The penthouse office is exactly what I expected—all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that glitters like it's been polished by the wealthy, and furniture that costs more than my car. Adrian sits behind a desk made of some dark wood that probably has a tragic backstory involving a rainforest, and he looks utterly at home here. Like he was built for these spaces.

I, however, feel like a fraud in my good black blazer.

"You brought a lawyer," Adrian observes, watching Marcus settle into the chair beside me with the grim determination of a man about to read a contract written by people who probably invented loopholes.

"I brought a smart lawyer," I correct, pulling out the fifty-page document that arrived via courier this morning. Fifty pages. For six months of fake dating. "What is this, Adrian? War and Peace with a non-disclosure clause?"

He smiles. Actually smiles—not the calculated version he uses in board meetings, but the real thing that reaches his eyes and makes something dangerous unfurl in my chest.

"That's the version my mother's attorney wrote," he says, and there's something almost apologetic in his tone. "I told her to dial it back."

"Your mother wrote this?" I flip through pages, my eyes catching on increasingly absurd clauses. "Clause twelve-B prohibits me from discussing Adrian's 'personal grooming habits' with anyone, including medical professionals? What personal grooming habits, Adrian? Are you hiding something? A secret man-bun? A controversial approach to body hair?"

Marcus makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh.

Adrian leans back in his chair, and the fabric—probably Italian leather—sighs under his weight. He's wearing his armor today: three-piece suit in charcoal, white shirt with cufflinks that catch the light like tiny promises. His tie is silver. Of course it's silver. The man probably wears silver to bed.

"My mother is thorough," he says mildly.

"Your mother is terrifying," I counter. "I've read her quotes in the Times. She once told an interviewer that sentimentality is the refuge of the weak. Clause seventeen prohibits me from 'publicly displaying excessive affection toward Adrian, which could be construed as genuine romantic interest.' Excessive. How is affection measured? Are we talking milliliters? Decibels? Do you have a meter for this?"

"I specifically asked her to remove that one," Adrian says, and now there's something sharp in his voice. He glances at Marcus. "That one is gone. Scratch it."

Marcus makes a note.

I flip through more pages, my brain cataloging the insanity. "Clause twenty-three requires me to sign a secondary NDA regarding 'all matters of a sensitive business nature.' Adrian, I'm a journalist. This is basically asking me to sign away my ability to report on anything you do."

"It's asking you to sign away your ability to report on anything you do with me," Adrian corrects, and now he's leaning forward, his gray eyes locked on mine. "There's a difference. You can report on Ashford Industries. You just can't report on our arrangement or anything related to my personal life during the contract period."

"That's a distinction without a difference."

"It's actually a distinction with significant legal implications," Marcus interjects, pulling out a red pen. "But I'm going to recommend removing the secondary NDA entirely. It's overly broad and unenforceable in most jurisdictions."

Adrian nods, like he expected this. Like he wanted this.

I watch him across the desk, trying to parse what's happening. Adrian Ashford doesn't usually back down. He negotiates from positions of power, extracts maximum concessions, and makes people regret asking for more than they deserve. But he's folding. Already.

Unless he's not.

Unless this is the long game.

"Clause thirty-one," I continue, because ignoring the way my pulse picked up when he leaned forward is a survival skill I've perfected. "I'm required to make a minimum of four public appearances per month, and Adrian retains the right to approve my wardrobe for said appearances. Adrian, I dress myself. I have opinions about my own body."

"You dress in variations of the same three outfits," he points out, not unkindly. "Black, gray, or black-and-gray. It's very you, but it's not very 'engaged to a billionaire.'"

"I don't care what it looks like. The arrangement is six months. I'll survive wearing colors."

"You'll do more than survive," Adrian says, and there's something in his voice that makes my stomach flip. "You'll look like you belong here."

The way he says it—like he's already imagined it, already seen me in his world, already decided I fit—makes my mouth dry.

"I don't want to belong here," I say, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"I know," he agrees, and that's somehow worse. "Clause thirty-one stays, but you can veto wardrobe choices you genuinely hate. And I'll text them to you first instead of just having them appear in your apartment."

"How did you—" I stop. Of course. He probably had someone scope out my apartment. Of course. "You can't just have clothes appear in my apartment, Adrian. That's not normal behavior. That's the behavior of a controlling billionaire in a romance novel, and I'm not going to participate in your fantasy."

"Too late," he says softly. "You already signed the initial agreement."

He's right. He's absolutely right, and I hate it.

Marcus clears his throat, a small sound that says we're moving forward before you two combust. "I'm going to recommend significant changes to the appearance and behavior clauses. Sienna, you need clear boundaries around what constitutes a public appearance versus private time. You need explicit language protecting your professional activities. And Adrian, you need to accept that she's not going to perform happiness on command."

"I'm not asking her to perform," Adrian says, but his eyes are still on me, and there's something in them that feels like a question I'm not equipped to answer.

I turn back to the contract, using it as a shield. "What about the termination clause? What happens if one of us wants out before six months?"

"Mutual agreement required," Adrian says. "Or cause."

"Define cause."

"You date someone else. I date someone else. You sell a story to the press about our arrangement. You disappear for more than forty-eight hours without notice."

I look up from the pages. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Adrian, that's insane. What if I get sick? What if I have a family emergency?"

