One Kiss Past Pretending

The teleprompter scrolled with talking points about sustainable Italian marble and the glass atrium I had spent two years designing for the new Hart Las Vegas.

I smiled for the four million viewers on the livestream, smoothing the skirt of my emerald silk gown.

Then my father, Victor Hart, stepped past his mark and took the microphone from the host.

"Tonight isn't just about celebrating our newest flagship," Victor announced to the ballroom, his voice booming through the sound system. "It's about family. And bringing together two legacies that were always meant to unite."

The stage lights shifted from gold to a sharp white spotlight.

Behind me, the main LED wall cut away from the architectural rendering. In its place appeared a montage of photographs—me at twenty-five, laughing on a yacht in Monaco, flanked by Grant Vale’s arm draped over my shoulders. Summer galas. Private dinners. Moments from a relationship that had ended four years ago when I found him in bed with a junior associate.

Grant walked out from the wings in a tailored black tuxedo.

The crowd erupted into applause. Grant didn't look at the audience; his eyes stayed locked on me as he crossed the stage, pulled a velvet box from his breast pocket, and sank onto one knee.

"Sienna," Grant said into his collar mic, his tone smooth and rehearsed. "I wasted years thinking we needed time apart. But standing in this room tonight, I know the truth. Maybe we were always supposed to find our way back."

The cameras zoomed in on my face, projecting my expression across fifty-foot screens.

I didn't cry. I didn't reach for the ring.

I looked past Grant's outstretched hand and turned directly to my father. "Did you know about this?"

Victor didn't flinch. His jaw remained set, his silence answering every question I had. This wasn't a romantic gesture; it was a hostile merger dressed up as a fairy tale for our shareholders.

I reached behind my neck, unclipped the transmitter pack, and dropped the microphone onto the glass table. The thud resonated through the ballroom speakers like a gunshot. Without another word, I turned and walked off the stage.

"Sienna!" Grant’s voice called out behind me, sharp and frantic, but I didn't slow down.

I pushed through the backstage security doors and took the private elevator straight down to the casino floor. The bass from the main floor hummed through the soles of my heels as I moved blindly through the velvet ropes, trying to put distance between myself and the broadcast.

I ended up at the entrance of the VIP lounge, where a crowd of high-rollers had gathered around an elevated runway.

A silver banner overhead read: *MIDNIGHT BACHELOR AUCTION FOR THE CHILDREN'S MEDICAL FOUNDATION.*

The spotlight hit the final man stepping onto the stage. He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that fit his broad frame with razor-sharp precision, and his upper face was concealed by a matte black Venetian half-mask. Even with the disguise, the line of his jaw and the hard, unyielding curve of his mouth commanded the room.

"Our final bachelor of the evening," the auctioneer announced, tapping the podium. "Lot number twelve. Twenty-eight years old, private investor, zero social media footprint. He prefers to let his portfolio speak for itself. Bidding opens at fifty thousand."

"Sienna, stop right there."

Grant caught up to me, his hand clamping down on my forearm. He was flushed, his bow tie slightly crooked.

"Everyone is watching the feed," Grant hissed, leaning close so only I could hear. "Victor is furious. Get back upstairs right now and finish what we started before you destroy the stock price."

I looked at Grant’s fingers on my arm, then glanced at the high-top table beside us where an unoccupied numbered paddle lay near an empty champagne flute.

I yanked my arm free from Grant's grip, picked up paddle number forty-four, and held it high above my head.

"Five hundred thousand dollars," I said, projecting my voice clearly over the murmuring crowd.

The entire lounge went dead silent.

The auctioneer blinked, his gavel hovering in midair. "Excuse me, miss? Did you say five hundred thousand?"

Grant stared at me in disbelief. "Have you lost your mind?"

I kept my gaze fixed on the masked man on the stage. He hadn't moved an inch, but his dark eyes locked onto mine from behind the mask.

"Five hundred thousand," I repeated to the auctioneer. "On one condition. I need a fiancé until breakfast."

A low rumble of whispers tore through the room. The auctioneer cleared his throat, sensing the viral potential, and slammed the mallet down. "Sold! To the lady in green for half a million dollars!"

