HIS PRICE, HER PASSION

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GHOST OF FRIENDSHIP PAST

Three days into cohabitation, the penthouse felt less like an office and more like a volatile, beautiful prison. The official "separate quarters" rule was a farce. Anya slept in the guest suite, but she rarely woke up there.

Their days were strictly professional: Anya planned the gala, and Leo worked on the project pitch. But the nights were a series of devastating truces, often beginning the moment they closed the door to the master suite. Their unspoken contract now permitted—even demanded—passionate, animalistic release, provided they didn't speak of feelings afterward.

Anya walked into the kitchen wearing one of Leo’s oversized white button-down shirts, her only concession to domestic comfort. Leo was on a video call, arguing vehemently about foundation supports.

He glanced up, his intense gaze sweeping her body—the bare legs, the collar of his shirt falling off one shoulder. The look was hungry, possessive, and entirely non-verbal. It was a communication they understood instantly.

He claims he doesn't want feelings, but that look... that is claiming. It’s a possessiveness I recognize from our past, and it terrifies me.

He ended the call abruptly. "We have a problem," he said, walking toward her, his tone shifting from CEO to fiancé. "We're due at The Blue Dahlia tonight. Romantic date night. Photos are mandatory for social media."

"Another performance," Anya sighed, reaching for the coffee pot.

"More than that. My mother asked us to send her a picture. We need to look convincing for the people who matter most." He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "And Anya, try to enjoy it. It used to be our favorite place."

The mention of their shared history at that restaurant was a deliberate, subtle violation of the "No Emotional Talk" rule.

The Blue Dahlia was exactly as Anya remembered—soft lighting, quiet jazz, and booths designed for intense, private conversations. They were seated at their old table. The familiarity of it was a cruel joke.

Leo immediately slipped into the role of the attentive, adoring partner. He held her hand across the table, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate patterns on her wrist. He kept the conversation light, recounting funny memories from their college days—all carefully selected details to build their public narrative.

Anya played her part, leaning into his touch, laughing easily. Yet, the closeness felt suffocating.

Then, she saw her. Chloe, her former best friend and maid-of-honor, sitting three tables away with a date. Chloe was the last person Anya had spoken to before Leo walked out. She was the one who had helped Anya pack up the wedding invitations and process the insurance claims.

Chloe spotted them. Her face, initially excited, quickly hardened into a mask of cold hostility. She walked over, stopping by their table.

"Anya," Chloe said, her voice dripping with disbelief. She ignored Leo completely. "It's been a long time. I heard about the engagement. I assumed it was a very cruel rumor."

Anya maintained her composure, forcing a bright smile. "Chloe! It's so good to see you. Yes, we're so happy." She squeezed Leo's hand for emphasis, a genuine warmth radiating from the contact.

Chloe turned her gaze to Leo, icy and judgmental. "Leo. I thought you had the decency to stay away from her."

Leo didn't flinch. He tightened his hold on Anya's hand and leaned closer to her, lowering his voice just enough to make Chloe strain to hear. "Chloe, Anya is my fiancée. Her happiness is my only priority. We're grateful for your concern, but we've moved past the ugliness. We're focused on our future."

He then looked pointedly at the waitress who had just arrived. "Could you take a picture of us, please? My mother insisted."

Leo shifted their bodies into a perfect, intimate tableau. He slipped his arm around Anya’s shoulders, pulling her against his side. As the waitress held up the phone, Leo’s eyes were only for Anya.

To sell the intimacy, he didn't kiss her mouth. Instead, he dipped his head and pressed a long, deep kiss to the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder.

The warmth of his lips lingered. His hand tightened on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. The gesture was meant for the camera, for Chloe, for his mother—it was pure, possessive ownership. But the feeling of his mouth on her skin was electric, a searing private pleasure meant only for her.

The flash went off, capturing the perfect moment of devotion.

Chloe, witnessing the intense, undeniable physical bond, looked devastated. She simply whispered, "I hope you know what you’re doing, Anya," and walked away.

Anya watched her go, a sharp pang of guilt twisting in her gut. She had just publicly lied to her last remaining friend. She turned to Leo, the perfect smile vanishing.

"That wasn't necessary," she hissed, pulling away from his embrace.

"It absolutely was," Leo countered, his voice low and serious. He picked up his wine glass. "She was trying to break us. We needed to show her, and everyone else who ever doubted us, that this isn't fragile. That it's real."

He raised his glass to her. "To the truth that we keep private."

Anya watched him, the guilt fighting with the confusing, desperate pleasure his public touch had ignited. She picked up her own glass and clinked it against his. The secret, volatile truth was that the fake relationship was quickly becoming the only place she felt intensely alive.