Contract Kisses Only

Chapter 1:The Prodigal Prankster

Leo

​The flash of an iPhone 17 Pro Max was the only sun Leo Vane needed to survive.

​"Alright, Sterling-Vane stans, look at this view," Leo whispered into his gimbal-mounted phone, panning the camera across the dizzying skyline of Salt City. From the 84th-floor balcony of his penthouse, the city looked like a circuit board of gold and neon. "Four years ago, this was where Julian and Sienna had their big merger-s***h-wedding-of-the-century. Today? It’s just the backdrop for my morning espresso. And by espresso, I mean this 18-karat gold-flecked latte that cost more than your rent. Stay humble, besties."

​He flashed a smile that he’d practiced in the mirror for exactly forty-two minutes—the perfect balance of "I woke up like this" and "I could buy your entire bloodline."

​Leo hit ‘Stop,’ uploaded the clip to VibeCheck with the caption Living my best Vane life #TrustFundEnergy #SaltCityKing, and waited. Within thirty seconds, the likes started rolling in.

​@LeoFan88: OMG marry me Leo!!

@CityGossip: Is he ever going to get a job? lol

@VaneLegacyWatcher: Julian is closing a billion-dollar tech deal in London and Leo is… filming coffee. Figures.

​Leo’s thumb hovered over the last comment. His jaw tightened, the practiced "influencer smize" flickering for a fraction of a second. He quickly swiped it away. Comparisons to Julian were like Salt City smog—unavoidable, toxic, and suffocating.

​Julian Vane was the Golden Child. The CEO. The man who had turned a "merger marriage" with Sienna Sterling into a genuine power-couple dynasty. And Leo? Leo was the cousin who had spent the entire wedding four years ago live-streaming the ceremony from the bushes and accidentally knocking over the five-tier cake while trying to get a high-angle shot of the kiss.

​He wasn't "Vane enough." He was the "Vane Lite." The "Vane-ish."

​The chime of his floor-to-ceiling glass doors sliding open interrupted his brooding. His mother, Beatrice Vane, stepped onto the balcony, looking like she’d been carved out of a single, very expensive block of ice. Behind her, his father, Alistair, checked his watch with a look of profound disappointment that had been curated over twenty-five years.

​"Leo," Beatrice said, her voice a sharp contrast to the soft morning breeze. "The balcony? Again? I thought I smelled vanity."

​Leo spun around, sliding his phone into his silk robe pocket. "Mom! Dad! To what do I owe the surprise visit? Did the elevator in your wing break, or are you just here to admire my new highlights? They’re called ‘Sovereign Gold.’"

​Alistair didn't smile. He never did. "We’ve seen the VibeCheck videos, Leopold."

​Leo winced. Only his father used his full name. It sounded like a Victorian death sentence. "They’re called reels, Dad. And they’re high engagement. I’m building a brand."

​"Your 'brand' is an embarrassment to the family name," Alistair snapped, stepping forward. "While Julian is expanding our real estate holdings into the European market, you are filming yourself drinking edible glitter. You are twenty-five years old. You have no career, no assets that aren't tied to our generosity, and a reputation that makes the Sterling-Vane merger look like a fluke rather than a legacy."

​Leo felt that familiar, cold knot in his chest—the one he usually buried under a layer of jokes and tequila. He leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. "Hey, I bring the personality to this family. Julian is a robot in a bespoke suit. If I wasn't around to be the 'useless one,' who would you guys have to complain about at dinner?"

​"That’s exactly the point," Beatrice said, her eyes softening just a fraction, though her tone remained steel. "We’re done complaining. Your father and I have discussed it. The trust fund is being frozen, Leo. Effective January 1st."

​Leo’s heart did a slow, agonizing somersault. "Frozen? Like… Elsa frozen? You’re joking. That’s a prank. Is there a camera? Are we doing a 'Pranking My Influencer Son' video?"

​"This is not content for your followers," Alistair said. "This is your life. We are heading to the family estate in the mountains for the two-week Christmas celebration and the annual Vane-Sterling Winter Gala. If you show up there as the same aimless, single, attention-seeking boy you’ve been for the last four years, the penthouse is gone. The cars are gone. The 'Sovereign Gold' highlights will have to be maintained on a barista's salary."

​Leo felt the blood drain from his face. "You’re cutting me off? Over Christmas? That’s literally the plot of a depressing indie movie."

​"We want to see growth," Beatrice added. "A job. A project. Or at the very least, a stable, respectable relationship. Someone who isn't a 'VibeCheck' model looking for a tag. Someone who shows us you’re capable of thinking about someone other than yourself."

​"A relationship?" Leo scoffed, though panic was starting to set in. "In two weeks? This isn't The Bachelor, Mom! I can’t just hand out a rose and call it a day."

​"Then I suggest you start looking," Alistair said, turning to leave. "Two weeks, Leo. If you walk into that mountain house on December 20th alone and without a single shred of responsibility to your name, consider yourself a private citizen. No Vane credit, no Vane penthouse."

​They left as quickly as they’d arrived, the scent of expensive perfume and disappointment lingering in the air.

​Leo stood frozen on the balcony. The city below suddenly looked very large and very, very expensive. He reached for his phone—his tether to the world. He needed a win. He needed a distraction.

