The London penthouse on Knightsbridge had ceilings so high even echoes behaved politely. Yet nothing in this place felt polite to Lila Morgan anymore—not after her entire life had been contractually scented by a man who treated breathing like a risk assessment.
She received the official document packet on the marble kitchen island at 6:01 AM, the precise minute Dorian seemed to believe the world was least emotionally armed.
The contract title read:
"Engagement Image-Management Agreement & Shared Residence Clauses."
Lila leaned over the stack like a general evaluating terms of inevitable surrender.
There were clauses for everything:
Public Appearance Frequency
Tone of Intimacy for Interviews
Paparazzi Contingency Posture
Hand-holding Calibration
Event Attendance Ratios
Brand Equity Influence Metrics
She muttered, "There are more rules to fake-love than real law school exams."
Serena Voss stood nearby looking elegant, immovable, and used to witnessing emotional disasters at luxury hour lines.
Dorian entered then, already dressed like sunrise was a board meeting he chaired.
"Read page 9," he instructed. "Umbrella optics."
She flipped to it.
Clause 38-B:"In the event of rainfall, the couple will share umbrella coverage in a visually balanced distribution that symbolizes protective partnership without excessive vulnerability projection."
Lila looked up at him. "Balanced distribution? It's water, not trade sanctions."
"Rain is random," he replied. "Image should not be."
She closed the pages sharply. "Dorian Hale, you choreograph affection the way banks choreograph interest rates."
"And both require compounding," he said.
"And do you compound love too?"
He paused—not the cruel pause of analysis. This one had a human glitch in it.
"Not yet," he answered. "But your formula complicates my supervision schedule."