Contract Kisses Only

Chapter 10:Old Money Era

Evie’s POV

​Sunshine.

​He had actually just called me sunshine.

​I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact name—which I had meticulously saved under the highly professional title of Client: Leo Vane (Project Holiday). A tiny, involuntary sound escaped the back of my throat, a mix of a scoff and a breathless laugh, and I suddenly caught sight of my reflection in the dark glass of my laptop screen.

​I was smiling. Not my practiced, polite, corporate-networking smile, and not the sharp, teasing smirk I used when I was negotiating rates at The Ivory Room. It was a completely soft, unguarded, incredibly stupid grin that made my cheeks look pink.

​"Oh, absolutely not," I muttered aloud to the empty apartment, aggressively bringing my hand up to wipe the expression off my face. I rubbed my cheeks until they tingled, forcing my features back into a stern, unbothered expression. "Get it together, Evie. Literally drag yourself back to reality right now. You do not have time for fantasies, and you certainly do not have time to swoon over a nickname from a boy who probably calls his hair stylist 'sunshine' too."

​The reality of my life was waiting for me on my desk, bound in a heavy, intimidating spiral notebook. Today was the day. My final, ultimate Advanced Accounting paper was scheduled for two o'clock this afternoon, and it was the only thing standing between me and the end of the semester. I needed to see if the endless, grueling late nights, the triple-shot espressos, and the hours spent squinting at balance sheets until my eyes blurred were finally going to pay off. If I pulled an A on this paper, my GPA would remain entirely untouched, and I would enter next semester on a flawless streak.

​But before I could subject my brain to three hours of intense financial auditing formulas, I needed fuel. And more importantly, I needed a reward.

​"First," I said, standing up and stretching my arms above my head, "we secure the sugar."

​I threw my heavy study materials into my tote bag, pulled on a simple oversized hoodie, and headed out into the biting Salt City air. My destination was twofold. First, I needed to hit my absolute favorite local coffee cart right outside the university gates—the guy there knew exactly how many extra shots of vanilla syrup I needed to survive a Thursday. Second, I was finally going to try out The Sugar Lab, the brand-new, incredibly upscale gourmet doughnut boutique that literally everyone on campus had been obsessing over for the last month.

​The campus rumors claimed they imported their vanilla beans from Madagascar and changed their entire flavor menu every single week based on "seasonal vibes." Usually, I would never dream of spending nine dollars on a single pastry; my budget was a finely tuned machine where every penny had a destination, and luxury carbohydrates didn't make the cut. But today? After weeks of stress, a grueling modeling schedule, and surviving a high-voltage make-out session on my yellow couch with a literal prince of the city?

​I deserved a doughnut. In fact, I deserved two.

​I hurried down the sidewalk, the cold wind whipping against my cheeks, feeling a rare bubble of excitement in my chest. I rushed through the doors of The Sugar Lab, greeted instantly by the rich, buttery scent of frying dough and glaze. The display case looked like an art gallery. I didn't even look at the prices. I ordered a white-chocolate lavender brioche doughnut and a classic dark-chocolate sea salt twist, grabbed my standard vanilla iced latte from the cart next door, and practically floated toward the university library.

​For the next few hours, I was completely in the zone. I ate my pastries, drank my espresso, and smashed through the final review of my study guide. By the time I walked into the examination hall and turned over the final test paper, my mind was a steel trap. The questions felt like a breeze. Every line, every debit, and every credit balanced perfectly in my mind. When I finally handed the paper to the professor and walked out of the building, a massive weight lifted off my shoulders.

​I was officially done for the semester.

​"Step one: conquer the academic world," I whispered, stepping out onto the library steps. "Step two: prepare for the performance of a lifetime."

​I pulled out my phone as I walked toward the subway, instantly scrolling through my specialized "Self-Care Protocol" bookmark folder. If I was going to survive fourteen days trapped in a luxury mountain fortress with the ultra-wealthy, ultra-judgmental Vane and Sterling families, I needed to look like I belonged there. I couldn't walk into a billionaire's estate looking like a stressed-out, overworked college student. I needed the full luxury treatment.

​I booked myself a massive, comprehensive afternoon at The Velvet Room Spa—an elite spot downtown that I’d been tracking for months but could never afford. Today, budget was no longer an issue. I booked a deep-cleansing oxygen facial to scrub away the stress of finals, a full hair-mask treatment to give my dark strands that blinding, glossy runway shine, and a flawless gel manicure and pedicure in a rich, sophisticated shade of emerald green to match the holiday theme.

​Then, my thumb hovered over the waxing menu. I had never actually gotten a professional wax before. Shaving had always been the cheaper, easier option for my modeling gigs. But looking at the timeline of the next two weeks—trapped in a house with Leo, potentially sharing spaces, hot tubs, and who knew what else—I decided to go all out.

​"Let's add the Brazilian wax," I muttered, biting my lip as I clicked the confirm button on the screen. A sudden wave of nervousness hit my stomach. I’d heard the horror stories from the other girls at the modeling agency about how much it stung, but a professional pretender had to be prepared for every single scenario. If I was paying for precision, I wanted perfection.

​As the subway train rumbled along the tracks, I leaned my head against the window, letting the rhythmic motion soothe me while I did a little online window shopping. My eyes caught a digital advertisement for a high-end boutique downtown.

​A particular pair of knee-high, cream-colored leather boots caught my eye. They had a sleek, pointed toe and a stunning, thick wooden heel that screamed quiet luxury. Right next to them on the display model was a long, tailored trench coat in a rich chestnut wool, featuring a beautiful silk-lined interior and a dramatic, elegant tie waist. The entire outfit was giving absolute "Old Money Heiress on her way to a private jet" vibes.

​It was stunning. It was perfect. And for the first time in my entire life, I didn't have to look at the price tag and immediately swipe away with a sigh of regret.

​I clicked on my size, filled out my shipping information for an urgent same-day courier delivery to my apartment, and authorized the payment. Watching the confirmation screen flash green felt completely intoxicating. I could actually afford a beautiful, high-quality coat for once in my life. I wouldn't have to shiver in my thin, frayed jacket on the way up to the mountains.

​I stared at the digital receipt, a genuine, soft chuckle escaping my lips as I locked my phone and tucked it into my bag.

​"Thanks, boss man," I murmured, the image of Leo’s flushed, panicked face from the night before popping unbidden into my head.

​He was ridiculous, chronically unserious, and clearly terrified of his own shadow when things got too real. But as the subway carried me toward an afternoon of facials, green nails, and a very intimidating waxing appointment, I couldn't deny the truth.

​Leo Vane’s desperation was funding my ultimate freedom. And tomorrow, when his sleek sports car pulled up to my curb, I was going to step into his world looking like the best investment he had ever made.