Chapter 3 The terms

leonel pov

as I followed her into the building I couldn't shake off the impression she had left on me.

She walked like she hadn't just been humiliated on a global stage. Chin up, heels clicking across marble, like the world owed her something-and maybe it did.

Zara Whitmore was fire. But not the kind that burned out fast. No, she was the slow, dangerous kind-the one you never see coming until it's too late.

We took the private elevator up to the penthouse. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She didn't ask questions, didn't compliment the view, didn't react to the opulence. Just silence. Steely. Focused.

My assistant had already left the contract on the coffee table. Neatly clipped. Clean language. No romantic fluff-just cold, calculated terms. Six months. No physical intimacy. Shared public appearances. Non-disclosure clauses. Benefits for both parties.

I motioned toward it. "It's all there. Look it over."

She didn't sit. She paced. One hand still clutching the end of her veil like it anchored her to the wreckage she'd just survived.

"Did you draw this up in advance?" she asked, voice sharp.

"Yes."

She spun to face me. "So you knew."

"I suspected."

"And you thought this was the perfect opportunity to swoop in?"

"Not swoop," I said calmly. "Strategize. You think Charles leaving you was personal. It wasn't. It was weakness. You were a threat to his image. I, on the other hand, prefer to keep my enemies close-and powerful women even closer."

Her lip curled, but she finally sat. Crossed her legs. Picked up the contract.

Minutes passed.

She didn't speak as she read, flipping pages with a lawyer's precision. Her fingers trembled only once.

When she got to the clause about her monthly allowance-triple her current net worth-she scoffed.

"Trying to buy me, Wolfe?"

"I don't buy people. I pay for services. You're offering value. I compensate accordingly."

"You really know how to strip romance from the room, don't you?"

"Isn't that the point?"

She paused. "What if I say no?"

"Then I drive you back to the wreckage, and we both pretend this never happened."

She set the contract down slowly. "You're not a good man."

"I never claimed to be."

Zara stood again, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. City lights reflected off her gown. She looked like a fallen queen trying to decide if the throne was worth reclaiming.

"You get headlines. I get protection. We both get a narrative," she murmured.

"Correct."

"But here's the thing, Leonel."

She turned, her gaze sharp.

"You don't control me. Not in private. Not in public. You don't get to rewrite who I am for the sake of your empire."

I said nothing. Let her talk.

"I'll sign it," she continued. "But I'm adding terms."

She walked back to the table, pulled a pen from her clutch, and-without asking-edited the contract. With poise. With purpose.

"No ownership of my body. No commentary on my personal decisions outside the terms listed. And you will not interfere in my career choices, public statements, or private friendships."

I raised an eyebrow. "Anything else, Your Majesty?"

She signed her name with a flourish. "Yes. A six-month clause isn't enough. I want a five-month exit option. If either of us wants out early-we go. No penalties."

I took the contract from her, scanned the additions.

Damn.

She wasn't playing. She was negotiating.

"You really think you're the one in control now?" I asked, a smile playing at the edge of my lips.

Zara met my gaze without flinching. "No. I think neither of us is. That's what makes this dangerous."

I looked down at her signature. Elegant. Bold.

Then I signed mine.

The deal was sealed.

Not with love.

With ambition.

And fire.

Then I signed mine.

The deal was sealed.

Not with love.

With ambition.

And fire.

She stared at the ink on the paper like it had chained her to something invisible.

"You'll move in tomorrow," I said simply. "Your belongings will be handled. Appearances begin next week-first charity event is Friday night."

She didn't answer. Just took a breath and nodded once.

As she turned to leave the room, her voice drifted back over her shoulder.

"Goodnight, Leonel."

Not 'thank you.' Not 'see you.' Just that.

And somehow, that was enough to tell me this game had just begun.

I stood in the silence she left behind, the weight of her signature still fresh on the page.

Five months. That's what we'd agreed on. Five months of controlled chaos.

Yet something told me neither of us would come out of it untouched.

She thought she was protecting herself with those clauses. But what she didn't know was that this arrangement wasn't just about business for me-not anymore.

Because the more she resisted, the more I wanted to unravel her.

Not for the contract.

Not for the media.

For me.