As I roll out of bed, my brain sloshing against my skull in the opposite direction, I might regret the bottle of winest night.


    I’d pulled it out to pair with the risotto for dinner. I thought a little social lubricant might get things back on track with Oleg.


    Then he bailed—again.


    And I drank alone—again.


    I throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt since there’s no one around to seduce.


    Not that my nothing-but-panties routine worked the first time. Oleg fled the room like it was on fire while I was naked on his bed, and I’ve hardly seen him since.


    In terms of signs that he’s just not that into you, that’s a big shing billboard.


    It’s crossed my mind more than once—while I wander the halls of his penthouse like a lost puppy—that our deal might be over.


    Maybe he changed his mind. This whole contract came about suddenly, and maybe he’s having second thoughts.


    I imagine Uri arriving to collect me and my things, ready to deliver me to… well, nowhere.


    I have nowhere else.


    Nothing else.


    Oleg Pavlov, irritating enigma that he is, is my only n.


    I have to make this work.


    I’m in the kitchen eating breakfast when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Sydney—an article.


    The headline smacks me in the face like an open palm: “Billionaire Yachtmaker Sets A New Course with Naughty Employee.”


    I stare at my phone screen, my breakfast forgotten and growing soggy in its bowl.


    The deepfaked photo looks so real it makes my stomach turn.


    There we are—Oleg and me—looking like we just stepped out of some glossy magazine spread. He’s in a tailored suit, and I’m in a silky dress that clings perfectly to every… well, not my curves.


    The body pressed against Oleg is tight and trim in all the ces I’m not, and somehow, that painnces through the shock of seeing a ring on my finger big enough to double as the anchor for the yacht we’re on.


    Apparently, Oleg and I are engaged.


    First I’m hearing about it.


    My sister’s face fills my screen, her FaceTime call catching me with my mouth hanging open.


    “You sneaky bitch!” she squeals. “When were you nning to tell me?”


    “I…”


    Words fail me. What am I supposed to say?


    That this is all fake?


    That the man in the photo hasn’t touched me in three days?


    That I’m living in his luxury condo like some kind of kept woman, except without the “keeping” part?


    The fact is, I wasn’t nning to tell Sydney anything. Not until I had the money secured to get her out of Vegas or Dubai or wherever the fuck she is and away from Paul.


    Looks like I don’t get a choice in that now.


    “Oh my God, look at you, ying innocent.” Sydney’s perfectly made-up face beams at me through the screen. The bruises from her sugar daddy are almostpletely covered today. “Seriously, though—Oleg fucking Pavlov? You hit the motherlode, sis. Is his dick as big as his bank ount?”


    Hell if I know! The reality that I’m engaged to Oleg and I haven’t seen more than the outline of his dick through his pants is the final nail in the coffin.


    My stomach churns. “Sydney, I can’t talk right?—”


    “No way! You haven’t told me anything yet. How did he propose? When’s the wedding? Does this mean you’ll stop lecturing me about Paul?”


    I end the call mid-sentence, mainly because I don’t want to exin to Sydney the many ways that Oleg is not my sugar daddy.


    This is a business arrangement. We signed a contract.


    A contract he might as well have spit on when he had that article published without so much as a warning.


    The silence in the condo feels oppressive now, pressing down on me from all sides.


    Three nights. Three fucking nights he’s been ghosting me, and now, this?


    I text Uri to bring the car around, then storm into my bedroom. Most of my clothes look like they belong to a Catholic school dropout, but there’s one dress that’ll work for what I have in mind—a rose pink linen number Mara forced me to buy months ago.


    No man is going to pay attention if you dress like a teenage boy, she’d said.


    Well, I need Oleg’s attention now.


    The dress hugs my curves in a way that walks the line between ssy and sinful. I add some wedge tforms and just enough makeup to emphasize my eyes and lips.


    My reflection stares back at me, transformed from heartbroken hermit to someone who could maybe pass for a billionaire’s fiancée.


    Hopefully.


    Uri is waiting with the silver Maybach when I get downstairs. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.


    “Where to, Ms. Sutton?”


    “Pavlov Industries.” I slide into the backseat, my dress riding up just enough to make me feel dangerous. “And don’t warn him we’reing.”


    I didn’t get any warning, so why should he?


    “There’s a camera in the backseat, ma’am.” Uri clears his throat, sounding guilty. “Just so you’re aware. The footage streams to Mr. Pavlov’s phone.”


    Oh, that’s right—because he’s a billionaire and the whole world, myself included, is under his thumb. How could I forget?


    I locate the tiny lens and give it my middle finger. “How’s that for a preview?”


    Uri’sugh turns into a cough as he pulls away from the curb.


    The drive feels endless, each mile cranking my anger higher. By the time we reach the Pavlov Industries skyscraper, I’m ready tomit murder.


    Prison sounds preferable to this arrangement with Oleg.


    I’ve walked the halls of Pavlov Industries before, but today is different. Whispers and stares follow everywhere I go.


    Everyone knows who I am now. The naughty employee who seduced the big, bad boss.


    I hold my head high, channeling my inner Sydney. She’d strut through here like she owned the ce.


    The executive floor is a shrine to masculine power, all dark wood and leather. Oleg’s assistants swarm me like well-dressed mosquitoes.


    “Ms. Sutton, would you like some water?”


    “Can I get you some coffee?”


    “Mr. Pavlov is on a very important call?—”


    I sweep past them like they’re invisible. The towering double doors to his office don’t intimidate me. Not today.


    He’s sitting by the window in a leather wingback chair. Our eyes meet in the reflection and something hot and electric crackles between us.


    He says something in rapid French—which would normally make my knees weak—then removes his earpiece and ends his call.


    “Sutton.” His gaze travels down my body like he’s undressing me with his eyes. Like he has the right after the way he had me bared before him and still walked away.


    “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the engagement announcement?” I demand. “My phone is exploding. My friends and family want answers.”


    He leans back,pletely unfazed. “What you tell them is entirely up to you. As long as you stay within the terms of our contract.”


    “Trantion: tell them anything except the truth!”


    The truth being that this is all fake.


    That I’m just a womb with a view.


    That he hasn’t touched me in three days despite our agreement.


    “Why don’t you sit down?” He gestures to a chair like I’m here for a job interview.


    I resist the urge to flip him off again. “I’m fine right here.”


    He rises slowly, as calm as I am outraged. “There’s no need to be upset. The response is exactly what we want. Any publicity is good publicity. And you look lovely in the picture.”


    “That picture isn’t even real! It’s not me. I mean, if you can just Photoshop any skinny bitch onto a yacht with you, why the hell am I here? What’s my role?”


    His jaw twitches. “Your role is outlined in our contract. Might I suggest another readthrough?”


    I step closer, tilting my chin up. Even in my highest heels, he towers over me. “Yeah? Well, your role is outlined in that contract, too. And it’s going to be pretty hard for me to fulfill my part if you don’t fulfill yours.”


    Heat rises to his face. His expression hardens to stone.


    I turn on my heel and stride out, satisfaction burning through my veins.


    Let him chew on that for a while.