The gala was a minefield. Every conversation was a test. By midnight, Elara’s head was spinning. She slipped away toward a balcony for air, but a hand caught her wrist and pulled her into a darkened stone alcove.

She opened her mouth to scream, but a gloved hand pressed against her lips.

"It’s me," Julian hissed. He was breathing hard, his bowtie undone. He looked haunted.

"You're shaking," Elara realized, reaching out to touch his chest. Under the expensive wool, his heart was racing as fast as hers.

"Vanderbilt knows," Julian whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "He knows you were at the theater. He’s looking for the ledger you saw. If he finds it, he doesn't just ruin me—he kills you to tie up the loose ends."

"Then let me go, Julian! If I disappear—"

"No!" He pinned her against the stone wall, his face inches from hers. The mask of the billionaire had crumbled, leaving only the man. "I can't let you go. Not anymore."

The silence between them stretched, thick with the scent of rain and expensive cologne. Julian’s gaze dropped to her lips. The "Contract" forbade this. Clause twelve was a death sentence.

But as the music swelled from the ballroom, Julian leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't the fake, polite kiss of the red carpet. It was desperate, territorial, and tasted of unspoken secrets.

He pulled away abruptly, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp terror. He had just broken his own first rule.