Emma Carter's definition of hell use to be the 5 AM shift at dinner.
That was before she found herself sitting at a glass dining table the size of a tennis court, wearing a borrowed designer robe, across from a shirtless billionaire husband she apparently married less than twelve hours ago.
In Las Vegas.
With a legal certificate to prove it.
And now... he was feeding her pancakes.
Sort of.
"Eat," Damien said, setting a plate in front of her. "You'll need energy for the media circus letter."
Emma blinked at the stack of perfect, fluffy pancakes. "Did you just say media?"
He poured syrup like he was hosting a cooking show. "The press already knows. The marriage leaked."
"How?! I only just found out five minutes ago!"
"Welcome to high society," he replied dryly. "Privacy is a myth."
Emma groaned and face-planted into her palms. "This is a nightmare. I am married, hungover, and I am not even wearing real underwear."
"Are you expecting applause or sympathy?"
She glared at him. "Do you ever not sound like a Bond villain?"
He paused. "I take that as a compliment."
Emma rolled her eyes and grabbed a fork. Her stomach growled in betrayal. Well, at least the pancakes are good.
She took a bite, then narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Did your private chef make this?"
Damien took a calm sip of black coffee. "No. I did."
Emma choked.
"You? The billionaire ice cube made pancakes?"
"I can cook. I just don't usually waste my skills on ungrateful wives."
She gasped. "Ungrateful?! I was kidnapped into marriage!"
"You were willingly intoxicated."
"Because someone kept buying me drinks!"
"You kept saying tequila made you 'feel like Beyoncé.'''
Emma slumped in her chair, groaning. "I am never drinking again. If I so much as sniff vodka, punch me."
"Noted."
Emma poked at the food with a pout, her voice dropping. "This is crazy, Damien. My life was simple before you showed up with a fancy suit and... emotionally unavailable face."
He blinked. "Emotionally unavailable face?"
"You know," she gestured vaguely at him, "like you were born in a conference room and raised by spreadsheets."
His lips twisted, the closest thing she had seen is a real smile. It sent a tiny jolt through her chest, which she absolutely ignored.
"Finish eating," he said instead. " Our car leaves in forty minutes."
"Car? Where are we going now?"
"Public appearance. My grandfather's charity gala. We'll need to hold hands, smile, kiss if needed--"
"Kiss?!"
"Lightly," he added. "A public display of affection. You can handle that, can't you, sweetheart?"
She nearly stabbed her pancake. "Don't call me sweetheart unless you want syrup in your shoes."
"I will take that as a yes."
Emma finished her food in silence, trying to process the fact that she would be kissing a man today she didn't even like. Sure, he had cheekbones sharp enough to slice diamonds and a voice that could melt underwear, but he was also colder than a snowman in Siberia.
Still... ten million dollars.
She could survive a few months of hand-holding and fake smiles.
She just had to ignore the way he looked at her sometimes, like he saw through her sass and right into the parts of her she didn't show anyone.
After breakfast, Damien stood and nodded towards the massive hallway. "Your closet is stocked. Dresses, shoes, jewelry. My assistant made sure everything matches your measurements."
Emma paused. "You had someone measure me in my sleep?"
"No. I watched you undress last night and estimated."
She choked. "YOU WHAT?"
"Relax," he said, heading towards his study, deadpan. "I have a photographic memory."
Emma sat frozen for a full three seconds, then flung a napkin at the door as he disappeared. "You arrogant, smug, walking tax deduction!"
From down the hall, his voice floated back:
"I'm still your husband, you know."
Emma growled. "Only for 365 days. Then I'm going to throw a divorce party with cake and a DJ."
Forty Minutes Later...
The black car waiting downstairs looked more like a presidential convoy than a ride to a party. Damien stepped out first, now in a crisp black suit that looked like it cost more than her rent for a year.
Emma followed, dress in a deep red gown that hugged her curves and made her feel like an imposter in movie she hadn't audition for.
The moment their hands touched, for show, she jolted.
"Relax," Damien murmured near her ear, his voice low. "We are married. Pretending shouldn't be that hard."
"Says the man who pretend to have a heart," she muttered under her breath.
He did not smile, but his fingers tightened around hers just enough to make her pulse race.
The car door closed.
And the camera flashes began.