The Contract That Bound Us

Chapter 3: The Performance

Chapter 3: The Performance

I barely slept.

When the soft knock came at 6:45 a.m., I was already awake, staring at the ceiling and replaying every cold word Adrian had spoken the night before. The door opened a few inches and a polite female voice said, “Miss Rivera, breakfast is ready if you’d like.”

I sat up. “Thank you. I’ll be out soon.”

The housekeeper—Maria—was gone before I could ask anything else.

I showered quickly, pulled on the soft gray loungewear that had been left in the closet, and stepped into the hallway. The penthouse looked even larger in the morning light. Sunlight poured through the glass walls, making everything gleam.

Adrian was already at the dining table, dressed in a sharp black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A cup of black coffee sat untouched in front of him while he scrolled through his phone. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat across from him. A plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit waited for me. I hadn’t asked for any of it.

“The dinner tonight is important,” Adrian began without preamble. “Two senior board members and their wives. They’ve been questioning my personal life for months. Your job is simple: smile, answer lightly if spoken to, and act like a woman who is happily engaged to me.”

“Act,” I repeated.

His eyes lifted. “Yes. Act. Can you manage that?”

I met his gaze. “I’ve been acting polite to people who looked down on me for years. I think I’ll survive one dinner.”

Something flickered across his face—almost approval—before it disappeared. “Good. My driver will take you to the salon at two. Hair, makeup, nails. Everything. The black dress is already pressed. Be ready by five-thirty.”

He stood, buttoning his cuffs. “I’ll be in meetings until then. Don’t leave the penthouse without telling Maria.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The day passed in a blur of strangers touching my hair and face. By the time I returned to the penthouse, I barely recognized myself. Soft waves fell around my shoulders. My makeup was elegant, expensive. The black dress fit like it had been made for me—simple, sleeveless, and far more revealing than anything I usually wore.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest room, heart beating too fast.

The door opened behind me without a knock.

Adrian stepped in, already wearing a dark suit. He stopped when he saw me. His eyes moved slowly from my face down to the dress and back up again. For a second, the cold mask slipped. Heat flashed in his gaze before he locked it away.

“Acceptable,” he said quietly.

“That’s all I get? Acceptable?”

He walked closer until he stood right behind me. In the mirror, we looked like a real couple—tall, dark, and polished. His hand rose, hesitated, then settled lightly on my waist.

“In public,” he murmured near my ear, “I will touch you. I will look at you like I want you. You will look at me the same way. Do you understand?”

My pulse jumped. “Yes.”

“Good.” His fingers pressed slightly against the fabric of the dress. “Because tonight, every person in that restaurant will be watching us.”

The restaurant was the kind of place where the menus had no prices and the waiters spoke in low, respectful tones. The moment we walked in, heads turned. Adrian’s hand rested firmly at the small of my back, guiding me forward like he had done it a thousand times.

The board members stood when we approached the table—two older men with sharp eyes and wives who smiled too politely.

“Adrian,” one of them said, shaking his hand. “And this must be the mysterious fiancée we’ve been hearing about.”

“Elena,” Adrian introduced smoothly. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me closer. “Elena, this is Mr. Harlan and Mr. Croft.”

I smiled the way I had practiced in the mirror. Warm. Soft. Convincing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Throughout dinner, Adrian played his part perfectly. He refilled my wine glass. He brushed a strand of hair from my face. Once, when I laughed at something Mr. Harlan said, Adrian’s hand found mine on the table and laced our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Every touch sent a current through me.

Every time I looked at him, he was already looking back—dark eyes soft in a way I knew was fake, yet still powerful enough to make my stomach twist.

By the time dessert arrived, I was exhausted from performing.

In the car on the way home, the moment the partition closed between us and the driver, Adrian released my hand and moved to the opposite side of the seat. The warmth disappeared instantly.

“You did well,” he said, staring out the window.

“Thank you,” I answered quietly.

Silence stretched between us for several blocks.

Then he spoke again, voice lower. “They believed it.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s necessary.” He finally turned his head to look at me. The city lights slid across his face. “But don’t start confusing the performance with reality, Elena. Tonight was business. Nothing more.”

I held his gaze and forced a small smile. “I know exactly what tonight was.”

The lie sat heavy on my tongue.

Because the truth was becoming harder to ignore:

Every time he touched me in public, it felt less like acting…

and more like something I was starting to want when the cameras turned off.