Chapter 2The Performance Contract

Mira's suitcase wheels caught on the threshold of Leo's penthouse.

She yanked it free, the fabric handle biting into her palm. The door swung open to a foyer that could have swallowed her old apartment whole. Marble floors stretched toward floor-to-ceiling windows where the Bay Bridge glittered like a string of fallen stars.

Leo counted off rooms with a wave of his hand. "Kitchen. Living room. My office is off-limits."

"Off-limits," she repeated, letting the words hang.

He didn't flinch. "Your bedroom is the second door on the left. Mine is the last."

Her bedroom. As if she'd be sleeping here long enough for it to matter.

The tour took less than seven minutes, but she catalogued every detail—the hidden safe behind a painting in his study, the absence of personal photographs, the way he kept three feet of distance between them at all times.

"The ground rules." Leo leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed. "We post coordinated social media at least three times a week. You attend all public events with me. When we're in public, you touch me. Often."

"Touch you how?"

"Arm. Shoulder. Hand." His jaw tightened. "Whatever looks natural."

Natural. As if any of this was natural.

"And the cover story?" she asked.

"We met at Eloise's gala. You were there planning it. We connected over our shared love of—" He paused, searching.

"Wine?" she offered. "Hiking?"

"I don't hike."

"Then what do we share?"

He stared at her for a beat too long. "Ambition."

The word settled between them like a challenge.

---

The next evening, Mira stood in front of a mirror in a dress Leo had sent up that morning—deep navy, fitted, with a neckline that made her feel like she was wearing armor and vulnerability at the same time.

"Victor Kane is an old business associate," Leo had said in the car. "He hosts these dinners to flex his influence. Jen will be there."

"How do you know?"

"Because she's always there." He'd said it flatly, as if reciting a weather report. "She's been cultivating Victor for months. I just didn't know why until now."

The dinner was held in a private room overlooking the city. Crystal chandeliers. White tablecloths. Faces that smiled with their teeth.

Mira spotted Jen immediately—seated three chairs down from Victor Kane, a glass of white wine in her hand, her expression perfectly pleasant. She waved. Mira waved back. Her palm felt damp.

Eloise Whitmore sat at the far end of the table, her gaze tracking Mira like a hawk watching prey.

Leo pulled out Mira's chair. "You look beautiful," he said, loud enough for the table to hear.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice steady. She placed her hand on his arm. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers.

Victor Kane was a man who filled a room without raising his voice. Silver-haired, square-jawed, with eyes that assessed and dismissed in the same glance. He raised his glass to Leo. "Good to see you with someone who can keep up."

"Someone who can keep up with what?" Eloise's voice cut through the chatter. "Her betters?"

The table went quiet.

Mira felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She opened her mouth—

Leo's hand found hers under the table. Squeezed once.

"Eloise," he said, his tone light, almost amused. "Still bitter about the breakup? It's been two years."

Eloise's smile turned sharp. "I'm not bitter. I'm concerned. You have a habit of collecting—how do I put this—temporary accessories."

The word hit like a slap. Mira had heard it before, at the gala, from Eloise's own lips. *Temporary accessory.*

Leo stood.

The scrape of his chair against the floor echoed in the sudden silence. He walked around the table, past the waiters, past the frozen guests, until he stood directly behind Mira.

"Darling," he said, soft enough that only she could hear. "Stand up."

She did.

He turned her to face him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. Then his hand cupped her jaw, tilted her chin up, and he kissed her.

Not a peck. Not a performance.

A kiss that tasted like anger and something else—something that made her knees weaken and her fingers curl into his jacket. His mouth was warm, demanding, and for a moment she forgot where they were.

When he pulled back, the room erupted in scattered applause.

Mira's heart hammered. Her lips tingled.

And then she saw Jen.

Standing near the window. Phone raised. Smirking.

Recording.

---

The drive back to the penthouse was silent.

Leo's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Mira pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth.

"She's going to use it," Mira finally said.

"Let her."

"What?"

He glanced at her, and for a moment, something cracked in his expression. "If she releases that video, it proves we're together. That's what we want her to believe."

But she'd been recording before the kiss. Before Eloise's comment. Jen had been waiting for something to film.

Mira filed that thought away.

---

The penthouse was dark when they entered. Leo flicked on the lights, then headed for the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

Mira dropped her clutch on the coffee table. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug, and she knelt to adjust the strap.

Her fingers brushed against something under the table.

Plastic. Smooth. Small.

She pulled it out.

A listening device. Tiny. Black. The kind you could buy at any electronics store.

Her blood turned cold.

She held it up.

Leo stopped mid-pour. His eyes went sharp.

"Where?"

"Under the coffee table."

He crossed the room in three strides, took the device from her, and crushed it under his heel. The plastic cracked, wires exposed.

"She knows," Mira whispered.

"She suspects." Leo's voice was hard. "That's different."

"Is it?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and played the recording she'd found on his phone that morning—before the dinner, while he'd been in the shower.

*"Jen's in position,"* a voice said. Cold. Male. Familiar. *"Once we destroy Leo, his father's secret dies with him."*

The line went dead.

Mira looked at Leo. He'd gone pale.

"That was Victor Kane," she said. "What secret?"

Leo stared at her. The silence stretched, heavy as stone.

"Leo." Her voice cracked. "What secret?"

He walked to the window. His reflection stared back at her—a man carved from ice, with cracks she could almost see.

"I don't know," he said. "But I'm going to find out."

The words hung in the air between them.

Neither of them believed him.