The luxurious penthouse perched 28 floors above Ocean Drive, Miami, during the intoxicating blue hour. City lights twinkled below like scattered diamonds, framing the infinity pool that merged seamlessly with the horizon. Lena, the stunning model with a sultry Monaco accent, stood by the open slider door, clad only in a champagne-colored silk slip that clung to her curves like a lover’s whisper. On the coffee table: her contract for the French House and a burner phone, silent sentinels.

Daniel, the fixer with a damp linen shirt from the marina, exuded raw power. Their interaction crackled with tension. “You’re not what Fontaine described,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

“Fontaine only projects what he wants to see,” Lena retorted, eyes flashing. “He bought my silence. I want out—free from the contract, the photos, all of it. Fix it, Daniel.”

He stepped closer, the air thickening. “Fixing you costs more than you have.”

“You’re only good at fixing other people’s problems,” she challenged, her breath hitching as his hand tested her waist.

Proximity ignited. He gripped her throat, tilting her chin. “I’m here alone. No one saw me come.”