A Kiss For Three

chapter 2

Half a week was enough for me to build a strategy, pull the strings, and polish every angle until my reflection looked like ten different women instead of one.

That was the rhythm of my profession: patience first, performance later. Still, this case hummed with unusual difficulty. Adrian Cole and Nico Moreau had grown up shoulder-to-shoulder, their histories stitched into the same seams. Two best friends meant twice the caution. I couldn’t risk one identity bleeding into the other.

So I split them in my mind. Two men. Two costumes. Two versions of me.

Brooklyn taught me that trick—Mrs. Cifarelli’s bodega mirror by the register, where I learned to change faces between “kid who can’t afford the good yogurt” and “young lady who deserves respect.” Middle-class manners, subway grit. My mother used to say: You don’t win by shouting, you win by choosing your moment. I turned that into a business for Manhattan’s elite: marital investigator, bespoke honesty dealer.

For Adrian, I pictured curls spilling from beneath a press badge—long black hair that gleamed under lights. Brown lenses to soften the ice of my natural blue. A fitted blazer, pencil skirt—professional enough to pass, a touch too polished to be invisible. The eager-journalist disguise had always served me well; people underestimated the “green” ones. That’s when they talked too much.

Nico would need something else entirely—but that mask could wait. First, Adrian.

I leaned over my vanity mirror, lamplight carving shadows across my face. With practiced hands, I seated the wig snugly, brushed the curls into deliberate imperfection, slid in the contacts. Iris vanished. Kate Parker stared back at me: wide-eyed, under-slept, vulnerable. The kind of woman Adrian Cole wouldn’t dismiss.

I tucked a MetroCard into my clutch beside a burner and a vial of glycerin (for tears if the day ran dry). I don’t love lying, but I respect craft; I tithe ten percent of every retainer to the women who can’t afford me—quiet divorces, quieter escapes. Empathy under armor, ledger-balanced.

So, the first target. He had a reputation—press-baked and boardroom-whispered—bold, reckless with charm, high on being wanted by shareholders, competitors, and the occasional wife who shouldn’t be looking. Men like that weren’t seduced by glamour alone. They were drawn to fragility, to the promise of impressing and protecting in the same breath.

Kate Parker would be his perfect trap.

The event was staged like a coronation. One of Adrian’s companies was unveiling its latest tech miracle, and Midtown’s elite flocked like moths to innovation’s blue flame. Chandeliers, sleek demo pods, champagne balanced on silver like tiny bribes. I arrived early, merged with the press scrum, clipped on a fabricated badge, and let camera flashes blind everyone to the small lies.

I took a spot a hair too close to the velvet, where traffic bottlenecked. Reporters jostled; photographers barked. Then the crowd surged.

Adrian Cole arrived.

Glossy black car, bodyguards like a movable wall. The oxygen shifted with attention—questions fired, flashes burst, the kind of hush that sounded like awe. Tailored suit and sunglasses, the faint smirk of a man who knew he’d be quoted verbatim even when he didn’t answer.

My timing was clockwork. As he strode past, I stumbled. A heel twisted—on purpose—my notebook flew, my shoulder collided with his chest.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, so sorry—” I let panic flood my face, breath hitching, the whole ingénue meltdown.

He caught my elbow before I could “fall.” For a supposed egotist, his laugh came warm. “Easy there,” he said, steadying me. “Red carpets can be dangerous, huh?”

The ring of reporters chuckled, the moment absorbed by the night’s machine. He moved on, swallowed by handshakes and lenses. I collected my scattered notes with trembling hands—part performance, part adrenaline—and folded back into the edges.

First seed planted.

The party performed itself: chatter and clinks, demonstrations flickering on monolith screens, investors whispering futures in numbers. I hovered where attention thinned, scribbled plausible nonsense, ducked my gaze when it lingered on me. I wasn’t there to sell a story. I was there to sell myself into his memory.

An hour passed. Champagne emptied and refilled. Balcony doors breathed in the city’s dark. I slipped outside and rearranged my face into quiet despair. Leaned on the stone rail. Let my shoulders shiver. A soft sob—just enough—caught in my throat. Mascara smudged to a credible sheen.

Didn’t take long.

“Hey,” a calm voice behind me. “You okay?”

I turned just enough. Adrian stood there, sunglasses gone, expression sharper without glass. He studied me—not like a mogul assessing a deal, but like a man who’d found a loose thread.

“I—” My voice cracked. I looked away, hand to my mouth like I was embarrassed by the leaking emotion. “I shouldn’t… bother you.”

“You’re not,” he said, stepping closer. “What happened?”

I twisted my hands, let the lie trickle out delicate and shaky. “Everyone saw me trip into you. My boss—he was furious. Said I humiliated the paper, embarrassed the team… I think he’s going to fire me.”

Adrian frowned. “Fire you? For tripping? That’s ridiculous.” The warmth stayed. “If he fires you over that, he doesn’t deserve your work.”

“But this is my first real assignment,” I whispered, chin dipping, vulnerability bright as a bruise. “If I lose it, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He exhaled. The laugh left; something gentler settled. He pulled out his phone. “What’s your name?”

A hesitation—measuring, believable. “Kate. Kate Parker.”

“Kate,” he repeated, testing it. A small smile. “Give me your number. If your boss gives you trouble, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

I let my lips part, gratitude and disbelief in equal, digestible measure. I dictated digits; he saved them with efficient taps. A second later my burner buzzed. I glanced down at Adrian Cole lighting my screen like a neon sign.

“There,” he said, pocketing his phone. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

And just like that, the man I was hired to break turned back to the crowd, claimed by the next cluster of hands and cameras.

Alone again, I straightened. Sobs off, tremble gone, innocence wiped like stage paint at curtain call. I slid the curls forward, let the smallest blade of a smile show.

Adrian’s number glowed in my palm—solid, undeniable.

I wiped the last theatrical tear from my cheek and whispered to the night, “First crack.”