deliberate. Neutral tones. Abstract art in black and gold. Nothing too emotional. Nothing too revealing.

But then my eyes caught something unexpected.

On the far wall, near his desk, sat a framed photograph.

I hesitated before stepping closer.

It wasn’t posed like the others I’d seen in the house. No forced smile. No formal suit. He looked younger in it. Relaxed. Almost… unguarded.

I frowned slightly.

So he wasn’t always the cold, untouchable Jeremiah Thompson the world bowed to.

His desk was immaculate, files stacked evenly, laptop closed, a fountain pen aligned perfectly with the edge. Even the chair was pushed in symmetrically.

I crossed my arms slowly, taking it all in.

This room wasn’t just a bedroom.

It was a statement.

Control. Discipline. Order.

No room for mistakes.

No room for weakness.

I stepped further inside, the door clicking softly shut behind me. For a second, the quiet felt heavier. More intimate.

Standing here, surrounded by his world, I realized something unsettling.

There was no trace of a woman in this room.

No softness. No distraction.

Just him.

And somehow, that made my pulse quicken.

Because if I was going to disrupt anything in this house…

It would start here.

There was no trace of Jeremiah.

I turned around to leave then I heard his voice from the bathroom.

It sounded like he was on the phone with someone. From a distance, I couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I tiptoed closer to the bathroom door.

“Forget it. You’re just irritating me," he said.

Ears to the door, I didn’t realize when he opened it. The scene became awkward. Him, visibly irritated.

“What the f**k are you doing?”