Page 20 of The Final Contract

I want to deck him.

He whistles, low, and my fists clench.

“Sera-fine-as-hell,” he drawls. “That dress is amazing.”

This motherfucker wants to die.

I look up—prayer to the angels I don’t believe in—that I make it through appetizers without breaking his jaw.

“Seraphina—Fi Fi,” he starts, like he’s going to nickname her.

What the actual fuck?

“Seraphina will be just fine,” she cuts in, voice polite but firm. “Elijah? Or Mr. Carter?”

“Elijah, of course. Or L.J., if you prefer. You know I met the president at the White House—he coined that nickname. Everyone calls me that now.”

Right. Sure they do.

I retreat to the wall, stance wide, hands clasped in front of me, watching.

Elijah leans back, smirk widening. “So does your hound dog have to be in here, like… the whole time?”

Seraphina draws a breath, ready to answer, but I cut in first—my voice flat, absolute.

“Yes.”

Elijah leans back, spreading his cloth napkin over his lap like he’s about to give a speech. “Well… won’t this be cozy.”

Then, without even glancing at her, he snaps his fingers twice over her shoulder.

What a prick.

A server appears like magic with two whiskey sours.

Seraphina’s hand lifts before the glass can be placed in front of her. “Water for me, thank you.”

She hates whiskey. And Companions almost never drink on a first meeting—sometimes a small glass of wine, maybe, but never whiskey.

Elijah shrugs, grinning like an idiot. “More for me, then.” He snatches both glasses, claiming them without a second thought.

It makes my blood burn. If he gave a damn about her, he’d have asked what she liked.

Fuck, he’dknowwhat she liked—asked in advance, had the Grey Goose and cranberry with pineapple juice cocktail ready for her. Because that is her favorite.

He would try to impress her, show some kind of care. Instead, it’s all about him—and his next line seals it.

“I knew as soon as I saw your contract hit the Ledger app, I had to jump on it. Offered triple the rate to snag the first date.”

He says it like she should be impressed.

Seraphina doesn’t react. Grace wraps around her like armor, her smile soft, her tone smooth. “I’m honored by your eagerness. I’d love to hear about you.”

And with that, a black hole opens up.

Elijah starts talking. And talking. And talking. He never shuts up. He never asks her a single thing about herself. She barely gets more than a hum, a “that’s interesting,” or a polite nod between his monologues.

The courses come one after another—curated by him in advance. Each dish is something she won’t touch. I watch her pick at the food, polite but detached, hunger buried beneath etiquette. I know her well enough now to read it in the subtle downturn of her mouth, the way she sets her fork down too quickly. She’s going to be starving after this.