POV Victor She thinks I'm Leo. I don't blame her. Everyone used to think that. Even our own parents, for a while. Yes, we're triplets. Yes, we look alike. Very much so. Identical, perhaps. But they never confused Leo with me. Or Milo with Leo. I knew when Leo "hired" her as a favor it wasn't just because her father asked. Leo never does "just because." He plants seeds. He waits for outcomes. That is the only thing he and I share-strategy. That, and the face. "Miss Kensington," I said on day one-my day one with her-when she walked into the office with that bright, eager look. "You'll stay late." "Is there a problem?" she asked. "You made one," I said, tapping the report. "Fix it. Then bring it back." I watched her shoulders square. She hates disappointing people. She hates even more that she can't read me. Most people can't. But Mira is different. Even my PhD can't pin her down completely. She presents as naive. But then she looks straight into my eyes like she's trying to open a door. She is brave in bursts, guarded in others. I move closer-closer than is polite-just to check if she flinches. She doesn't. "Anything else?" she asked that first night, soft but steady. "Accuracy," I said. "And speed." She swallowed. "I'll do better." "You will," I said, and left her with the quiet hum of the floor and the glow of the screen. I stayed longer than I needed, in the hallway, watching her shadow move across glass. Studying. Testing. Waiting for the feeling I rarely get. Nothing. Just a faint stir, like wind through a closed room. Annoying. People are like chess pieces. It isn't personal. Pawns mark tempo. Knights jump rules. Bishops are bias. Rooks are blunt force. Queens-queens end games. I prefer clean boards: no noise, no mercy. You apply pressure. You predict response. You force the move. She is a pawn-for now-in our little game of The Triplet Pact. Leo named it years ago because he was bored and wanted to play . "Just for fun," he said. He meant control. Milo joined because he loves following Leo until it hurts. I joined because I like data. Patterns. Proof. If you run enough trials, people tell you who they are. What fascinates me is how no one tells us apart. It was funny when we were boys. It's useful now. Then again, once you really know us, the tells are obvious. Leo fills a room and makes you thank him for the air. Milo melts at the edges and makes you want to lay down. I'm the one who never blinks. But this time Leo did something... odd . He didn't pick our usual quarry-our age, our circles. He chose a girl a decade younger. Inexperienced. Sheltered. "Let's find out," he said, eyes bright like a coin spin, "which one of us is 'the perfect fictional man' she's been reading about." A joke for him. A lab for me. I added a clause to her contract and slid the paper across the table. Leo smirked. Milo frowned. I signed for all three. Now she's sitting on my desk. Not hers. Actually, not mines either. Leo's. It's Leo's desk. And Leo's watching. Just from far away. I can feel the camera lens on us. He's probably in some boardroom pretending to listen to quarterly projections, but his real attention is here, locked on her. On me. Her knees are pressed together, tablet clutched in her lap like a lifeline. "Open your mouth." She blinks. "What-" "Don't question me, Mira. Just do it." Something in my tone cuts through her hesitation. Her lips part slowly, a cautious obedience. I slip two fingers past them, my gaze fixed on hers as her breath warms my skin. The faintest brush of her tongue meets my touch before she pulls back just enough to look uncertain. I keep my voice low. "Good girl." When I draw my hand away, it glistens. Her chest rises and falls faster now. "Leo..." she says - and I don't correct her. Not yet. My fingers trail from her jaw to the hollow of her throat. I hold there, feeling her pulse beat hard against my touch. "You're tense," I murmur. "Because you're-" She swallows. "This isn't professional." I tighten my grip, not to hurt, just enough to remind her who sets the pace. "Professionalism is overrated." Her thighs shift, the slightest parting. She's trying not to think about it, which tells me she's thinking about nothing else. "You could stop this," I say. "You could too," she shoots back. I smirk. She has no idea how much that pleases me. My hand moves lower, dragging down the front of her blouse until it falls back into place, then slipping under the hem of her skirt. Her breath hitches; she grips the desk edge like she's bracing for impact. "Eyes on me." Her eyes lock on mine, and I see the exact moment her spine stiffens, the instinct to steel herself for whatever's coming. But her breath betrays her-it stutters, catches, before she forces it steady. I drag my touch exactly where I want it, and the jolt that tears through her is immediate. Her knees twitch, her fingers flex on the desk, and her lips part on a sharp inhale. "Breathe," I murmur, voice low enough that it seems to curl right into her ear. "I am," she whispers, but the shake in her voice tells me she's lying. I press a little more firmly, slow, deliberate, and watch her lashes flutter before she clamps them shut. Her jaw tightens, like she's holding something back, but then it starts to crack-the tension bleeding out of her as her thighs drift wider, without her even noticing. "Good," I say, leaning in until my mouth hovers just at the shell of her ear. "Don't fight it." "I'm not-" Her protest dies in a breath that trembles. "I'm not fighting." My lips ghost along her temple, my hand keeping its steady rhythm. "Good girl." She folds forward slightly, unable to hold herself upright, her fingers curling into the polished wood. "Oh my God-" "That's it," I murmur, every word paced to match the slow pull of my fingers. "Stay right there." "Please..." "Please what?" I coax, pressing just enough to make her hips jerk against me. Her hair falls into her face as she shakes her head. "Say it." Her voice is barely a breath. "Don't stop." A slow smile curves my mouth. "You sound so pretty when you beg." A broken whimper escapes her throat, her body pressing forward instinctively. I catch her movement, stilling just enough to make her shiver in frustration. "Louder." She gasps, hips rolling into my hand. "Please." "There it is." I quicken, just slightly, watching her thighs tense and tremble. Her nails dig into the desk, her breath coming faster, her lips parting with a soft, helpless moan she probably didn't mean to let me hear. "Look at me," I tell her. It takes effort, but she lifts her head, eyes glazed, mouth open. The moment our gazes lock, she unravels. Her cry starts sharp, then breaks into uneven little gasps as she clenches around my fingers, her whole body shivering through the waves. She grips the desk like it's all that's holding her together. I watch her come apart, watch the exact moment her control slips completely. I keep my hand between her legs, circling her clit with my thumb, until the last tremor fades. Then slowly draw back, letting her feel every inch of the retreat. Her breathing is ragged, her cheeks flushed. I don't speak. Not yet. Just step back, letting the air cool between us, and turn my head toward the exact spot in the molding where I know the camera is. I raise my hand-the same one she'll never forget-and point two fingers toward the lens. They glisten under the light. And I smile. 30 Contents