The teleprompter scrolled with talking points about sustainable Italian marble and the glass atrium I had spent two years designing for the new Hart Las Vegas.

I smiled for the four million viewers on the livestream, smoothing the skirt of my emerald silk gown.

Then my father, Victor Hart, stepped past his mark and took the microphone from the host.

"Tonight isn't just about celebrating our newest flagship," Victor announced to the ballroom, his voice booming through the sound system. "It's about family. And bringing together two legacies that were always meant to unite."

The stage lights shifted from gold to a sharp white spotlight.

Behind me, the main LED wall cut away from the architectural rendering. In its place appeared a montage of photographs—me at twenty-five, laughing on a yacht in Monaco, flanked by Grant Vale’s arm draped over my shoulders. Summer galas. Private dinners. Moments from a relationship that had ended four years ago when I found him in bed with a junior associate.

Grant walked out from the wings in a tailored black tuxedo.

The crowd erupted into applause. Grant didn't look at the audience; his eyes stayed locked on me as he crossed the stage, pulled a velvet box from his breast pocket, and sank onto one knee.

"Sienna," Grant said into his collar mic, his tone smooth and rehearsed. "I wasted years thinking we needed time apart. But standing in this room tonight, I know the truth. Maybe we were always supposed to find our way back."

The cameras zoomed in on my face, projecting my expression across fifty-foot screens.

I didn't cry. I didn't reach for the ring.

I looked past Grant's outstretched hand and turned directly to my father. "Did you know about this?"

Victor didn't flinch. His jaw remained set, his silence answering every question I had. This wasn't a romantic gesture; it was a hostile merger dressed up as a fairy tale for our shareholders.

I reached behind my neck, unclipped the transmitter pack, and dropped the microphone onto the glass table. The thud resonated through the ballroom speakers like a gunshot. Without another word, I turned and walked off the stage.

"Sienna!" Grant’s voice called out behind me, sharp and frantic, but I didn't slow down.

I pushed through the backstage security doors and took the private elevator straight down to the casino floor. The bass from the main floor hummed through the soles of my heels as I moved blindly through the velvet ropes, trying to put distance between myself and the broadcast.

I ended up at the entrance of the VIP lounge, where a crowd of high-rollers had gathered around an elevated runway.

A silver banner overhead read: *MIDNIGHT BACHELOR AUCTION FOR THE CHILDREN'S MEDICAL FOUNDATION.*

The spotlight hit the final man stepping onto the stage. He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that fit his broad frame with razor-sharp precision, and his upper face was concealed by a matte black Venetian half-mask. Even with the disguise, the line of his jaw and the hard, unyielding curve of his mouth commanded the room.

"Our final bachelor of the evening," the auctioneer announced, tapping the podium. "Lot number twelve. Twenty-eight years old, private investor, zero social media footprint. He prefers to let his portfolio speak for itself. Bidding opens at fifty thousand."

"Sienna, stop right there."

Grant caught up to me, his hand clamping down on my forearm. He was flushed, his bow tie slightly crooked.

"Everyone is watching the feed," Grant hissed, leaning close so only I could hear. "Victor is furious. Get back upstairs right now and finish what we started before you destroy the stock price."

I looked at Grant’s fingers on my arm, then glanced at the high-top table beside us where an unoccupied numbered paddle lay near an empty champagne flute.

I yanked my arm free from Grant's grip, picked up paddle number forty-four, and held it high above my head.

"Five hundred thousand dollars," I said, projecting my voice clearly over the murmuring crowd.

The entire lounge went dead silent.

The auctioneer blinked, his gavel hovering in midair. "Excuse me, miss? Did you say five hundred thousand?"

Grant stared at me in disbelief. "Have you lost your mind?"

I kept my gaze fixed on the masked man on the stage. He hadn't moved an inch, but his dark eyes locked onto mine from behind the mask.

"Five hundred thousand," I repeated to the auctioneer. "On one condition. I need a fiancé until breakfast."

A low rumble of whispers tore through the room. The auctioneer cleared his throat, sensing the viral potential, and slammed the mallet down. "Sold! To the lady in green for half a million dollars!"

The masked man stepped off the platform, walking straight toward me. Up close, he was taller than I realized, carrying a quiet, heavy authority that made the air feel thin.

The charity’s house photographer scrambled over with two cameras flashing. "Please, miss, stand close! We need a shot for the morning press release!"

The man stopped an inch away from me. "Where do you want my hand?" he asked. His voice was low, deep, and completely unbothered by the chaos around us.

