Elena met his gaze.
I am not an actress, Mr.
Kong.
But I am a woman who is tired of being looked through.
If I do this, I don’t just want money.
I want a seat at the table.
The following morning, the atmosphere in the Kong estate had shifted from domestic quiet to military precision.
De Hyan sat across from Elena in the formal dining room, a slim black folder between them.
The terms are simple, Deian began, sliding a document across the table.
You will attend the wedding as Elena Vance, a European educated art curator and the daughter of a private maritime investor.
I have already scrubbed your digital footprint.
For the next two weeks, you do not clean.
You do not serve.
You command.
He watched her eyes scan the contract.
He expected her to gasp at the number of zeros in a compensation column, a sum that would allow her to retire in luxury anywhere in the world.
Instead, she pushed the paper back toward him.
“The money is acceptable,” she said, her voice like steel.
But the rules must be mine.
Rule one, you do not speak for me.
In the world of the elite, the man usually treats his partner like a luxury watch.
If I am to be believable, I must be your equal, not your accessory.
Deians eyes narrowed.
You’re bold for a woman whose job I can terminate with a phone call.
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