By the time Maya dragged herself into the kitchen the next morning, Damien was already there -- hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled to his forearms, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did. His coffee was untouched, steam curling up lazily as if it knew it had all the time in the world.
She didn't.
He didn't even look up when he said, "Again."
She froze halfway to the fridge. "Good morning to you too."
"Morning," he said, finally glancing at her. "Now, again."
She sighed, abandoning her plan for juice and crossing to the table. She sat down opposite him and repeated the line he'd drilled into her head until she could almost recite it in her sleep. "We met at a charity gala in Milan. My father was the chairman of the board for the foundation hosting it."
His gaze was steady, unreadable. "Better. You hesitated on the 'chairman' bit -- say it like you're proud of him, not like you're reading it off a script."
"I am reading it off a script," she muttered.
"You can't be, not in your head. Isla Harrington knows this like her own name. You have to be her, not play her."
The way he said be made her skin warm in places she didn't want to admit. She cleared her throat and tried again. "We met at a charity gala in Milan. My father was the chairman of the board for the foundation hosting it."
He nodded slightly, then leaned back. "And what was I doing there?"
She sifted through the mental index cards from yesterday's marathon practice. "You were… the keynote speaker?"
His mouth twitched. "I'm twenty-five, Maya. No one's inviting me to give speeches on world policy at a gala."
"You could," she shot back before she could stop herself. "You've got the self-importance down."
That got her a quiet, unexpected laugh -- low and warm, almost reluctant. He set his coffee down and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I was there because my family's company was one of the main donors. We were introduced through mutual friends, spoke briefly, and I later invited you to dinner while we were both in Rome."
"Rome," she repeated, pointing at him like she was etching it into memory. "Not Paris."
"Not Paris," he said slowly, like he was trying to coax a stubborn child into saying please and thank you. "And the trip to Paris happened later -- two summers after we met. You spent every summer in Europe."
"Right. Every summer in Europe. Not just Paris."
"Exactly."
They moved to the couch, Damien insisting they change positions because "the kitchen table posture looks stiff on camera." He sat beside her, knees brushing hers, eyes fixed on her like she was an investment he wasn't ready to let fail.
"This is where it matters," he said. "Not just what you say -- how you say it, how you look at me while you say it."
"I already look at you," she said, a little too defensive.
"You glance at me. Isla looks at me like she remembers every moment we've had together and knows there's more coming."
Something in her stomach tightened. She didn't know if it was the words or the way he said them.
He began running me through the "relationship" milestones. First meeting. First date. First fight. First weekend away. For each one, he asked her to describe it like she had been there -- not just where they were, but what the air felt like, what she was wearing, what he ordered for dessert.
That one tripped me up.
"Uh… we didn't talk about dessert," she said, confused.
"That's exactly why you stumble," he said, shifting closer. "You think this is about memorizing. It's not. It's about living it in your head until it's muscle memory. So tell me...if we were there, what would I have ordered?"
She looked at him, searching his face for an answer. "Something expensive to prove a point."
His lips curved, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. "See? You know me more than you think."
It was supposed to be part of the act, but the way he was looking at her now didn't feel like practice.
When he started positioning her for "photo moments," the intimacy became harder to ignore. His hand at her chin to tilt it toward him. The light brush of his fingers against her jaw as he corrected my angle. The firm, warm weight of his palm at her waist to pull her closer, telling her to "make it look natural." He told her to laugh like she was comfortable with him, and to her own surprise, the sound that came out wasn't forced at all.
Hours passed like that -- close enough to feel the shift in his breathing when she said something right, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne that seemed to sink into her skin.
By mid-afternoon, her head was a tangled mess of Milan, Rome, charity galas, and fake summer trips. She dropped back against the couch cushions. "I'm going to mix this all up in public and ruin your plan."
"You're not," he said, standing.
"I am. You don't understand how my brain works."
"Oh, I do." He paced a little, then stopped. "You're mixing them up because they're all in here..." he tapped his temple "...instead of out there."
She sat up. "Out where?"
"Real places. Real scenarios. If you tie them to actual memories, you won't slip."
She narrowed her eyes. "So… like… field practice?"
"Like a date," he said without missing a beat. "Though we'll call it training so you don't overthink it."
Her pulse jumped. "Where exactly are we going?"
"The place where we 'first met.'" His gaze didn't waver. "It's time you remember it for real."
There was something in his voice -- something just beneath the calm professionalism -- that made her chest feel tight. And she realized, as she grabbed my bag and followed him out the door, that she wasn't sure where the act was supposed to end anymore.