I looked over his shoulder at Grant, whose face had turned a mottled shade of red.

"Lower," I told the stranger.

I reached behind me, grabbed his right hand, and pressed his palm flat against the curve of my hip. With my other hand, I caught the knot of his silk tie, yanked him down, and crushed my mouth against his.

It was supposed to be a three-second stunt for the cameras—a quick, ruthless humiliation to punish Grant for the stage ambush.

I went to pull back after a single beat.

The stranger didn't let me.

His fingers tightened around my hip, his grip shifting to the small of my back as he pulled me hard against his chest. He parted my lips with an assertive, seamless pressure, deepening the kiss until the roar of the casino faded into background noise. Heat flared along the back of my neck.

When he finally released me, my chest rose and fell rapidly, my balance entirely thrown off.

He looked down at me, the mask hiding his brow, but his mouth curved into a faint line. "Was that for him?"

I swallowed, forcing my posture to straighten. "Mostly."

"That's disappointing," he murmured.

Before Grant could lunge forward, flashbulbs erupted in a blinding wall of white light. A dozen entertainment reporters pushed past the velvet partition, shouting questions over one another.

"Come on," the masked man said, taking my wrist.

He steered me through a service door hidden behind a mirrored pillar, leading me into a back corridor reserved for hotel staff. We stepped into the service elevator, and he hit the button for the Penthouse.

The doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the press.

Halfway up the tower, the elevator shuddered. The mechanical gears groaned, and the car dropped an inch before grinding to a sudden, violent stop.

The momentum threw me forward, and I slammed directly into his chest.

"I've got you," he said, catching my shoulders.

"My dress," I said through clenched teeth.

The metallic crystal clasp on the side of my gown had hooked directly into the heavy steel buckle of his leather belt. We were pinned together from hip to chest, unable to separate without tearing the silk.

"Don't pull," he ordered quietly. "You'll rip the fabric."

"Then unhook it."

He looked down, his knuckles brushing against my stomach as he worked the snagged loop free from the buckle prong. His breath was warm against the bare skin of my collarbone, and every time the car swayed, his thighs pressed against mine.

With a soft click, the metal released.

At the exact same moment, the elevator power surged back on, and the doors slid open to the private foyer of the Penthouse.

I stepped out quickly, but the sudden movement caused the strained zipper along my spine to split halfway down. "Damn it."

"Hold still," he said, stepping up behind me in the open-concept penthouse living room.

His fingers found the broken zipper tab at my mid-back. Instead of fixing it, he eased the track down the rest of the way, letting the cool penthouse air hit my bare skin.

I turned around to face him. He had already taken off his half-mask, tossing it onto the nearest console table. He had sharp, striking features, dark hair, and cold gray eyes that studied me without blinking.

"You're not wearing this for the rest of the night," he said.

"That wasn't part of the five hundred thousand," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended.

"The auction was for your fiancé," he said, closing the distance between us until my back hit the edge of the marble kitchen island. "A fiancé doesn't leave you in a broken dress."

He caught my face in both hands and kissed me again.

There was no audience this time. No cameras, no Grant, no father watching from a broadcast monitor. The kiss was rough, demanding, and completely unhinged. I gripped the lapels of his suit jacket as he lifted me effortlessly by the waist, setting me directly onto the cold marble counter.

His hands slid up my bare thighs, pushing the emerald silk out of the way, his mouth moving down the line of my throat.

*Chime.*

The electronic doorbell at the double entrance chimed through the suite.

We both paused, but neither of us moved until a woman’s voice carried clearly through the intercom speaker by the foyer.

"Theo? Open the door. It's Chloe. I know you're in there."

The man went completely rigid above me. The heat in his gray eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.

The intercom buzzed a second time.

"Sienna, pick up the damn phone," Chloe called out through the speaker. "The front desk said you came up here."

Panic hit me like a splash of ice water. I shoved against Theo’s broad chest, pushing him off the marble counter.

"Get in the bedroom," I whispered, pointing frantically toward the master suite.

He didn't move at first. He just looked down at me with an infuriating trace of amusement playing on his mouth. "You're kicking me out of my own bed?"

"You don't live here, and my best friend will tear this door off its hinges if I don't open it. Go."

I gave him another hard push. He finally relented, stepping back into the shadows of the master bedroom and pulling the heavy wood door almost shut behind him.

I grabbed an oversized cashmere cardigan from the entryway bench, wrapping it tightly around myself to hide the split zipper on my gown. Taking a steady breath, I swung the double doors open.

