POV Leo I am Leo. The real one. The oldest. Three brothers, same bones, same eyes, same smile. We learned early that if you control the tempo-when you blink, how long you pause, where you stand-people will hand you their certainty wrapped up like a gift. Even our parents mixed us up until I decided they wouldn't anymore. I slowed my speech. I held eye contact two beats longer. I walked into rooms like they were mine. After that, they never confused 'Leo' with... Leo . Or Milo with Leo . You get the idea. I made the Pact when we were teenagers because we were bored and beautiful and cruel in the way boys with too much money and not enough rules can be. Who does she choose when there's no wrong answer? Whose gravity wins? We practiced until pretending to be me wasn't pretending at all. At the investors' gala, her father cornered me near the champagne tower, doing that careful-smile thing men do when they want to ask for a favor without making it sound like a favor. "Look after Mira," he said. "In truth, I'm still afraid for her getting out of her shell... But it is time." The last time I'd seen her she was seventeen and bright enough to surprise me, asking about whether power corrupts quicker than money. Now she was twenty-one and the shell wasn't gone, but it was cracking-there was light leaking out. I didn't expect her to look like that. I didn't expect the room to tilt when she turned toward me and smiled like she'd been caught doing something almost bad. The second she caught my attention, I knew: she was our beauty . The Pact would circle her whether I wanted it to or not. I wanted it to. Dinner at her house confirmed the rest. Her father talked about "experience" and "the real world," and she watched me with a mix of terror and hunger that should have made me gentler. It didn't. That look climbed into my head and nested. That evening I texted her: Bring the red file from Records to my office. Do not have it couriered. It's astonishing what people will do when you remove the easy option. Ten minutes later, a soft knock on my doors. "Come in," I called. She stepped in, edges taut, holding the file like it could protect her from me. "Mr. Stern," she said, formal, breathing a little too quick. "Mira." I didn't stand. I let the silence settle around us like expensive fog. "Close the door." She obeyed. Of course she did. She had to-she was trying on her competence like a new suit and didn't want to scuff it. "You have something for me," I said. She crossed to the desk and set the folder down. The scent of her found me-clean citrus with a warmer, nervous note underneath. She straightened, hands flattening on the leather blotter, then pulling back as if she'd touched heat. "Good," I murmured, opening the file and not looking at it. "Stay." She blinked. "Do you... need anything else?" "Yes." I set the file aside and rose. "You ." We stood with a width of carpet between us and a floor-to-ceiling window at her back. The city was a scatter of diamonds beyond the glass; inside, the office was a quiet cathedral of shadow and chrome. A camera watched from where the molding meets the ceiling. Security, I'd told Facilities. Insurance, I'd told Legal. Entertainment, I told no one but my brothers. "Hands." I lifted mine and waited. She hesitated, then gave me hers. Cool fingers. Fast pulse. I folded them into my palms, stepped her back until her spine met the glass, and felt the tiny tremor ripple through her when the window cooled her heat. "You can't-" "I can. And I will. And you'll let me." I leaned in, not touching yet. "Because you're curious. Because you haven't been told the truth kindly enough to believe it and cruelly enough to remember it." "What truth?" she whispered. "That you like to follow," I said, "when the hand is steady." Her breath skipped. "You're very sure of yourself." "I have practice." I closed the distance in one decisive step, cupping her jaw with my hand to tilt her face up to mine. The kiss landed hard-messy, deep and unyielding. She tasted sweet and defiant, every flicker of her lips and tongue against mine only making me press harder. My other hand anchored at the small of her back, pulling her into me. I didn't give her much of a choice, deepening the kiss, drawing out a low sound from her throat that sent a sharp heat through me. When I finally broke away, her lips were parted, breathless. My hands slid to her waist, gripping firmly as I turned her in one smooth motion, spinning her into the cold pane of the floor-to-ceiling window. "Eyes on the city," I said. "Feel me, don't watch me." Her palms met the glass. I pressed in behind her, my chest flush to her back, my hands locking around her hips. "That's-" She swallowed. "Bossy." "Effective." I stood behind her, close enough that my breath feathered over the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Mira shivered, exhaling like she was trying to steady herself and failing. My hands locked on her hips, thumbs pressing into bone, my length settled hard against her through the thin barrier of her clothes. I didn't thrust-just let her feel the weight of it. Constant. Deliberate. A promise I hadn't cashed in yet. "Touch yourself for me," I told her, voice low in her ear. Her breath caught. "Leo-" "Do it. Now." My grip tightened, leaving no room for refusal. She hesitated, then slid one hand down the front of her body, over her stomach, beneath the waistband. Her shoulder jerked when her fingers found where she was probably already wet. "That's it," I murmured. "Slow. Make me hear it." Her hips shifted involuntarily, grinding back against me. I didn't stop her. "Circle your fingers," I instructed, my tone low and precise. "No rushing. Draw it out until you can't stand it." Her breath grew ragged, fogging the glass in front of her. I pressed closer, my mouth brushing her jaw. "Think about my hands there instead," I whispered. "Think about how deep I'd be inside you if I moved right now." Her knees softened, her rhythm faltered. "Don't stop," I said. "Not until I say." She made a small, broken sound-more need than control-and I felt her start to tremble. "Now," I ordered, voice firm in her ear. Her body bowed forward, forehead against the glass, the city blurring beneath her lashes. She came with my hands holding her steady, my cock hard against her, my voice the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. "Good girl," I said into her hair, not moving away. "Next time, I'll make sure the whole city sees." "Leo," she said, like a surrender and an accusation and a prayer. "Yes," I said into her hair. She came apart with her palms on my window and my voice in her ear, and because I'm not a gentleman, I watched the camera watch us. Somewhere, I knew, Victor would lean forward with clinical interest, and Milo would press his jaw into his palm and call me a bastard. I angled my head so the camera got all of me and all of her in the same frame. I mouthed: 'I own her.'