As the evening draws to a close, we're directed to the terrace for "candid" photographs with the New York skyline as backdrop. The press has been carefully curated—friendlyoutlets that won't ask difficult questions about why two powerful business families are suddenly uniting through marriage.
Kira’s now wrapped in a beautiful fur coat and her and I stand side by side, answering softball questions about wedding plans and future business ventures. She's masterful at saying nothing with many words, weaving vague responses that sound substantial but reveal nothing.
"One more photo for the society page! Perhaps the happy couple could show some affection?" Calls a photographer.
I feel Kira tense beside me.
"Kiss! Kiss!" someone calls, and others join in, the chant spreading through the assembled guests.
Kira turns to me, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes communicating a clear warning. I place my hand gently on her waist, giving her time to pull away if she chooses.
She doesn't.
Instead, she tilts her face up to mine, her lips slightly parted. "Make it convincing," she whispers.
I lean down, intending a brief, chaste kiss enough to satisfy the audience without crossing boundaries. But the moment our lips touch, something unexpected happens.
Kira melts against me.
Her mouth moves against mine with sudden hunger, her body pressing closer as her hand slides up to the back of my neck. The kiss deepens without conscious decision, heat flaring between us like a backdraft when oxygen hits smoldering embers.
I taste champagne and something darker, spicier, something uniquely her. My hand tightens instinctively at her waist, pulling her closer as everything else falls away. This isn't a performance. This is combustion.
And then, as suddenly as it began, she pulls back. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, a flush spreading across her cheeks. Forone unguarded moment, I see genuine shock in her expression as if she's surprised herself as much as she's surprised me.
Then the mask descends again. She steps back, smoothing her dress with practiced nonchalance. "That should give them something to print," she says, voice perfectly steady despite the rapid pulse I can see at her throat.
The crowd around us applauds, completely misreading what just happened. They see a passionate, engaged couple. I see a woman fighting for control against me, against herself, against whatever just passed between us.
"Kira," I begin, not sure what I'm going to say.
"Don't," she cuts me off. "It was for the cameras."
But her eyes betray her. Whatever that kiss was, it wasn't just a performance. It was a revelation.
As the evening finally concludes and we prepare to leave, I catch her arm gently.
"Our meeting," I murmur. "Tomorrow. Midnight."
She hesitates, then nods once, sharply. "I'll be there."
"We should talk about what just happened."
"Nothing happened," she insists, but her eyes drop to my mouth briefly before she catches herself. "It was theater."
"Liar," I say softly.
Her eyes flash. "We're all liars here, Rosso. Some of us are just better at it than others."
She pulls away and walks toward the waiting car, where Nicolai stands, watching our exchange with analytical interest.
I remain on the terrace, the phantom pressure of her lips still burning against mine. The kiss replays in my mind—the unexpected heat, the momentary surrender, the abrupt withdrawal.
Kira Petrov just showed me a crack in her perfect armor. A glimpse of the woman beneath the calculation and control. God help me, I want to see more.
CHAPTER 10
Kira