Chloe pushed right past me into the foyer, her designer handbag swinging from her elbow.

"Victor is an absolute monster," she announced, pacing toward the kitchen island. "And Grant is worse. Staging a proposal on a national broadcast without asking you? I told your father's PR director that if they run that Monaco montage one more time, I'm leaking Grant's private tax audits to Bloomberg."

"Chloe, breathe," I said, staying near the entryway to block her line of sight.

She stopped mid-stride. Her eyes darted to the dark charcoal suit jacket draped carelessly over the sofa. Then her gaze shifted to the heavy platinum watch resting near the fruit bowl.

"Sienna," Chloe said slowly, turning to face me. "Whose jacket is that?"

Before I could answer, a loud metallic rattle echoed from inside the master bedroom, followed by the sound of running water.

Chloe’s eyebrows shot up. "What was that?"

"Plumbing," I blurted out. "The water pressure in the penthouse towers is completely unstable tonight."

Chloe stared directly at the master bedroom door. "In the bedroom?"

"The en-suite pipes," I corrected, grabbing her arm and steering her back toward the front door. "Listen, I'm exhausted, my head is pounding, and I need sleep before the morning board meeting. Let me handle Victor tomorrow."

Chloe looked between me and the closed bedroom door, suspicion written all over her face. "You're hiding something."

"I'm hiding from the press," I countered smoothly. "I'll call you at eight. I promise."

I practically pushed her into the hallway and hit the lock before she could argue.

The moment the lock clicked, I spun around and marched straight into the master bedroom.

"Did you really have to turn on the—"

The words died in my throat.

Theo stepped out of the adjoining bathroom through a cloud of warm steam. He had discarded his ruined shirt—splattered with red wine from the chaotic auction floor—and wore only a thick white hotel bathrobe tied loosely at his waist. Drops of water clung to his collarbones, his dark hair damp and pushed back from his forehead.

"You took a shower?" I asked, crossing my arms over the oversized cardigan.

"Someone spilled a glass of pinot noir down my sleeve when you dragged me into the service lift," he said, toweling off his neck. "And I'm not sleeping in dirty wool."

"You're not sleeping here at all."

My phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. I picked it up and unlocked the screen.

The internet was ablaze. Clips of our kiss at the bachelor auction had already racked up millions of views across every major social platform. But worse than the viral buzz was the spin Victor's communications team was pushing.

*HART HEIRESS SPIRALS AFTER SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT; SOURCES CITE EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN.*

Grant was actively trying to frame me as unstable to protect his own ego and keep control of our hotel merger.

"Look at this," I said, holding the screen toward Theo. "They're turning this into a psychological crisis. If I don't control the story by morning, Victor will use the board to strip my authority over the Las Vegas property."

Theo barely glanced at the phone. "So fix it."

"I am fixing it," I said.

I grabbed a leather-bound notepad and a pen from the desk, scribbling rapidly across the cream paper.

"Thirty days," I said, speaking as I wrote. "A mutual, contractual fake engagement. You show up to three key galas, stand next to me for the architectural unveiling, and let the press think we've been quietly seeing each other for months. In exchange, I double what I paid at the auction. One million dollars."

I slid the paper across the dresser toward him.

Theo leaned forward, scanning the brief list of terms. His finger traced down the page, stopping at the final line I had underlined twice in black ink.

*Clause 4: No Sex.*

His gray eyes lifted to mine, an unreadable intensity settling over his features. "No sex?"

"We are business partners," I said firmly. "Nothing more."

"You didn't seem interested in business when you pulled me into the service elevator."

"That was optics."

"Right," he murmured, picking up the pen and signing his initial at the bottom without hesitation. "Optics."

"We leave in twenty minutes," I told him, checking the clock. "The morning paparazzi are already camping outside the front valet. If we walk out together looking cohesive, we kill Grant's narrative before the market opens."

I opened the suite's walk-in wardrobe, which had been pre-stocked with designer backup attire for VIP guests. I pulled a sharp navy suit and a crisp white dress shirt from the rack, tossing them onto the bed. "Wear this."

Ten minutes later, Theo stepped out of the dressing area. The tailored trousers fit him perfectly, but his dress shirt hung open at the chest, the silk tie draped unknotted around his neck.

"You're not finished," I said, stepping up to him.

"You bought the package," he replied, looking down at me. "Make yourself useful."

