Page 10 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

W herever I go, Killian goes.

He’s never minded. Never complained. Some places I know he’d rather be anywhere else—but he always loves gym day.

I’ve got my standing spin class, and I never miss it.

Most of the women are moms, hustling in after dropping their kids off at the gym’s daycare.

They chatter as they set up their bikes—about husbands who don’t pull their weight, or who makes the best weeknight Crock-Pot meals.

I chew my piece of minty gum, always enjoy listening, even if I never join in.

Once, a woman asked what I did for a living.

“Sales,” I said.

She’d nodded, assuming pharmaceutical sales. I didn’t correct her.

Somehow I didn’t think, “No, I sell my pussy, actually. And I’m quite popular because I squirt and suck dick like a champ.” That wouldn’t have gone over well. So I kept my mouth shut.

The only reason Killian didn’t come into class with me today is because he scoped the list and saw it was all women. He loves the gym. Spin class, on the other hand, not so much.

Looking right, I can see him in the weights section. He’s watching me, but not watching me—eyes flicking to the door, to the room, always scanning. If anyone headed this way, he’d be on their heels before they even stepped inside.

The music thumps, the instructor shouts through her mic, and a projector beams a route across the curved wall—hills and sharp turns, scenery changing as we sweat in place.

Still, my eyes keep wandering to the other side of the gym. Killian’s lifting. Heavy. The kind of weight that makes the other men stop their own sets just to watch. A pair of twenty-something girls pause mid-step as he knocks out a brutal round of pull-ups, shirt stripped off and tossed aside.

And I take advantage of it too. The ripple of his back muscles. The way his shoulders flex and shift with every rise and fall. The kind of body that makes you forget to breathe.

I shouldn’t be staring. But I can’t stop.

Class ends in a blur of sweat and music. I drop my gum, spent from the hour, into the trash and gulp down water, dabbing at my damp neck with a white gym towel.

I respond to a few nosy texts from my sister—mostly asking if Killian will be my plus-one to Ro’s party, if we’ve fucked yet, and then complaining about Stacy, some woman Daniel works with that my sister hates so naturally I do too.

Sliding my phone back into the thigh pocket on my leggings, I glance toward the weights. I don’t see Killian.

Stepping out onto the deck that overlooks the floor below, I find him easily enough. One of the twenty-somethings has cornered him. She sways on her feet, leans in as she laughs at something, her hair flipping over one shoulder like it’s rehearsed. And he’s smiling.

My teeth grind together. Reckless. Flirting with some rando hunting for a gym boyfriend to film TikToks with while a stalker could be anywhere in this building. He’s leaning one arm against the pull-up bar, bicep flexed, body on display like a damn invitation.

I toss my towel into the bin, stride down, and stop at his side. “Ready when you are.”

I give the girl a tight-lipped half-smile—just enough to be polite, nowhere near enough to be mistaken for friendly. She doesn’t bother to return it. Instead, her eyes trail down my body before she looks back at Killian.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were busy,” she says. The hidden implication is obvious—didn’t know you were here with someone.

I turn away before I hear his reply. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to say he’s here with me. He isn’t. He’s just my guard. He can do whatever the hell he wants.

Normally I’d shower and change, but Killian won’t let me near the locker-room showers alone, and since that’s not happening, sweaty is my only option. I’ve got a date tonight with a new suitor, so I’ll pretty much be spending the rest of the afternoon getting ready.

At the locker bench, I prop one foot up to retie my laces.

“Christ almighty.” The words are low, thick, right behind me.

I glance back. Killian’s rubbing his jaw, eyes tilted toward the ceiling like there’s a vision of the Virgin Mary up there, and she’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“You can finish up with your friend,” I say evenly. But friend comes out sharper than I intended.

I key in the locker’s temporary code, grab my purse, and snap the locker shut.

“Friend?” Killian’s voice is full of amusement. “Nah. I’m good.”

He falls into step beside me, grin tugging at his mouth. “Got her number, though. I can just call her later.”

Oh, fucking perfect.

“Great,” I grit out.

He swallows, like it’ll hide the smirk he’s fighting. It doesn’t.

We head toward the exit as a group hustles in, probably late for the next class. Someone bumps my shoulder, my bag slips down to my elbow, and I knock into Killian.

“Jesus,” I mutter, fixing my purse. “Sorry.”

Outside, his sleek gray sports car waits like a shadow of him—sharp lines, understated, dangerous.

He opens my door, like he always does. And I wonder if his little gym crush is watching.

Wonder if she notices how natural it looks, the way he steps aside, the way I slip in.

Wonder if she thinks he’s attached to someone.

Or maybe she doesn’t care. She gave him her number, after all. So that must mean he let her know he was single.

I roll my eyes as Killian rounds the car, his big frame folding into the driver’s seat with ease. He tosses a folded piece of paper into the tray near the dash.

Candi, written in bubbly handwriting, a heart dotting the i.

My eyes roll again, sharper this time, before I fix my gaze out the window—ignoring him. Ignoring the fact I can feel his stare on me the whole drive.

The car ride goes quick. Too quick. Manhattan traffic is rarely light, but today it feels like the city is letting us slip right through.

Killian pulls up to the valet and climbs out, already sliding a tip from his pocket for the waiting attendant. I reach down for my purse straps, and my eyes land on it. That little piece of paper. It sits there like a beacon in the tray—Candi’s name, the heart dotting the i, taunting me.

My hand hovers midair, paused on the way to my purse.

The other valet hurries up and pops my door, snapping me out of it. I move fast—snatching the paper with one hand and then reaching for my purse straps, hoping if Killian does remember, he won’t see me pocket it first.

He rounds the car just as I’m stepping out.

“Feel like grabbing a smoothie on our way up?” I ask casually, trying to redirect him. He usually wants one after the gym, and I’m praying it’ll keep his attention anywhere but on the number he left behind.

“You read my mind, woman.” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him.

I dip my hand deeper into my purse, pushing the crumpled paper down, but my fingers brush against something that stops me cold. Smooth. Thick. Not supposed to be there.

An envelope.

I pull it out with shaky fingers. White, heavy stock. A stamp pressed into the center—a red-tipped rose.

“Killian,” I whisper. The breath rushes out of me, leaving me hollow.

He’s at my side instantly, snatching it from my hand, flipping it over, eyes sharp—already in guard mode, scanning the area.

“Anyone give this to you?” His voice is low, lethal.

“No. Of course not.”

“You’d tell me.”

“I would have told you,” I insist.

“Could it have been in there before the gym?”

I shake my head. “No. I got my gum out earlier. I would’ve seen it.”

I stop, mind racing back. “Someone bumped me on the way out. That group coming in?—”

He nods, jaw flexing, his thoughts clearly running the same track. His hand clamps lightly at my elbow, steering me firmly toward the lobby. His voice rolls low, brash across my skin like it doesn’t belong in a moment like this.

“I’ll send for smoothies.”

But all I can think about is the envelope in his hand. The fact that my stalker was so close. Close enough to bump me. To slip something into my bag. Close enough he could’ve done anything.

Anything at all.