The masked man stepped off the platform, walking straight toward me. Up close, he was taller than I realized, carrying a quiet, heavy authority that made the air feel thin.

The charity’s house photographer scrambled over with two cameras flashing. "Please, miss, stand close! We need a shot for the morning press release!"

The man stopped an inch away from me. "Where do you want my hand?" he asked. His voice was low, deep, and completely unbothered by the chaos around us.

I looked over his shoulder at Grant, whose face had turned a mottled shade of red.

"Lower," I told the stranger.

I reached behind me, grabbed his right hand, and pressed his palm flat against the curve of my hip. With my other hand, I caught the knot of his silk tie, yanked him down, and crushed my mouth against his.

It was supposed to be a three-second stunt for the cameras—a quick, ruthless humiliation to punish Grant for the stage ambush.

I went to pull back after a single beat.

The stranger didn't let me.

His fingers tightened around my hip, his grip shifting to the small of my back as he pulled me hard against his chest. He parted my lips with an assertive, seamless pressure, deepening the kiss until the roar of the casino faded into background noise. Heat flared along the back of my neck.

When he finally released me, my chest rose and fell rapidly, my balance entirely thrown off.

He looked down at me, the mask hiding his brow, but his mouth curved into a faint line. "Was that for him?"

I swallowed, forcing my posture to straighten. "Mostly."

"That's disappointing," he murmured.

Before Grant could lunge forward, flashbulbs erupted in a blinding wall of white light. A dozen entertainment reporters pushed past the velvet partition, shouting questions over one another.

"Come on," the masked man said, taking my wrist.

He steered me through a service door hidden behind a mirrored pillar, leading me into a back corridor reserved for hotel staff. We stepped into the service elevator, and he hit the button for the Penthouse.

The doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the press.

Halfway up the tower, the elevator shuddered. The mechanical gears groaned, and the car dropped an inch before grinding to a sudden, violent stop.

The momentum threw me forward, and I slammed directly into his chest.

"I've got you," he said, catching my shoulders.

"My dress," I said through clenched teeth.

The metallic crystal clasp on the side of my gown had hooked directly into the heavy steel buckle of his leather belt. We were pinned together from hip to chest, unable to separate without tearing the silk.

"Don't pull," he ordered quietly. "You'll rip the fabric."

"Then unhook it."

He looked down, his knuckles brushing against my stomach as he worked the snagged loop free from the buckle prong. His breath was warm against the bare skin of my collarbone, and every time the car swayed, his thighs pressed against mine.

With a soft click, the metal released.

At the exact same moment, the elevator power surged back on, and the doors slid open to the private foyer of the Penthouse.

I stepped out quickly, but the sudden movement caused the strained zipper along my spine to split halfway down. "Damn it."

"Hold still," he said, stepping up behind me in the open-concept penthouse living room.

His fingers found the broken zipper tab at my mid-back. Instead of fixing it, he eased the track down the rest of the way, letting the cool penthouse air hit my bare skin.

I turned around to face him. He had already taken off his half-mask, tossing it onto the nearest console table. He had sharp, striking features, dark hair, and cold gray eyes that studied me without blinking.

"You're not wearing this for the rest of the night," he said.

"That wasn't part of the five hundred thousand," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended.

"The auction was for your fiancé," he said, closing the distance between us until my back hit the edge of the marble kitchen island. "A fiancé doesn't leave you in a broken dress."

He caught my face in both hands and kissed me again.

There was no audience this time. No cameras, no Grant, no father watching from a broadcast monitor. The kiss was rough, demanding, and completely unhinged. I gripped the lapels of his suit jacket as he lifted me effortlessly by the waist, setting me directly onto the cold marble counter.

His hands slid up my bare thighs, pushing the emerald silk out of the way, his mouth moving down the line of my throat.

*Chime.*

The electronic doorbell at the double entrance chimed through the suite.

We both paused, but neither of us moved until a woman’s voice carried clearly through the intercom speaker by the foyer.

"Theo? Open the door. It's Chloe. I know you're in there."

The man went completely rigid above me. The heat in his gray eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.