UNTAMED CONTRACT

CHAPTER SIX: THE TERRACE PHOTOSHOOT

Morning in the penthouse felt entirely different than night.

When sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the East Wing, it illuminated the sharp, blinding luxury of Julian Vance’s world. There were no dark shadows to hide in today, no dim ambient lights to soften the edges. Everything was crisp, pristine, and unforgiving.

I stood in front of the vanity mirror, smoothing down the waist of a cream-colored cashmere sweater that had been left in my walk-in closet—courtesy of Julian’s wardrobe team—paired with tailored white trousers. It looked casually rich, the exact aesthetic of a billionaire’s fiancé waking up in his TriBeCa penthouse.

My skin still felt warm whenever I recalled last night.

“Go back to bed, Maya. Before I forget Rule Three.”

His low, gravelly voice had echoed in my mind all night, keeping me awake long past three in the morning. He had looked so dangerously human without his suit—bare-chested, damp hair, and a vulnerability he usually kept locked behind a vault.

A crisp knock at my bedroom door snapped me back to reality.

"Maya? They're ready for you on the main terrace," a young female assistant with a clipboard said, peeking her head in. "Mr. Vance is already outside with the director."

"Thank you. I'll be right out," I said, taking a deep breath and checking my reflection one last time. Professional face on. Rule One: Absolute public devotion.

When I stepped out onto the sprawling outdoor terrace, the scene looked like a full-scale movie set. A crew of eight people—photographers, lighting technicians, stylists, and a director—were bustling around a sleek marble breakfast table set with fresh croissants, berries, and porcelain coffee cups overlooking the Hudson River.

And standing near the glass railing, talking to the lead photographer, was Julian.

He looked infuriatingly put-together. Dressed in a dark navy knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and tailored grey trousers, he looked relaxed, powerful, and ridiculously handsome in the morning light.

As if sensing my presence, Julian turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine, sweeping over my cream sweater before settling on my face. For a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped to my lips—a silent reminder of our late-night encounter—before his cool composure took over.

"There she is," Julian said smoothly, stepping toward me and closing the distance between us.

Before I could say a word, he reached out, sliding his hand around my waist and pulling me flush against his side. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. The scent of dark cedar, mint, and fresh espresso hit my senses instantly.

"Good morning, darling," he murmured near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a baby, sweetheart," I replied, flashing a brilliant smile for the crew while digging my fingers slightly into the fabric of his sweater at his hip. "Though someone kept me up quite late."

Julian’s eyes flashed with dark amusement, a quiet chuckle rumbling deep in his chest.

"Alright, people! Let's get these shots while the lighting is perfect!" the director shouted, waving her hands. "We want natural, candid domestic bliss! Mr. Vance, Ms. Lin, please take a seat at the table."

We sat side-by-side at the marble table. The camera shutters began clicking immediately—a fast, rhythmic sound that reminded me we were on stage.

"Okay, love it!" the photographer called out, adjusting his lens. "Now, give me some interaction. Maya, pour him a cup of coffee. Julian, wrap your arm around her chair. Look at her like she’s the only thing in the room."

I picked up the heavy silver coffee pot, carefully pouring dark roast into Julian's cup. My hand was steady, but when Julian shifted closer, resting his heavy arm along the back of my chair, his fingers lightly brushed against the nape of my neck, sending an electric shock straight down my spine.

"Relax," Julian murmured under his breath, his voice too low for the microphones to catch. "You're stiff."

"I have eight camera lenses pointed at my face while sitting next to a man who threatened to break his own rules eight hours ago," I whispered back through a frozen smile. "Forgive me if I'm a little tense."

Julian's hand slid down from my chair, resting firmly on my waist. He pulled me an inch closer, leaning in until his jaw was almost touching mine.

"Then lean into me," he commanded softly, his tone smooth and commanding. "Make them believe it, Maya."

I took a sharp breath, making a split-second decision. If we were going to play this game, I wasn't going to let him dictate every move.

I turned my head toward him, sliding my hand up his arm to rest gently against his neck. My fingers drifted into the soft, dark hair at the base of his head. I looked straight into his dark eyes, tilting my mouth up until we were bare millimeters apart.

"Is this close enough for you, Julian?" I breathed softly.

The camera shutters went frantic.

"Yes! Perfect! Don't move!" the photographer cheered.

Julian froze. His pupils dilated instantly, his gaze dropping to my lips. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I saw Julian Vance lose control of his breath. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, uneven rhythm, and the grip on my waist tightened—not for the cameras, but out of pure, instinctual reaction.

For five long seconds, the rest of the world vanished. The crew, the cameras, the city noise—all of it faded into the background. There was only the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, and the overwhelming, terrifying pull dragging us both under.

He wasn't acting. And neither was I.

"Got it! That was magic!" the director's voice boomed, shattering the spell.

Julian blinked, taking a slow step back and releasing his grip on my waist. The cold morning air rushed into the space between us, making me shiver. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his dark hair, his knuckles tight.

"Great work, everyone," Julian said, his voice clipped and stiffer than usual. "Wrap it up."

Before the crew could even begin packing down their equipment, the heavy glass doors to the terrace slid open.

Thomas stepped out, holding a glowing tablet in his hand. His face was unusually pale, his posture rigid.

"Mr. Vance," Thomas said, his tone urgent. "You need to see this immediately."

Julian turned, his sharp brow furrowing. "What is it, Thomas?"

"It's from the corporate office," Thomas replied, handing the tablet over. "Your uncle Richard just called an emergency board meeting for two o'clock today. And he’s brought in a third-party auditor to investigate the recent ten-million-dollar wire transfer from your private account."

My blood ran completely cold. The ten million dollars. The money Julian had used to clear my father's debt.

I looked up at Julian. His face had turned into an impenetrable wall of ice, all traces of the soft, heated moment on the terrace wiped clean in a single second.

"They think you embezzled it," I whispered, panic rising in my throat.

Julian looked down at the screen, his jaw set so tight the muscle twitched.

"They think I bought you," Julian corrected, his dark eyes snapping up to meet mine, cold and lethal. "And Richard is going to use it to freeze my assets and strip my chairman title before the sun sets."