"Then you tell me. You don't disappear. You communicate."

There's a weight to the word—communicate—like it means something deeper than just exchanging information. Like it means trust me with the truth.

"Those terms are too restrictive," Marcus says firmly. "We need specific carve-outs for medical emergencies, family crises, and professional obligations. And the dating clause is going to be interpreted as 'no actual romantic entanglement with third parties.' You can't prohibit her from having a life outside of this arrangement."

Adrian nods, makes a gesture that clearly means fine, do whatever, and that's when I realize something.

He's letting me win.

All of this—the excessive clauses, the ridiculous demands, the controlling provisions—he knew they wouldn't stick. He's letting me negotiate them away so I feel like I have power in this arrangement.

It's brilliant, actually. Manipulative as hell, but brilliant.

"What about compensation?" I ask, because if he's going to play games, I might as well get paid. "Clause forty-two is vague. What exactly am I getting for six months of my life?"

Adrian slides a folder across the desk. Not paper. A folder.

I open it slowly, and then I stop breathing.

"That's your quarterly rate," Adrian says calmly, like he hasn't just written a number with enough zeros to make my vision blur. "Plus expenses, plus a signing bonus, plus a guarantee that any legitimate professional opportunities that come from the arrangement are yours to keep. If a publication wants to hire you because you're engaged to me, that's your job. I don't get a cut."

I can feel Marcus staring at me, waiting to see if I'm going to have a stroke.

"This is—" I can't even finish the sentence.

"Fair," Adrian supplies. "It's fair. You're giving up six months. You're putting your career on hold. You're potentially burning bridges with sources who find out you're dating someone you investigated. I'm compensating you accordingly."

"This is more than fair. This is—" I flip through the attached pages, which detail investment options, tax implications, and something about a trust account. "What is this?"

"Flexibility," Adrian says. "You can take it as liquid cash, invest it, set it aside. Your choice. I'm not trying to control how you spend it."

"Just everything else," I mutter, looking back at the contract.

"Just everything else," he agrees, and there's something almost like affection in his tone.

Marcus taps his pen against his legal pad. "I'm going to need forty-eight hours to redline this. The compensation structure is solid, but there are behavioral clauses that need clarification, and the termination provisions need significant work. Sienna, don't sign anything until I've reviewed it."

"Obviously," I say, but I'm still staring at the number.

Six months. That's two hundred and seventy days. That's roughly how long it would take me to save enough money to actually pursue a real story again, instead of writing listicles about the best artisanal hot sauces.

Adrian stands, and I realize the meeting is over.

"I'll walk you out," he says to Marcus, but his eyes are on me.

I watch them leave, my eyes falling back to the contract. To the number. To the possibility.

It's a trap. Obviously it's a trap. Adrian Ashford doesn't write checks this large without expecting a return on investment, and whatever he's expecting, it's not on this contract.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: I had a car brought to the lobby. It'll take you home.

I stare at the message, then at the contract, then back at the message.

He's still thinking about me. Still planning for me. Still controlling the variables.

The penthouse door opens, and Adrian's silhouette frames the entrance. He's removed his jacket, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Even from across the room, I can smell him—that sandalwood and cedar and something darker that makes my brain short-circuit.

"You're still here," he observes.

"Your lawyer left."

"I know." He moves toward me, and I should probably stand. I should probably create distance. Instead, I stay seated, watching him approach like a prey animal watching a predator calculate the distance.

He stops at the edge of the desk, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that his scent wraps around me like smoke.

"Tell me you won't sign it," he says quietly.

I look up at him. "What?"

"Tell me you won't sign it," he repeats. "Tell me you're going to walk away. Tell me you're smarter than this."

"I am smarter than this," I say, but my voice is steady. "That's why I'm going to sign it."

He smiles, and it's sad somehow. Knowing.

"You think you're going to betray me," he says. It's not a question.

"Yes."

"You think you're going to use this arrangement to gather information, expose something, prove that I'm still the same man you destroyed three years ago."

"Yes."

"And you think that makes you the one with the power in this dynamic."

I don't answer, because he's standing too close and I can't think straight. Because his eyes are doing that thing where they warm, and my body is responding to it in ways that feel like betrayal.

"You're the one with the power," Adrian continues softly. "You always have been. Even when you were writing about me, even when your article tanked my reputation, even now—you're the one who gets to decide what's true. I'm just the man waiting for you to figure out that truth is more complicated than your headlines."

"Adrian—"

He reaches out, and for a moment I think he's going to touch me. His hand hovers inches from my face, and I can feel myself leaning toward it, can feel my body betraying my mind's careful plans.

Then he pulls back.

"The car is waiting," he says, and his voice is rough. "Go home. Read the contract. Sign it if you want to. But Sienna? When you figure out that you can't betray someone who's already given you permission to try—when you realize that I'm counting on you to look for the worst in me because maybe then you'll find something good instead—don't say I didn't warn you."

He walks back toward his desk, and I'm left sitting there, my heart racing, my body aching with the ghost of a touch that never happened.

I gather the contract with shaking hands.

Six months. Two hundred and seventy days.

It's enough time to expose him.

It's also enough time for him to ruin me in ways that have nothing to do with my career.

The elevator ride down feels like falling.