The backroom of Kittie's shop smelled like roasted espresso beans and damp rose petals.
Kittie stood by the stainless-steel prep counter, her hands shaking as she pulled out a blank notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen. She felt like she was preparing for an execution.
Connor ignored her paper. He unzipped a sleek black leather messenger bag and pulled out a thin laptop. He set it on the counter, his fingers flying across the keyboard with terrifying speed.
Ten minutes later, a portable wireless printer he had brought with him whirred to life. It spit out three pages of dense, legal-sized text.
Kittie stared at the papers. Her stomach did a nervous flip.
Connor slid the documents across the metal counter.
"Read it," he commanded softly.
Kittie looked down. The legal jargon blurred together.
"Term of two years," Connor summarized, his voice steady. "Strict separation of assets. Absolute confidentiality regarding the nature of this arrangement. In public, we act like a married couple. Holding hands, attending events."
Kittie bit her bottom lip. It sounded clinical. Safe.
She scanned down to the middle of the second page.
"Mutual non-interference in private lives," Kittie read out loud. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Okay. That is good."
Connor picked up a silver fountain pen.
"Review the penalty clause on the last page," he instructed.
Kittie flipped the page. Her eyes widened.
"Five million dollars?" she choked out, her throat closing up. "If one of us breaks the contract?"
Connor met her panicked gaze with absolute calm. "This number is purely a deterrent," he explained, his voice low and reassuring. "It is designed to keep external threats-like the media or your family's relentless meddling-at bay. I give you my word, as long as you do not actively sabotage our public image, this clause will never be weaponized against you. It protects both of our reputations from a messy public fallout."
While Kittie stared at the massive number, her breathing slowly returning to normal as his explanation settled over her, Connor reached into his messenger bag. "I need to print a duplicate for my own records," he said smoothly. He turned his broad back to her for exactly three seconds to retrieve a second sheet from the portable printer. In that microscopic window of time, shielded entirely from her view, he dragged the tip of his silver pen across the middle of page two. A thick, black line struck right through the words Mutual non-interference in private lives. He scribbled his initials—C.P.— next to the deletion in a fraction of a second. He turned back around, his face a mask of perfect indifference, and set the papers back down on the metal counter.
"Sign," he instructed quietly.
Kittie picked up the cheap ballpoint. Her fingers were numb. The metal counter felt like ice against her skin. She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her name. The scratch of the ink sounded deafening in the quiet room.
Connor pulled the papers toward him. He stared at her signature. A slow, dark satisfaction settled deep in his chest.
He carefully folded the contract and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
"So," Kittie said, rubbing her sweaty palms against her jeans. "When do we tell our families? Next week?"
Connor checked his watch.
"I will pick you up at two o'clock today," Connor said. "We are going to City Hall."
Kittie's jaw dropped. Her lungs seized.
"Today?" she gasped. "That is in two hours!"
"Rip the bandage off," Connor said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Be ready."
He turned and walked toward the back door. He paused with his hand on the knob, looking back at her over his shoulder.
"Thank you, Kittie," he said. His voice was thick with an emotion she could not decipher.
The door clicked shut. Kittie collapsed against the metal counter, her legs giving out. She stared at the empty space where he had stood, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
