The clink of ice in a crystal glass echoed through the living room.
Celeste stood at the minibar, pouring a small measure of whiskey. Not for herself—Noah had learned by now that she only poured when she needed to control the setting. It was a gesture. A ritual. Something calculated and deliberate, like every other move she made.
He sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet couch, watching as she turned and handed him the glass.
"So," she said, tone light but precise, "let's renegotiate."
Noah took the drink but didn't sip. "Renegotiate what?"
"The contract." She lowered herself gracefully into the armchair across from him, crossing one leg over the other. "After today, the original terms feel… insufficient."
"You mean after your mom tried to psychologically dismantle you at brunch?" he asked, dry.
A flicker of amusement passed over her features, but it vanished almost immediately. "Exactly. We need to be sharper, more aligned. More believable."
Noah arched a brow. "We're pretty believable already."
"Not enough." She leaned forward slightly. "There's another gala next week. High society—big names, journalists, corporate snakes, and vultures in designer suits. I need you to be more than a tagalong."
"What does that mean? Fake-propose on a balcony? Kiss under a chandelier?"
She didn't laugh. "It means I'm extending the contract. From two months to six. Minimum."
Noah sat back, the ice in his glass beginning to sweat. "Six months?"
"Yes."
"That's not minor renegotiation. That's half a year of lies."
"Half a year of performance," she corrected. "You'll be compensated accordingly."
"That's not the issue," he said. "You're asking me to change my entire life on a whim."
Celeste blinked slowly. "It's not a whim. It's a strategy."
He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't mention anything about long-term appearances when I signed up for this."
"I didn't think I'd need you for longer." Her tone was calm, but something in her jaw twitched. "Clearly, I was wrong."
The air grew tight between them.
Finally, Noah exhaled. "Fine. I'll consider it."
"Consider it?"
"On one condition."
Celeste's head tilted slightly. "Which is?"
"No manipulation. No using me like a chess piece without warning. You want me for six months, you treat me like a partner, not a pawn."
Her eyes glittered—half-annoyed, half intrigued.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then find another boyfriend for rent."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Then, Celeste stood. She walked to the window, arms folded across her chest, looking out at the cityscape glittering in the night.
"You get one clause," she said quietly. "I'll respect the boundary—if you remember yours."
Noah frowned. "Which is?"
She turned just enough to glance at him over her shoulder.
"Don't fall for me."
That did it. The casual confidence in her voice, the icy command laced with vulnerability—Noah couldn't tell if she was warning him… or herself.
But before he could respond, her phone buzzed on the table.
Celeste walked over, checked the screen, and her expression hardened instantly.
"What is it?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Just picked up the phone, slid it into her pocket, and said coolly, "Get dressed. We're going out."
"Where?"
"To meet the person who just bought a table next to mine at the Langford Gala."
Noah stood slowly. "Someone important?"
Celeste turned to him, eyes unreadable.
"Someone dangerous."
The town car glided through the city streets like a shadow, silent and sleek. Noah sat beside Celeste in the back seat, the tension between them coiled tight like a tripwire. Outside, the city glittered. Inside, silence throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Celeste hadn't spoken since the call.
Noah had learned not to push when she wore that particular expression—sharp, focused, and a little too calm. It wasn't anger. It was a calculation. The kind she reserved for situations that required surgical precision.
Finally, he asked, "So… who's the 'dangerous' guest?"
She didn't look at him. "His name is Cassian Vale. He's an investor. Disruptive. Flashy. Makes enemies for sport."
"Is he an ex?"
Celeste snorted. "Please. I have better taste in self-sabotage."
"So what's the problem?"
"He's not part of our world. Not really. He's new money, tech-brained and bored. The kind of man who buys influence for fun. If he bought a table at the Langford gala, it's for a reason. And it's not charity."
The car pulled up outside the Vox, a members-only lounge hidden in the bones of an old theater. Dark marble steps led down into dim, opulent shadows. The bouncer didn't even ask for ID—just nodded when he saw Celeste and opened the velvet rope.
Inside, the air buzzed with low conversation and smooth jazz. Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead, catching in glasses of scotch and gold-rimmed flutes of champagne.
Cassian Vale was waiting in a corner booth like a spider with perfect teeth.
He was younger than Noah expected—maybe thirty, clean-cut, designer casual. His smile was too easy. The kind of smile that came from someone who'd never had to apologize for anything.
"Celeste," he drawled, rising. "It's been too long."
"Not long enough," she replied, sliding into the booth. Noah followed, sitting beside her like a loyal accessory.
Cassian's eyes flicked to him, lingering with amusement. "So this is the boyfriend. Good jawline. Average watch. But you clean up well."
"Thanks," Noah said flatly. "I try."
Cassian grinned, unbothered. "I love that you brought him. It says you're nervous."
Celeste leaned back, cool and composed. "I'm not."
"No? Then why are you here?"
She didn't answer. Which was answer enough.
Cassian took a sip of his drink. "I bought that table to observe. The Langfords interest me. So much… dysfunction under all that polish."
"Sounds like projection," Celeste said.
"Sounds like truth," he replied. Then turned to Noah. "Tell me something. How much is she paying you?"
Noah blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Come on. You're too sharp-eyed to be doing this for love." He smiled again, slow and knowing. "What's the going rate for pretending you belong?"
Celeste's hand twitched beneath the table.
Noah smiled back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What's the going rate for pretending you're a threat?"
Cassian's eyes narrowed—just a fraction.
"Touché."
The tension turned electric. Celeste leaned forward, voice soft. "Whatever game you're playing, Cassian, don't use me to do it."
"I'm not playing," he said. "Not yet."
Noah stood, his instincts thrumming. "We're done here."
Celeste didn't argue. She followed him out.
Outside – Vox Entrance
The night was cooler now, wind sweeping through the alley in soft waves. Noah exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"He knows," he said.
"Yes," Celeste replied.
"You think he'll tell anyone?"
"I think Cassian Vale doesn't speak unless he benefits from it."
Noah looked over at her. Her face was unreadable, but her shoulders had slumped, just slightly.
"Is this why you extended the contract?" he asked. "Because of people like him?"
She hesitated.
Then: "No."
"Then why?"
Celeste looked up at the sky, as if it held simpler answers.
"Because it's harder to pretend alone," she said.
Noah's breath caught.
But before he could say anything, her phone buzzed again. She checked it—and this time, her face changed.
Eyes wide. Jaw tense.
"What is it?" he asked.
Celeste swallowed, then held the phone out to him.
Noah looked at the screen.
It was a news alert.
Langford Family Charity Gala – Guest List Leaked Online
And right beneath the headline:
"Celeste Langford Attending with New Mystery Boyfriend" – Photos Enclosed