I reached out, fastening the top buttons of his shirt before taking the two ends of his silk tie. My knuckles brushed against the warm skin of his throat as I folded the fabric into a clean Windsor knot.

When the knot was set, I gripped the silk and yanked it tight, pulling him down until his face was barely two inches from mine.

Theo didn't pull away. His gaze stayed fixed on my lips, completely unbothered by the sudden force.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You're holding the leash."

"Then behave," I answered, meeting his stare.

"Make me."

For three seconds, neither of us moved. The tension between us was thick enough to suffocate, sharp and dangerously unpredictable.

I forced my hands to drop, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket before stepping back toward the door. "Let's go."

Downstairs, the heavy glass doors of the main lobby slid open to a wall of flashing strobes and shouting voices. Dozens of photographers and entertainment journalists surged against the velvet barricades the moment we stepped into the morning air.

"Miss Hart! Over here!"

"Sienna, is it true you broke things off with Grant Vale?"

"Who is the man from the auction?"

Theo slipped his right arm smoothly around my waist, pulling me against his side. His fingers rested naturally against my hip, his touch steady and deceptively protective.

Before the reporters could shout another question, Theo turned his head and pressed a soft kiss against my temple, performing for the cameras with an ease that made my pulse jump.

"Miss Hart, who is he?" a reporter with a microphone thrust forward.

I looked straight into the central camera lens and lifted my chin.

"He's my fiancé."

The crowd erupted into frantic chatter, shutter clicks firing off like machine guns.

"What's his name?" another reporter yelled over the noise. "What is your full name, sir?"

A cold shock hit my spine.

I had signed a contract with him. I had kissed him twice. I had agreed to pay him a million dollars.

And I didn't even know his real name.

I held my breath, waiting for the lie to fall apart on live television.

Theo didn't hesitate. He looked directly at the press corps, his voice calm, heavy, and absolute.

"Warren," he said, offering his mother's maiden name without a single flicker of doubt. "Theo Warren."

The desert sun beat down on the private cabana deck of the rooftop pool, reflecting off the glass partitions where at least four telephoto lenses caught the glare.

"They're watching from the south terrace," I murmured, adjusting the strap of my white bikini top.

Theo sat stretched out on the plush daybed, completely shirtless. A dusting of dark hair marked the center of his chest, tapering down toward the low waistband of his dark swim trunks. Water droplets glistened on his broad shoulders from a quick dip five minutes ago. He looked infuriatingly comfortable, one arm resting lazily behind his head.

"Let them watch," he said without opening his eyes. "That's what you paid for, isn't it?"

"They need to see something real," I said through my teeth. "A headline about us holding hands won't erase Grant's smear campaign."

I kicked off my sandals, stepped onto the daybed, and swung one leg over his lap.

I settled directly over his thighs, the sheer silk of my sarong brushing against his bare skin. The heat radiating off his body hit me instantly.

Theo didn't move. His hands remained flat against the cushions on either side of his hips, completely unbothered, refusing to close the distance.

"You're not touching me," I whispered, leaning in so the telephoto mics couldn't pick up my voice over the lounge music.

He opened his gray eyes, studying my face with cool amusement. "Clause three of your handwritten contract says unnecessary physical contact outside staged photo ops requires consent."

"This *is* a staged photo op."

"Then give me permission, Sienna."

I gripped his shoulders, the muscle beneath his warm skin tense and hard. "Touch my waist."

Theo held my stare. Slowly, he lifted one large hand, his fingertips barely grazing the bare skin above my hip bone.

"Here?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Higher," I muttered, my throat suddenly dry.

His palm slid an inch upward, stopping just below the curve of my rib cage. His thumb traced a light, devastating path against my skin. "Here?"

"Theo."

"Or here?"

He slid both hands down to the swell of my hips, his grip tightening until he pulled my pelvis firmly against his. The sudden friction made my stomach flip. He held me locked against him, his eyes daring me to look away, stripping away every ounce of control I thought I had over this arrangement.

"Much better for the cameras," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

I couldn't find a single sharp retort. I was entirely at his mercy.

***

By nine that evening, the party had migrated forty floors down to the grand opening of the hotel's new underground nightclub, *Obsidian*.

Bass vibrated through the floorboards, pulsing in sync with the sweeping purple strobes. I wore a backless black slip dress, a glass of champagne resting untouched in my hand as I stood near the VIP mezzanine rail.

"Sienna."

Grant’s voice cut through the music before I even saw him.

He stepped out from behind the velvet partition, looking polished in an open-collar tuxedo jacket. Clinging to his forearm was a twenty-two-year-old blonde model in a glittering silver mini dress.

