Anya's hand was still tingling from the pressure of Leo's grip. She pulled it back sharply, placing the green velvet box on the desk like a landmine.
"The money is compelling, Mr. Maxwell, but my life isn't your stage play," she said, her voice now dangerously calm. She opened her own portfolio and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "If I do this, we work under my terms. And I want them included as an addendum."
Leo raised an eyebrow, a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. "Always prepared, Anya. Read them out."
Anya smoothed the paper. "Firstly, the total amount agreed upon is transferred to an escrow account immediately, released to me on February 15th, the day after the gala. Secondly, the relationship is strictly non-sexual. Our physical contact will be limited to necessary public appearances—hand-holding, arm-linking, and the occasional strategic kiss for the cameras. Behind closed doors, we maintain separate quarters and personal space. No spontaneous touch. No intimacy. Understood?"
"Understood," Leo conceded easily, his willingness feeling highly suspicious. He signed the bottom of the addendum with a confident flourish. "Now that we have the legal framework, let's handle the aesthetic. The ring."
He took the box and flipped it open. The diamond was a modern, angular marvel—a stark contrast to the vintage setting they had picked out years ago. It felt like a deliberate choice, an erasure of their past. Leo took her left hand. His touch, though seemingly gentle, was possessive and certain. He slowly slid the diamond onto her finger.
"Perfect," he murmured, catching the light in the stone. "Now, no matter where you are, you'll remember who owns your immediate future."
Anya snatched her hand back, tucking it into her skirt pocket. "Don't mistake the contract for ownership, Leo. I'm renting you thirty days of my professional expertise."
An hour later, as Anya walked through the executive corridor toward the elevators, Leo's hand settled on the small of her back. The sudden, scorching contact made her jump.
"Rule number one, fiancée," he murmured, his breath hot near her ear. "We don't walk ten feet apart. We're deeply in love, remember?"
She shot him a glare. "We're in a private corridor, Leo. I'm going to my car."
"And I'm going with you," he insisted, guiding her toward the private garage elevator. "The media is buzzing. They know I had a highly confidential meeting with a top planner today, and they're hungry. We need to set the narrative now."
The elevator doors opened directly into the quiet, pristine garage. As they took two steps toward her compact sedan, a flurry of flashes erupted from behind a bank of steel support pillars.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Leo didn't hesitate. He pulled her flush against his side, his arm a steel bar around her waist. She felt the heavy, intimidating camera lenses pointed directly at her face.
"Smile, Anya," he whispered, his voice low and urgent, his lips barely moving. "Look like you missed me. Look happy."
He tilted her chin up and, in a flawless display of public affection, planted a slow, tender kiss on her forehead. The gesture was perfect—protective, loving, and entirely convincing. The photographers went into a frenzy.
As they got into her car—Leo insisting on opening her door—Anya felt sick with the manipulation. "You staged that!" she hissed once the doors were shut.
"Of course, I staged it," he said, leaning over the center console, his eyes bright with triumph. "That's my job. And that," he tapped the ring on her finger, "is yours."
Leo followed her home, claiming he needed to "go over the relationship history" to ensure their narrative was airtight. Anya hated it, but she couldn't argue with his logic.
Forty minutes later, they were in the sterile, minimalist living room of her townhome. Anya sat on the edge of her beige sofa, clutching a tablet loaded with her handwritten notes on their fake history. Leo sat on the opposite end, watching her with infuriating patience.
"Okay," she read, her voice strictly monotone. "The story is that four months ago, we ran into each other at the MOMA gala. We had an intense, but professional conversation. Then, two months ago, we met for 'coffee' to discuss a potential partnership. It quickly escalated into intense private dinners, leading to the decision to finally get back together."
Leo yawned, stretching his arms high above his head, drawing her eye to the tight muscles beneath his jacket. "You sound like you're reading a deposition, Sharma. This is a rekindled, passionate love story. We're engaged. We should be comfortable. Touch me."
Anya snapped the tablet shut. "The contract explicitly forbids—"
"The contract governs sex," he interrupted, leaning forward onto his knees. "Not a simple, affectionate touch. I need to know you won't flinch when I hold your hand, or when I rest my head on your shoulder during a charity dinner. I need practice. We need practice."
His challenge was maddening. He was using her professional reputation against her.
"Fine," she bit out. She reached out tentatively and placed her hand on his bicep. The fine wool of his suit was warm, and underneath it, the solid, unyielding muscle felt shocking against her palm. She snatched her hand back as if burned.
Leo laughed, a low, rich sound that echoed the emptiness of her living room. "That was awful, Anya. That was the touch of a nervous client, not a devoted fiancée. Do it again. This time, make me believe you missed this."
Before she could form a protest, Leo surged across the cushions, grabbing her wrist and pulling her across the sofa until their hips touched. The contact was instant, electric, and terrifying.
"Watch my eyes, Anya," he commanded, his face inches from hers. His eyes, the color of the deep sea, were intense, demanding. "This is how we used to look at each other. Now, if the cameras were right here, if we had just closed the door on a room full of people and we were finally alone… what would you do?"
"I would leave," she whispered, her breathing shallow, her eyes darting to the door.
"No, you wouldn't," he corrected softly, his voice dropping to a seductive rasp. His hand snaked around the back of her head, his fingers sliding into the hair just behind her ear. It wasn't rough, but it was absolute control. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin beneath her jawline. "Not the engaged, devoted Anya. You'd kiss me. And you'd kiss me like this."
He closed the final distance, capturing her mouth.
The kiss was everything the cameras hadn't seen. It was deep, demanding, and overwhelming. Anya's initial intention—to keep her lips sealed and show him the disdain she felt—shattered instantly. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a violent confirmation of their past. His tongue angled for entrance, tasting exactly like the memory she had spent years trying to erase.
Her hands, which had been pushing against his chest, suddenly clenched the fine fabric of his shirt. A low, desperate sound escaped her throat—a sound of surrender and raw, overwhelming need. Every private thing they had ever shared flashed through her mind. The taste, the urgency, the familiar scent of his cologne. She responded, giving him the passion she had sworn was dead.
Leo pulled back sharply, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with the same fire reflected in hers. He released her head and instead, his gaze fell to the contract lying on the coffee table.
"That," he breathed out, his voice thick with desire and triumph, "was affection. Rehearsal for the council. And you, my darling fiancée, were perfect."
He smiled, a cruel, triumphant curve of his lips. He knew he had already broken the spirit of the 'No Sex' clause with a single kiss.