Chapter 2 The Contract Terms
The penthouse smelled like money—polished marble, imported leather, and the faintest hint of my Chanel perfume lingering in the air. I sat at the glass dining table, scrolling through emails while waiting for Dylan to arrive.
He was late.
Daniel cleared his throat, pushing the contract across the table toward me for the third time. "Ms. Winslow, we really should—"
The intercom buzzed.
Finally.
I pressed the entry button without getting up. A few minutes later, the elevator doors slid open, and Dylan stepped into my penthouse looking like he'd just come from a double shift—which, knowing him, he probably had. His dark jeans were slightly wrinkled, his button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, and his hair looked like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times.
No tie. No jacket.
I arched an eyebrow. "You do own formal wear, don’t you?"
He ignored me, scanning the room before his gaze landed on the stack of papers in front of me. "That the contract?"
"Right to business," I mused. "I can respect that."
I slid it toward him. He didn’t sit—just picked it up and started reading, his expression unreadable.
Daniel shifted on his feet. "We’ve outlined the expectations clearly—"
"I can read," Dylan said, not looking up.
I suppressed a smirk. Daniel wasn’t used to being dismissed.
Five agonizing minutes of silence later, Dylan set the papers down. "No."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Clause 4.7," he said. "Public appearances require prior notice of at least 72 hours. That doesn’t work for me."
"This isn’t a negotiation."
His eyes locked onto mine, steady and unyielding. "Then I walk."
I exhaled sharply through my nose. "Fine. Forty-eight hours."
He kept staring.
"Twenty-four," I gritted out.
A beat. Then he nodded and flipped to the next page.
We went through the rest like that—him dissecting every line, me reluctantly conceding. No physical contact unless required for the performance (his stipulation). No overnight stays (mine). Personal space respected at all times (both of ours).
And then—
"Section 9," he said slowly. "What’s this?"
I leaned back in my chair. "Discretion clause. This arrangement doesn’t leave this room."
His thumb rubbed against the edge of the paper. "That’s not what it says."
Daniel coughed. "It ensures that neither party discloses the true nature of the relationship *or* any... personal matters that may arise during the contract period."
Dylan’s gaze darkened. "Meaning what, exactly?"
"Meaning if you see me drunk off my ass at three in the morning, you take it to the grave," I said flatly. "And if I find out you secretly collect porcelain dolls, I won’t tell a soul."
He didn’t laugh.
"Standard legal protection," Daniel added quickly.
Dylan set the contract down. "Fine. But I want the research funding secured by Friday."
"Done."
He picked up a pen and signed without another word.
I did the same.
And just like that, we were in business.
---
Three days later, we had our first public appearance: the Winslow Medical annual gala.
Dylan arrived at my penthouse precisely on time—this time in a tailored black suit that made his shoulders look even broader than usual. His tie was dark blue, perfectly knotted, and his hair was actually styled for once.
I pretended not to notice how well it worked for him.
"You clean up nice," I said instead, adjusting my diamond earrings in the hallway mirror.
He ignored the comment, eyeing my emerald-green gown with detached politeness. "Ready?"
"Not yet." I turned to face him fully. "We need to look the part."
Before he could react, I reached up and adjusted his tie, letting my fingers brush lightly against his chest. His breath hitched—just slightly—but he didn’t move away.
Good.
I smoothed my hands down the lapels of his jacket. "We’ll arrive together. You’ll keep a hand on my lower back when we walk in. Smile when I smile. Laugh when I laugh. And for God’s sake, don’t stand there like a bodyguard the whole night."
He arched a brow. "Anything else, boss?"
I smirked. "Try to look like you like me."
His lips quirked—almost a smile, but not quite. "No promises."
---
The gala was everything I expected—shimmering chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking, and half of New York’s elite pretending they weren’t judging each other.
Dylan played his part flawlessly. His hand settled warm at the small of my back as we entered, escorting me through the crowd with an ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before.
Which—given his background—he probably hadn’t.
I introduced him to board members, investors, colleagues—each time with the same rehearsed smile. *"This is Dr. Dylan Prescott. My partner."*
Dylan nodded, shook hands, made polite small talk.
No one questioned it.
Then *he* showed up.
"Harper. Always a pleasure."
Lucas Thornbury—my father’s former protégé, current thorn in my side—smirked at me from over his whiskey glass.
I forced a smile. "Lucas. I didn’t realize you were invited."
"Your father insisted." His gaze slid to Dylan. "And who’s this?"
Dylan extended a hand. "Dylan Prescott."
"Ah." Lucas’s grip lingered too long. "The *boyfriend.*"
The way he said it made my skin crawl.
Dylan didn’t react. Just withdrew his hand smoothly. "You must be the one who lost the promotion to her."
Lucas’s smile froze.
I nearly choked on my champagne.
Dylan took a sip of his drink, utterly unfazed.
Lucas recovered quickly—too quickly. "A doctor, I hear? How... *noble.*" He leaned in slightly. "Tell me, Dylan—what’s it like dating someone who could buy your hospital with her petty cash?"
Dylan’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass.
I opened my mouth to intervene—
"Lucas." Dylan’s voice was calm. "Do you know why Harper wins?"
Lucas blinked.
"Because you’re still trying to play her father’s game." Dylan took another sip. "She’s already changed the rules."
Silence.
Then Lucas laughed—too loud, too forced—and clapped Dylan on the shoulder. "I like this one, Harper. He’s got teeth."
He walked away, but the tension lingered.
I turned to Dylan. "You didn’t have to do that."
He shrugged. "Part of the job, isn’t it?"
I studied him—the way his jaw tensed just slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his side.
Maybe this arrangement would be more interesting than I thought.
Then his phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen—and his entire demeanor changed.
His expression shuttered. His shoulders stiffened. And for the first time all night, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
I barely caught the name on the screen before he silenced it.
Dr. Eleanor Voss.
Before I could ask, he pocketed the phone. "I need to take this."
Then he walked away, leaving me standing alone in a room full of people.
And for some reason, that stung more than it should have.