"I see you brought your purchased company," Grant said, his eyes raking over me with a sneer. "You know, Sienna, you always make terrible decisions when you're angry. Throwing a million dollars at a nameless nobody won't save your board seat."

My grip tightened on the stem of my champagne glass. Before I could tear into him, a warm presence stepped up behind me.

Theo didn't grab Grant by the collar. He didn't raise his voice or throw a punch.

Instead, Theo stepped into the space between us, completely cutting Grant out of my line of sight. He didn't look at Grant once. He only looked down at me, extending an open palm between our chests.

"Dance?" he asked.

The simple question shifted the entire room. He wasn't defending me like property; he was offering me an exit, leaving the choice entirely in my hands.

I set my glass on the nearest high-top table and placed my palm directly into his. "I'd love to."

Theo led me straight past Grant, who stood frozen near the railing, his face dark with humiliation.

We pushed into the crowded center of the dance floor. The tempo shifted into a heavy, rhythmic track. Theo pulled me flush against his chest, his right hand settling firmly against the exposed skin of my lower back.

My hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his tailored shirt move under my fingers. With every beat of the bass, our bodies moved in seamless alignment.

"You're surprisingly good at avoiding fistfights," I said, tilting my head back to look at him.

"Fistfights are sloppy," Theo replied, his mouth inches from my ear. "And they distract from the asset."

"The asset being my reputation?"

"The asset being you."

I searched his gray eyes under the flashing lights. "You still haven't told me what kind of private investor has zero digital footprint."

Theo leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. "A dishonest one. You shouldn't trust everything you buy, Miss Hart."

***

The quiet of the penthouse suite was almost deafening when the heavy double doors clicked shut behind us forty minutes later.

The city lights of Las Vegas sprawled across the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

I didn't turn on the lights.

I spun around, grabbed the lapels of Theo’s dark jacket, and yanked him down to my mouth.

There were no paparazzi outside the window. No Grant standing in the corner. No board of directors watching a live feed.

It was just us.

Theo made a low sound in his throat and took over instantly. His hands found the back of my thighs, lifting me effortlessly off my feet until my back hit the solid wood of the entrance door. His mouth was demanding, parting my lips and tasting like expensive bourbon and adrenaline.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I reached for the buttons of his dress shirt, popping the first two open, my fingers sliding against the bare, heated skin of his chest.

Theo suddenly caught both of my wrists in one large hand, pinning them gently against the door panel above my head.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against mine. A dark, dangerous hunger burned in his eyes, but his jaw remained stubbornly set.

"Clause four," he said, his voice rough. "No-sex clause."

I looked up at him, my lips swollen, my chest heaving. "I wrote it."

"So?"

"I'm considering an amendment," I breathed.

Theo’s gaze dropped to my throat, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he fought his own restraint. "You don't get to change the rules just because you're losing, Sienna."

"Who says I'm losing?"

Before he could answer, a sharp, violent vibration buzzed from the entryway marble console.

*Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*

Theo went rigid.

The spell shattered instantly. He let go of my wrists and stepped back, running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair.

The phone on the console continued to vibrate frantically, the screen glowing brightly in the dark foyer.

I glanced down at the illuminated display.

Incoming Call: **CHLOE**

I frowned. Why would my best friend be calling Theo's private number in the middle of the night?

The call timed out, and the screen briefly flickered back to the locked home display before going dark.

My breath caught in my throat.

The lock screen wallpaper was an unedited, high-resolution family photograph taken on a sunlit boat. A younger, laughing Theo had his arm thrown casually over the shoulders of a grinning girl with bright blonde hair.

Chloe.

*Chime.*

The electronic doorbell chimed loudly through the penthouse suite, followed by a sharp, impatient knock on the wood.

I stepped away from the console in a daze, my hand moving automatically to turn the brass handle.

I pulled the door open.

Chloe stood on the welcome mat, wearing a belted trench coat, her phone still clutched in her hand.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died instantly. Her eyes locked onto Theo’s unbuttoned dress shirt, the dark stubble on his jaw, and then shifted directly to my face, taking in my smeared red lipstick and flushed skin.

A suffocating silence descended over the hallway.

Chloe looked back and forth between the two of us, her expression morphing from confusion to absolute horror.

"Theo?" Chloe’s voice cracked. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Why is my brother in your hotel room?"

I slowly turned my head toward Theo, the world tilting beneath my feet.

"Your *what*?"