Maya Rivers woke to the faint hum of the city outside, sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien's apartment. She stretched lazily, expecting a quiet morning, maybe coffee, maybe nothing at all. Instead, she found Damien already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with a leather folder on his lap, posture perfect, gaze unreadable.
"You're going to have to play the perfect girlfriend," he said immediately, without preamble.
Maya blinked at him. "Perfect… perfect-perfect, or your version of perfect?"
"My version," he replied, lifting the folder as if it contained the answer to all her questions.
She groaned softly, sitting up and brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And what exactly does that involve?"
He slid the folder toward her. Thick, meticulously organized sheets, filled with bullet points, sub-bullets, diagrams -- every possible detail someone could notice about him. Her stomach sank.
"And… you did all this overnight?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes," he said simply. "You agreed to play my girlfriend. I had to prepare. You need to know every detail to convince anyone -- especially my mother -- that we've been together."
Maya's eyes widened as she lifted another sheet and froze.
"You're no longer Maya Rivers," Damien said, calm as ever. "You're now Isla Harrington."
"Excuse me?" she whispered, heart skipping.
"Isla Harrington," he repeated. "Your parents are Charles and Beatrice Harrington. They live in London, are Ivy League graduates, and spend their time between galleries and investment conferences. You have an older brother, Adrian, in New York, corporate law. You speak conversational French, attended ballet until sixteen, and vacation in Europe every summer."
Her head spun. "Conversational French? Damien, I barely survived Spanish."
"That's fine," he said evenly. "You'll claim you're out of practice."
She pressed her palms to her face, laughter and disbelief mingling. "I… I can't believe this. You changed everything overnight."
"I prepared for everything," he said. "By the end of this, you'll walk into a room of my mother's friends, introduce yourself, and no one will question a thing. You'll be the perfect Isla Harrington."
"And what do I get out of it?" she asked finally, voice trembling slightly.
"Anything you want," he said. "Also full access to my apartment. Anytime you like, even during school, if you need a quiet place."
Maya's heart skipped. His apartment wasn't just luxurious -- it was sanctuary-level perfection. Peace, privacy, safety.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions, rehearsals, and memorization. She practiced the names of Isla Harrington's fake parents, rehearsed polite conversation, and tried not to stumble over details of Damien's life she now had to memorize. Each correction, each subtle adjustment he made, carried a strange warmth, a flicker of attention that she hadn't expected.
By afternoon, Maya's head was spinning. She could list Damien's favorite wines, books, sports, even the way he folded his napkin. She was exhausted, overwhelmed, but in the midst of it, she noticed how quietly he observed her. When she faltered, his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary, soft and assessing. Not teasing, not charming, but something else -- something that made her stomach flutter.
Lunch passed with more rehearsals and brief breaks in silence. Maya watched Damien move around the apartment, noting how methodical he was in even the smallest things. He prepared her tea without her asking, placed it exactly where her hand naturally fell, and sat back, casually watching her drink. There was no comment, no teasing -- just a presence that seemed to weigh and measure every subtle shift in her expression, every pause, every blink.
By mid-afternoon, Damien introduced her to another layer of the training. "Your posture, your tone, your expressions -- they matter as much as the words you speak. Every motion conveys information. I've cataloged every gesture I prefer in someone I bring to my mother's events."
Maya blinked at him. "You… you actually cataloged my gestures before I even existed as Isla?"
"Yes. Observing, memorizing. You'll adapt. You'll learn."
She laughed, half incredulous, half exasperated. "I feel like I'm entering a spy movie, Damien. This is insane."
He didn't respond with words, only a brief, calculating glance that made her chest tighten.
Evening arrived, the city lights glittering outside the vast windows. Damien leaned against the couch, casual yet impossibly commanding. "Two truths and a lie," he said, a familiar phrase now carrying weight beyond amusement.
Maya's lips curved into a weary smile. The game was their ritual, yes, but today it held more. It was a test, subtle and deliberate.
"You'll notice," he said quietly, "this is also a memory test."
"Subtle," she said, rolling her eyes with a soft laugh. "Of course it is. You really don't make anything easy, do you?"
He tilted his head, watching her with calm intensity. "No. But you agreed to this. I'm merely enforcing the rules."
They began.
"You've been to Paris three times this year."
"You love pineapple pizza."
"You played piano as a child."
She laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Pineapple pizza? Really?"
"Correct," he said, nodding. "Next."
The rounds went on, each blending laughter, teasing, and subtle observation. Maya found herself slipping between two worlds: the reality of who she was, and the persona she now had to inhabit. The game was playful, yes, but it also served as Damien's quiet way of gauging her memory, her ability to adapt, and her attention to him.
At one point, he paused, watching her frown thoughtfully over a card. "You hesitate," he noted. "Is it a guess or a lapse?"
"Both," she admitted. "I'm trying not to mix reality with Isla's life."
He smirked faintly. "Then your focus is perfect. Confusion is part of the process. You'll handle it."
By the end of the night, the apartment hummed with soft city light. Their laughter and debate over truths and lies had melted into quiet moments of understanding. The day's exhaustion lingered, but so did a strange warmth, an intimacy built not on words of love but on proximity, attention, and the unspoken acknowledgment that each of them was noticing more than the other let on.
Somewhere deep inside, Maya -- or Isla -- felt a thrill. The game wasn't just a ritual. It was Damien noticing her. Watching her. Pulling her into a world where she had to be clever, poised, and alert.
And that, she realized, was far more intoxicating -- and far more dangerous -- than any mock introductions or fabricated background could ever be.