​He opened his DMs. It was a wasteland of "Hey handsome" and "Check out my brand!" He scrolled frantically. He needed a girl. Not just any girl—a respectable girl. A girl his parents wouldn't immediately suspect was there for the clout.

​"Okay, okay," Leo muttered to himself, pacing the marble floors of his living room. "Think, Leo. You’re a Vane. You’re funny. You’re... moderately athletic if there's a camera around. You can find a fake girlfriend. It’s a classic trope! People love this stuff!"

​He looked at his reflection in the giant gilded mirror by the door. His hair was perfect. His skin was glowing. But for the first time in his life, the "Pretty Boy" armor felt paper-thin. Underneath the jokes and the luxury, he knew what people said. He knew he was the "spare" Vane. The one who didn't measure up to Julian’s shadow.

​The thought of losing the penthouse was terrifying, but the thought of Julian seeing him fail—of his cousin looking down at him with that quiet, pitying "Oh, Leo" expression—was worse.

​He grabbed his leather jacket and his keys. He couldn't stay in the penthouse; the walls felt like they were closing in. He needed a drink, he needed a plan, and he needed to find someone who could tolerate him for fourteen days without wanting to kill him or film him.

​As he walked toward the elevator, his phone buzzed. A new comment on his latest video.

​@Realist_99: You look lonely in that big house, Leo. Money can’t buy a personality.

​"Watch me," Leo hissed, hitting the 'Down' button.

​He had fourteen days to turn his life into a rom-com script, or he was going to be the first Vane in history to learn how to use a microwave in a studio apartment.

​The elevator doors opened, and Leo stepped inside, catching his reflection one last time. He adjusted his collar, threw on his designer sunglasses, and forced a smirk.

​"Don't worry, Salt City," he whispered to the empty elevator. "The show is just getting started."

​The bar was called The Gilded Cage, a dark, moody spot in the basement of a nearby Sterling-owned hotel. It was the kind of place where people went to hide from the paparazzi, or in Leo’s case, to hide from his own thoughts.

​He sat at the corner of the mahogany bar, nursing a drink that was far too strong for 11:00 AM.

​"Tough morning, Mr. Vane?" the bartender, a guy Leo had tipped enough over the years to buy a small boat, asked.

​"My parents are trying to cancel me, Marcus," Leo sighed, staring at his phone. "Not 'Internet' cancelled. 'Real life' cancelled. They want me to be... responsible." He said the word like it was a contagious disease.

​"The horror," Marcus deadpanned.

​"I need a girl," Leo said, turning his stool. "A specific kind of girl. Someone smart, someone who looks like she reads books for fun, and someone who won't try to steal my skincare products."

​"You're looking for a unicorn in a Salt City nightclub, Leo," a voice came from the stool next to him.

​Leo turned. It was a girl he vaguely recognized—one of the researchers for the Sterling-Vane legal team, maybe? She was wearing glasses, a messy bun, and a sweater that definitely didn't cost four figures. She was currently glaring at a laptop screen, a half-eaten croissant on a napkin beside her.

​Leo squinted. "Wait... do I know you? You were at the merger gala, weren't you? You spilled a drink on Julian’s shoes."

​The girl looked up, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses. "I didn't 'spill' it. He stepped into my path while I was trying to deliver a 400-page contract. And for the record, my name is Margot. Not 'that girl who spilled a drink.'"

​Leo’s eyes lit up. Margot. Smart. Professional. Unimpressed by the Vane name.

​The Professional Pretender

​The air in The Gilded Cage felt heavy with the scent of expensive bourbon and my own impending doom. Margot, a girl who clearly tolerated my existence only because we shared a mutual disdain for my cousin Julian’s ego, didn't look at me with pity. She looked at me like a math problem she was tired of solving.

​"Leo, you don't need a 'respectable' girl," Margot said, snapping her laptop shut. "You need a professional. Someone who can handle your parents without breaking character, and someone who knows exactly how to navigate a contract. Because let’s face it, if you pick some random influencer, she’ll be live-streaming your inheritance battle before the appetizers are served."

​"A professional?" I leaned back, trying to regain my usual 'Trust Fund King' posture. "What, like an actress? I don’t think Hollywood’s best are hanging out in Salt City waiting for a Vane to go bankrupt."

​Margot slid a business card across the polished mahogany. It wasn't gold-flecked. It wasn't embossed. It was plain, heavy white cardstock with a single phone number and a name that sounded far too elegant for a basement bar.

​EVIE.

Curated Companionship & Social Strategy.

​"She’s in my Advanced Accounting seminar," Margot whispered. "She’s a genius, she’s gorgeous, and she’s currently putting herself through her final year of university by pretending to be the 'one who got away' for guys exactly like you."

​"A hire-a-girlfriend?" I picked up the card, a slow smirk spreading across my face. "That’s... actually brilliant. It’s like Uber, but for my dignity."

​"It’s a business, Leo. She has rules. Contracts. A strictly 'no-refunds, no-nonsense' policy. She’s not doing this because she likes you; she’s doing it because her scholarship got cut and she needs to pay her tuition. If you mess this up, she’ll sue you into the next century."

​I tucked the card into my silk robe pocket, the weight of it feeling like a lifeline. "Rules? Contracts? Professionalism? Margot, you just described my parents' love language. Give me her info. I have a mountain house to haunt and a trust fund to save."

​