Leonhart's private jet touched down in the city with all the grace of his wealth—quiet, sleek, undeniable. Kevin disembarked first, notebook in hand, yawning into his sleeve as the sun stretched across the tarmac.
"I think I gained ten pounds from those pastries," Kevin mumbled.
Leonhart followed behind, sunglasses low on his nose. "I made you coffee every morning. That alone should have erased calories."
"It added emotional calories," Kevin teased. "Love makes you fat."
Leonhart glanced at him. "Love?"
Kevin blinked. Then his lips curled slowly. "Relax. It's a joke. Mostly."
Leonhart didn't laugh.
But he didn't look away, either.
As they exited the airport, Leonhart's driver handed over a small envelope. Leonhart opened it absently—until he saw the handwriting.
His eyes narrowed.
Kevin peeked. "What is it?"
"A dinner invitation." Leonhart's voice turned flat. "From Victor Langston."
Kevin raised a brow. "The real estate tycoon? That guy who sued half his family?"
"That's the one."
Kevin whistled. "What does he want with you?"
Leonhart didn't answer.
But in the back of his mind, Elian's voice lingered—sleek, poisonous: "He's cheerful. And stupidly sincere."
Leonhart crumpled the note without reading the rest.
"He's nothing," Leonhart muttered. "Forget it."
But Kevin didn't forget.
Not when, the next day, he received a polite email from a "Langston Properties" intern requesting a meeting about potential sponsorship for small café businesses. The language was flattering. Too flattering.
Kevin's brows furrowed.
He didn't know Victor Langston personally.
So how did they know about him?
That evening, Kevin met Leonhart in his downtown penthouse, sketches spread across the table. Leonhart was nursing whiskey, barely glancing at the papers.
"Did you tell anyone about my café plans?" Kevin asked casually.
Leonhart looked up. "No."
Kevin hesitated. "Someone offered to fund me. Someone from Langston's team."
Leonhart's glass hit the table harder than necessary.
"Don't meet them."
"Why not?"
"Because Langston doesn't fund dreams. He breaks them."
Kevin studied Leonhart's expression. There was something deeper there—something bruised and old.
"Is this about you?" Kevin asked gently. "Or about Elian?"
Leonhart's silence was the only answer he gave.
Later that night, as Kevin left Leonhart's building, a man in a sharp grey suit watched him from across the street. He was handsome, composed—and beside him stood Elian, dressed in expensive black, face unreadable.
"That's him," Elian said quietly. "Leonhart's new toy."
Victor Langston smirked.
"He doesn't look like much."
"He's not," Elian murmured, eyes hard. "But Leonhart keeps choosing him."
Victor's smile widened. "Then it's time we make him choose something else."
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