The last time someone in a black car handed Elena Cruz a business card, it was a bank representative offering her an extension on her student loan—right before interest doubled.
So when the suited man in front of her spoke the words "Mr. Damien Vale would like to meet with you," every cell in her body rang with caution.
She picked up the card.
No phone number. No email. Just an embossed gold "V" set on a matte-black surface.
A silent kind of wealth.
"Where?" she asked, her voice steady despite the thundering in her chest.
"Penthouse suite, Vale Tower," the man said. "He'll expect you at five."
She checked the time—3:12 PM.
"I have class."
"You'll be compensated for your time."
"Tell him I'm not for sale."
The man didn't blink. "It's not that kind of meeting, Ms. Cruz."
She wanted to laugh. Of course it was that kind of meeting. Men like Damien Vale didn't invite women to penthouse suites for platonic discussion—especially not women who'd publicly dressed them down on stage.
Still, she found herself slipping the card into her bag.
---
By 4:59 PM, Elena stood in front of a mirror in the women's restroom of Vale Tower's lobby, her heart tap-dancing against her ribs.
She'd changed into the only black dress she owned—a knee-length number with a high neckline and sleeves that gave it a vaguely professional edge. She'd borrowed Gloria's nude pumps and pulled her hair into a clean, low bun.
She looked calm. Sharp. Unbothered.
She felt like she was walking into a lion's den with a butter knife.
The elevator to the penthouse required a keycard, which the lobby receptionist—who had the poise of a palace butler—handed over with a neutral smile.
"Mr. Vale is expecting you."
The ride up was silent.
The penthouse doors opened without a sound.
White marble floors. Sculpted glass walls. A view of Manhattan that stretched for miles, all glowing like an expensive promise.
And there he was.
Damien Vale.
Leaning against the edge of a minimalist desk, sleeves rolled just slightly, a watch gleaming against his tanned skin. He looked casual, but Elena knew better. Everything about him—his stance, his clothes, his timing—was curated for effect.
"You're punctual," he said, voice smooth.
"You gave me less than two hours' notice. I assumed lateness would be a disqualifier."
One brow rose. "Disqualifier for what?"
"You tell me," she said, walking forward, chin lifted. "You summoned me like a Bond villain. The least you can do is explain."
That amused him. The corner of his mouth twitched again. She was beginning to suspect that was his version of a laugh.
"I have a proposition," he said.
"Of course you do."
He gestured to the white leather armchairs in front of a glass table. "Sit."
She did, reluctantly. The moment she sank into the chair, he slid a sleek folder across the table toward her.
"What's this?"
"An agreement," he said. "One month. Pretend to be my fiancée. Public events only. No personal entanglement required."
Elena blinked.
Then stared at the folder like it might bite her.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"You want me to fake date you?"
"No," he said. "I want you to fake being engaged to me."
She blinked again, stunned into a laugh. "Why? Do you need a tax deduction?"
He didn't laugh.
"Because of you," he said simply. "Your performance at the panel was calculated, articulate, and disruptive in exactly the right way. You held your ground in front of faculty, press, and an audience that expected you to fold."
"I didn't perform," she snapped. "I believed what I said."
"Which is why it worked," he said, as if that were obvious. "You're convincing. You have the right balance of warmth and challenge. You look like someone the board would never suspect of lying—exactly the illusion I need right now."
She narrowed her eyes. "What's in it for you?"
He didn't hesitate. "My board is questioning my long-term leadership. They want me to settle down. Show stability. Preferably with someone who doesn't work for me, doesn't want to marry me, and won't go to the tabloids afterward."
She shook her head, disbelief thick in her voice. "You're asking me to play arm candy for your PR stunt."
"No," he said. "I'm asking you to be the reason the board doesn't vote to suspend me at the end of this quarter."
She leaned back, folding her arms. "Why me? Why not hire a professional?"
"Because professionals come with NDAs, trials, and risk. You, Ms. Cruz, are one of the most morally rigid people I've met. You wouldn't sell your story if I paid you twice."
She bristled. "You think I'm a safe investment."
"I think," he said, "you're exactly the woman the world would believe changed me."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, carefully, she asked, "How much?"
"$50,000. Up front. Another $50,000 if the board confirms my extension at the end of the month."
She stared at him.
That was more than she owed in loans.
More than two years of rent.
More than anyone had ever offered her for anything.
He slid a pen across the table.
"You can read the contract. Have someone review it if you'd like. There's a clause for an exit at any point with partial pay. No physical obligation. No cohabitation, unless you choose to. Just attend events. Smile. Pretend to love me."
She stared at the contract.
And then up at the man offering it.
Everything about this screamed run. The power imbalance. The secrecy. The sheer audacity of it.
But her bank account screamed louder.
And so did the eviction notice Gloria had hidden behind the microwave.
She drew a breath. "And if I say no?"
He stood, walked around the desk slowly, and stopped directly behind her chair. Close enough for her to feel his breath against her neck.
"Then we never met," he said, voice low. "And I'll find someone else who won't do it nearly as well."
Elena closed her eyes.
A month.
Fake affection.
A game of appearances with a man whose entire world was built on manipulation.
She opened her eyes.
And picked up the pen.