A Contract Marriage with My One-Night Stand

Connie's POV

The winter gala was still in full swing when I finally found a quiet corner to catch my breath.

Tonight, I was here as Gray's senior executive coordinator. Since we'd walked through the doors, I hadn't sat down once—confirming the guest list, scheduling last-minute meetings, fielding requests from three foundation board members, and revising two documents Gray needed immediately.

He didn't like being bothered with the small stuff.

I was good at handling the small stuff.

"Miss Hale—Mr. Thayer is looking for you."

A server leaned toward me as he passed, keeping his voice low. I nodded, picked up my folder, and headed out of the ballroom.

I was almost at the corner when I heard his voice.

"You mean Connie?"

My feet stopped.

Down the corridor, Gray was talking to someone.

"Yeah, your Connie." The other man's voice carried a hint of amusement. "The way she looks at you—come on, Gray. Anyone with eyes can see it."

"I know." Gray's tone remained unchanged. "But she's nothing more than the Whitlocks' adopted daughter. A woman like her could never be worthy of me."

"Don't say that." The other man pushed back, almost gently. "She's a good woman. She's genuinely good to you. All these years—every mess at work, every fire that needed putting out—who do you think handled it?"

"Good?" Gray let out a short sound, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "If you think so highly of her—"

His voice dropped a notch.

"I'll give her to you."

I couldn't make out what he said next. There might have been laughter, but I couldn't be sure.

The corridor fell quiet except for the low hum of the heating vents. I realized I was barely breathing.

I was still holding my clipboard. My fingers had tightened around it without my noticing, leaving a deep crease in the paper beneath my grip.

I waited. I gave him the chance to walk it back. A laugh that meant he was joking. A Relax, I didn't mean it. Anything.

Nothing came.

So that was how he saw me.

Just something useful. Something he could pass along without a second thought.

I took one slow step backward, turned around, and pushed through the restroom door.

I turned on the tap. Cold water ran over the backs of my hands.

It was freezing. I stood there watching it for a while before finally forcing myself to look up at the mirror.

My makeup was intact. My hair was in place. My dress was smooth. I looked completely normal, like someone who'd simply stepped away to touch up her lipstick.

But my hands were shaking.

I turned off the faucet and gripped the edge of the sink.

Thirteen years. I'd carried these feelings for thirteen years.

I'd been by his side since middle school.. Over the years, I'd learned his coffee order, his birthday, his schedule, and even how much he hated being interrupted when he was focused on something. Once I started working for him, I became the person who kept his calendar, covered his blind spots, and absorbed every bit of friction he didn't want to deal with.

I'd told myself that if I stayed long enough, he'd eventually turn around and see me.

That he'd know.

He'd known all along.

He just didn't care.

I'd thought that, at the very least, he respected me.

Even that, it turned out, was something I'd made up in my own mind.

He'd said I'll give her to you as casually as someone might offer another person an umbrella they no longer needed.

The tears came without warning. I lowered my head and watched them fall into the sink, one after another, biting down on my lower lip to keep from making a sound. My shoulders shook, and I couldn't stop them.

The ballroom was just on the other side of that door. Bright, loud, full of people.

Ten minutes later, I'd managed to pull myself back together. I touched up my makeup, checked the mirror until I was sure nothing showed, took a deep breath, and walked out. I still had a job to do, and I wasn't about to let what had just happened get in the way.

I returned to the ballroom. I smiled. I made small talk. I even stepped in when a reporter cornered Gray with questions about his latest acquisition. I handled every question smoothly, then guided Gray away with a hand at his elbow.

He glanced at me. His expression was neutral.

So was mine.

No one knew what I'd heard. I wasn't going to let them.

But afterward, I picked up a glass of champagne. Then a second. Then a third.

I never drank at these events. I needed to stay sharp, stay available. But the champagne was cold, and each glass put a little more distance between me and that corridor.

By the third glass, a voice in the back of my head told me to stop.

I didn't listen.

I drank faster than I should have, felt the alcohol burn down my throat, felt my eyes grow hot, and forced it all back down.

The gala finally ended. I slipped away from the crowd and took the elevator alone.

The alcohol hit me properly once the doors closed.

I leaned back against the wall and shut my eyes. The light pressed through my eyelids in a warm, unsteady blur. I breathed slowly and let the floor hold me up.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened.

I pushed away from the wall and took one step forward, but my heel caught awkwardly. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. I pitched forward, with nothing to grab.

The impact never came.

A hand caught my waist, firm and fast. Another steadied my shoulder. Instead of hitting the floor, I stumbled into something solid—dark wool, cold from the night air, with warmth beneath it.

I'd lurched forward hard enough to send my head snapping sideways. My forehead ended up against his chest.

He was tall. The fabric of his coat brushed my cheek.

I tipped my head back. My eyes wouldn't focus properly. I caught only fragments of him—a sharp jaw, the clean line of his throat, long lashes casting faint shadows as he looked down at me.

His arms remained loosely around me. Not tight.

"Sorry," I said. My voice came out blurred, barely recognizable as my own.

I blinked, trying again to bring his face into focus. The lights seemed to swim. His features remained soft at the edges, but the shadow beneath his lashes—that part was clear.

I didn't know who he was.

Another wave of dizziness rolled through me. My vision blurred further. I tipped my head back and caught the line of his throat, the faint movement beneath his skin.

I didn't know what came over me. I reached up and curled my fingers around the back of his neck.

His whole body went still.

I didn't wait to see his expression. I pulled myself closer, almost without thinking, and pressed my mouth to his throat.

His breathing seemed to stop.