Page 7 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

T he penthouse is quiet now.

Hours ago, I had the team up here, running them through the space—cameras, hallways, staff routines, security choke points.

They’ve all got the files, but paper doesn’t tell you everything.

You’ve got to stand in the space, breathe it in, feel the angles pressing against your back before you really know it.

Now it’s just me, waiting on Seraphina.

Usually, my job ends once she’s on Ledger grounds or within the walls of her penthouse. I guard, I escort, I walk away. But this stalker changes everything. If he can get a rose onto her kitchen counter, he can get closer. And I’ll be damned if he gets close enough to leave something worse.

Which means someone has to be with her every minute. No gaps. No mistakes.

I keep my own place, and I’ll need some things over here if we’re doubling down on security. And tonight was supposed to be someone else’s shift.

Yeah, not happening.

No way in hell am I letting another man shadow her while she steps out with her first suitor.

The thought turns sour in my gut: a stranger sitting across from her, smiling at her like he knows her. Touching her hand. Whispering something in her ear.

For all we know, the bastard we’re hunting could slip into the mix—pretend to be a contender, get her alone, do whatever sick thing he’s been planning since he started this.

That image alone makes my trigger finger itch.

I open the Ledger app, scan the name of tonight’s date at the top of the profile, and it hits me like a wave of annoyance.

Elijah Fucking Carter.

Of course.

Ledger auction regular. He shows up every year, loud with money, louder with ego. Always buys a Companion for the prestige, like he’s purchasing a piece of art he’ll never bother to hang. It’s never about the woman—it’s about the brag. The clout.

And now he thinks he wants Seraphina.

The Ledger’s crown jewel.

My jaw grinds as I picture him walking her into a room with his hand on her back, introducing her like she’s nothing but a trophy he finally snagged. The thought makes my vision blur red.

Of course Elijah threw his name in. Because marrying Seraphina Wilde wouldn’t just be a contract. It would be a fucking coronation.

Not if I can help it.

I’m still looking over the app when her door opens.

The vision of her nearly takes me out.

Seraphina steps into the hall in a Ledger-red dress that clings in all the ways that make my pulse kick.

The color turns her eyes sharp and bright, like polished sapphires.

Her blonde hair falls in long curls, bouncing against her shoulders, and her perfume hits me in a slow wave, wrapping around my ribs like a chokehold.

For half a second, I forget to breathe.

I force myself to clear my throat, to grip the counter tighter, to remind myself she’s not mine to look at like this. She’s my assignment. Nothing more.

Still, something shifts under my skin, restless and dangerous, as I drag my gaze back to the phone in my hand.

Professional. Focused. Untouchable.

That’s the line. And I can’t afford to cross it.

She doesn’t look at me as she walks out, head high, chin tilted just so. No shy glances, no waiting for my approval.

She doesn’t need it. Seraphina knows exactly how beautiful she is—always has. She doesn’t need puppy eyes or compliments to remind her.

And it’s not my line to give her anyway.

That privilege belongs to her date.

The thought makes my jaw grind.

“What is the stalker protocol for a girl to get a repair done around here? My toilet is running.”

I darken my phone, force my eyes away from her curves, and keep my voice flat. “I can look at it for you. Probably an easy fix.”

She folds her arms over her chest and—fuck me sideways—I want my mouth on those tits so badly.

“I pay a fortune for building maintenance, you know. Do you need to perform a lie-detector test on the repairman, or can I just schedule it, big man?”

Big man. Something else I’d like from her in a different context—like hearing her breathy moan when I push my cock into her. Instead, I just clear my throat.

“The car is ready.”

Then I move for the door without waiting for her answer, because if I stand here another second, I might forget where the line in the sand is.

I might pretend it’s me taking her out. That I have the right to slide my arm around her narrow waist and pull her into me.

That she does look at me, ready to hear me say how she fucking ruins me with this dress. How we might not make it to the date because of my need to have her right this second—claim her so every cocksucker in New York knows she’s mine.

But she’s not. So when the elevator doors open and we step in, I leave those thoughts behind, letting the doors slide closed and lock them away for good.

I didn’t sit in the back this time. Couldn’t.

Something about seeing her walk out of her room dressed like that—ready for him—knotted my stomach tight.

So I stayed up front, silent, staring straight ahead, pretending the passing buildings were more interesting than the woman who smelled like heaven in the back seat.

The car slows to a stop outside the restaurant. I’m out first, scanning, then opening her door. Eyes sweep the street, the valet, the windows above. Nothing unusual. Nothing I don’t already have covered.

She steps out without looking at me and adjusts her dress. My hand is usually there to help her, but I don’t extend it and she doesn’t reach for it.

Something about that burns in my chest. All I can do is check my holstered gun and the blade at my waist.

The ma?tre d’ is waiting, smile polished and professional. “This way, Miss Wilde.”

We head upstairs, the faint hum of violin music floating down the hall. A private room—candlelit, table set for two.

And there he is.

Elijah I’m-a-dickface Carter.

The schmuck is sitting in his chair reading a newspaper, wearing jeans, a blazer, some blinding patterned shirt, and Converse sneakers. Christ. Here she is—looking like a fucking siren—and he couldn’t even bother with a tie.

What burns worse? He doesn’t even stand when she enters. Doesn’t greet her. Doesn’t pull her chair.

Patience frays fast. I take a few quick strides forward, grip the chair, and draw it out for her.

Her hair brushes against my arm as she turns, the clean, sweet scent of her shampoo assaulting me in the best way. She tilts her face up, a soft smile curving her lips. “Thank you,” she whispers.

The words cool the furnace inside me. For about half a second.

“Oh, yeah—I was going to get that,” Elijah says, a lazy grin plastered on his face as he nods at me like I’m the help.

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’d know what 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.

So will I.

It seems holding yourself back from committing second-degree murder really works up an appetite.

The date’s on a clock, like all of them. Companions have signals to cut things short or let them play out. Seraphina gives the one that says she’ll end right on time—no early escape, no dragging it out longer.

I shift my stance just enough so she sees me. My promise in silence: I’ll be ready when you are.

I glance at my watch and sigh. Fifteen more minutes of this circus.

Elijah’s still talking, already droning about their “second date.” Paragliding.

Perfect. Just what you want to do with a woman you’ve known for exactly an hour—throw her off a cliff and hope the straps hold.

I grit my teeth and slide my phone out, pulling up the Caviar Black app.

It’s the kind of delivery service only billionaires bother with—exclusive, invitation-only, the sort of thing where anything you order shows up plated like it belongs in a Michelin-star kitchen. No hassle. No wait. Just the delicacies of the world at your fingertips.

And the Ledger has one of the top accounts. Nothing but the best for our Companions.

I put in an order—more than enough for Sera—then send the instructions to Finn. Delivery window. Placement. Setup. Exactly where I want it waiting and a few extra directions.

Then I slide the phone back into my pocket, lean against the wall again, and count down the minutes until this shit parade is over.