He learned the rules over bad coffee and an apologetic breakfast croissant, the kind of thing you never notice until you have to buy it yourself, the lawyer across from him speaking in clipped clauses like a man reading out a death sentence and pretending it was a shopping list, no private jets, no cards, no favors called in, ten percent to the winner if he couldn't last ninety days, no exceptions for emergencies, no backdoors, signatures on the dotted line that smelled faintly of perfume and old money, and Jace listened like a patient trying not to cry in front of a surgeon, because there was pride at stake and a company's heartbeat in his palms and he could already feel the ledger of his life being bled dry one petty pound at a time
"You're not actually going to do this," the lawyer said in that soft way men use with things they think are temporary, like a hangover or a scandal, "we can renegotiate, call it a PR stunt—"
"It's already live," Jace cut in, because doing nothing had never been his play, because he knew the market and he knew boys who loved to throw stones and then stood back to watch the glass shatter and he didn't like being the glass, "they filmed me, signed it, the footage's baked into every feed, you know what they wanted when they asked me to make it interesting"
Outside the tram bells kept their lazy Lisbon rhythm and a woman with a baby sang to a pigeon and for a minute the world stayed ordinary and he hated it, hated how his chest unclenched when he heard life move on, because the quiet made him think and thinking was dangerous in this game
Maya met him later because she always seemed to where other people sat down and left their masks, she found him at a cheap museum cafe pretending to read a map and failing, and she had that look, half amusement, half well-hidden pity, "You look like someone who's lost his keys and dignity in equal measure," she said, setting her camera on the table like it was about to mediate a fight
"You could say the same about you," he said, and she rolled her eyes and then she asked the thing he hated being asked most, "So what's the wager then, big man, what's the point, prove you can be normal for three months, what's the twist, are you doing it for charity or because you lost a bet on a bad bottle of whiskey"
She had a way of spitting questions like stones and Jace liked that she didn't wrap them in sugar, "Neither," he said, and the truth came out softer than he'd meant it, "because sometimes you want to see if the scaffolding's real when you take down the lights"
She listened for a moment like she was taking in a song and then she said, "Or maybe you just want to prove you can breathe without an oxygen mask," and she laughed and it sounded like an accusation and a dare and he hated that she made it look simple
They walked the market again because the world insists on patterns, and Leo appeared like he'd been waiting, hair accident-prone, grin too bright, "Oi, Maya, got something for you," he said, phone on his palm like a trophy, and jokes flew, the sort where laughter was bait for secrets, and Jace watched how people looked at Maya, protective, a small crew that ran on instinct and cheap espresso, and for a second he wondered what it was to belong to something that wasn't a boardroom
"Someone's taken the mick," Leo said, tapping the screen, "Sienna's just posted a backstage from last night, you know the one, the feed with the champagne and the promises"
The image blinked on the matte of his phone and Jace felt the room tilt, there she was, Sienna in silk, Ethan in the background like a shark on a leash, the caption a dry bit of mischief, behind the scenes of a dare, and then a DM threaded across the screenshot with an exchange that made his stomach drop, casual words that named roles, "selector: Maya Rivera" it said, and a tiny heart that someone had typed in like it was nothing, like choosing people was as easy as picking olives for a platter
Maya swore, low and private, and the word etched itself into him like frost, because she'd always been the kind to laugh at things she didn't want to fix, and now she didn't laugh at all, she only looked at the phone like a wound and then at him, "Is this some new kind of sick art project," she asked, jaw working, "or are they actually that cruel"
Jace wanted to say no, to deny the conspiracy, to make it vanish with one of the polished lies he'd used a thousand times, but a man's life in his business taught him to read signatures, and the font of the message matched Ethan's feed, the timing matched the night he'd signed his own defeat, and he had a name in the back of his head that felt like an old bruise, someone who never played for sport, only for blood
"You think they're messing with you," he said instead, because the truth was a blade too sharp to present like a gift, and she snorted, "Messing, this is beyond messing, this looks planned, premeditated, you lot are theatrical but this is theatrics with malice"
They argued, mostly in asides, because arguments sounded smaller that way, people around them folding back into tourists and lovers and the ordinary hum, but beneath their words the city smelled like orange blossom and diesel and the salt of the river and it sharpened everything, the small sensory things that made reality tactile and therefore painful
"You should leave," Maya said at one point, voice low and steady like someone setting down a knife, "they want to see you break and they're going to push, don't give them the satisfaction of watching you fall apart in front of strangers"
He laughed, but it had no warmth, "I can't, not now, once it's live we can't call it back, it's too perfect for them, you know how enemies are, they want you public and bare so they can write footnotes about your funeral"
She stared at him, eyes narrowing, "You're saying you'll bleed for the spectacle," and the line made him feel suddenly ridiculous and tired, all the old armour he wore like cheap chrome and brittle date-night pieces and he wanted to tell her about the father who showed him how to smile through ruin and the nights he learned to count his coins and name them like pets, but he didn't, because confessions are expensive and this was still a negotiation
Later that evening Maya's phone buzzed and she hesitated before opening it, the crew around her drifting back into jokes and a strange kind of hunger for the next ride and she read and paled, a single message and then another, a forwarded screenshot of the same chat, but this time with a different name attached, "From: unknown," the header said, and Maya scrolled and scrolled and then slammed the phone down onto the table
"What," he asked, and the word tasted small, because in truth he was terrified of what she might know, terrified she'd see the plan and their brief closeness as nothing but a play, "Who sent it"
"No idea," she said, voice flat, "someone's seeding the same screenshot to everyone who cares to look, it's like gum on a shoe, you pick it up without thinking and then it stays with you"
Leo shrugged like it was a laugh, "Sienna's stirring shit as usual, but this one's got an edge, it's like someone's dropped a pebble and now there's a ripple"
Maya's thumb hovered over a name on the screen, she didn't press it, she only looked at him, really looked, like she'd been collecting small truths about him and now had the final piece, the ledger entry that made him either brave or a liar, and the hostel light flickered as if some bird had grazed against the wires, and for a second they both heard it, that tiny electric pop that made people look up from their plates and wonder if storm was coming
"Show me," she said finally, and there was no plea in the way she said it, only the expectation of an accounting, and Jace felt cold because the thing inside him he'd been promised to lose was not a company or a title but the right to decide when the truth came out, and he wasn't sure he could give it without cutting himself
He reached for his phone and his hands shook, but before his thumb could swipe the screen lit with a new notification, a video file, from an unknown sender, and the thumbnail was a blur but he recognized the angle, a camera trained where it shouldn't be, and his stomach dropped like someone who'd stepped where they thought there was solid ground and found only air
Maya's breath hitched and she grabbed his wrist like it was an anchor, "Don't," she said, and the word had so many things folded into it, fear and anger and a sudden, sharp protectiveness, and he wanted to tell her that he hadn't engineered any of it but the message on his screen blinked one more time and the sender's tag read, in small, clinical letters, "phase one complete" and the table seemed to close in on them and the tram bells outside kept laughing as if nothing at all was wrong.