After the gala, silence wrapped around us like fog. The SUV's interior glowed dimly as we sped through the city. Outside, Manhattan's skyline blurred past steel and glass, light and shadow. Inside, Damien sat beside me like a thunderstorm in a tuxedo, radiating control and danger.
I didn't speak. Not at first. Not until the ring on my finger felt too heavy again.
"They all believed it," I said finally, voice low.
"Of course they did."
"You say that like it's obvious."
"It is. People see what they're told to see. The ring, the dress, the way I looked at you—that's all they needed."
I turned to him, the city lights shining across his sharp cheekbones. "And how did you look at me, exactly?"
He met my gaze. "Like a man who gets what he wants."
God, he was infuriating and intoxicating.
I folded my arms. "You played the part too well."
"Did I? Or did you just like it more than you expected?"
My breath caught, a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to desire. I hated how easily he could do that, turn the conversation, flip it back on me like a loaded coin.
"Don't get it twisted, Damien. This is still a job. I haven't forgotten."
"Neither have I. But just because something's contractual doesn't mean it isn't real."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "That might be the most twisted thing you've said yet."
He tilted his head, studying me with that same unnerving focus. "We convinced a room full of billionaires, journalists, and legacy families that we're madly in love. And I saw the way you looked at me."
"That was acting."
"Was it?"
I didn't answer. Because I didn't trust myself to.
We pulled up to the Valerius penthouse, an entire floor of obsidian and gold towering above the skyline. The driver opened the door, and Damien stepped out first. Then waited. Hand extended.
I took it Because even though I hated him, I couldn't seem to say no. Inside, the private elevator whisked us upward. Damien loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and suddenly he looked less like the cold, calculating CEO and more like the man from Paris. The one I should've forgotten.
"You did well tonight," he said.
I leaned against the elevator wall. "Your approval means so much to me."
He smirked. "It should."
The doors opened to a space straight out of a billionaire's fever dream. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass staircase. A fireplace embedded in marble. Everything sleek, cold, expensive. Like him.
I walked in slowly, heels clicking on the polished floor. "Let me guess... guest room down the hall?"
"Wrong."
I turned. "Excuse me?"
He walked past me, cool and unbothered. "We share a bed."
I stared. "Are you insane?"
"We're engaged, remember? If anyone sees staff, security, press we need to be believable."
"That doesn't mean I have to sleep with you."
He turned, his voice low. "You won't. But you will sleep beside me."
I opened my mouth then closed it.
"It's a king-sized bed, Isla. You'll survive."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
He moved past me again, disappearing into the master suite. followed. This was the price of the game. Six months. No sex. No strings. Just the illusion of love. Even if pretending was starting to feel dangerously close to the real thing.
The master suite was as devastating as the man who owned it. Charcoal walls, sheets like poured silver, floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the city whole. No warmth. No softness. I stopped at the threshold, unsure which part unsettled me more Damien's commanding presence… or the intimacy implied by a single, sprawling bed in the centre of it all.
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it carelessly onto a velvet chair. Then he started on his cufflinks, the slow, deliberate flick of his fingers more seductive than it had any right to be.
"I assume you don't expect me to change in front of you," I said, lingering near the door.
He didn't even look up. "We've seen each other naked, Isla. Pretending otherwise is pointless."
"That was Paris," I snapped. "This is business."
He glanced over his shoulder, unhurried. "You keep saying that like it'll protect you."
"From what?"
"From yourself."
I clenched my jaw. "You think I'm going to fall for you?"
"No," he said, voice smooth and lethal. "I think you already have. A little."
I walked to the far end of the suite, opening a door and exhaling in relief, it was a bathroom. And it was bigger than most New York apartments. Marble, gold, rainfall shower, enough soft white towels to choke a spa.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, letting the silence press into my back. God, he was insufferable. But worse than that... he was right. There was a part of me, traitorous and breathless, that wanted to know what it would feel like to let go. To fall. Even if the landing broke me.
I changed into one of the silk nightgowns provided in a drawer another perfectly tailored detail from Damien's orchestrated life. The fabric was black, barely-there, with lace that clung to all the wrong places. Or maybe all the right ones. It was the most non-sleep-appropriate sleepwear I'd ever worn.
When I stepped back into the room, Damien had already claimed his side of the bed. Shirtless. Reading something on his phone, like this was just another night in a perfectly arranged life. His eyes lifted. Paused. Lingering just long enough to make heat crawl down my spine.
"That's what you chose?" he said, voice low.
"I didn't have a lot of options."
"You had enough to choose something less distracting."
I crossed to the opposite side of the bed, keeping my spine straight. "You don't get to comment on what I wear."
"I do when you're wearing it in my bed."
"It's not your bed," I muttered, yanking back the duvet.
He didn't argue. Just set his phone down and lay back against the pillows, folding one arm behind his head.
"You're going to make this weird, aren't you?" I said.
"I'm lying here. Existing. You're the one with all the tension."
I climbed in beside him, leaving what felt like a canyon between us. My heart thudded unreasonably loud.
"Do you always sleep shirtless?" I asked, turning my back to him.
"Yes."
"I'm not wearing anything underneath this."
"I know."
I buried my face into the pillow and cursed softly. The room fell into silence, thick and loaded. The kind of silence that crackled, that breathed.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Isla," Damien said quietly.
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. But not in the way you think."
I turned over to face him, my voice barely above a whisper. "And how do I think I'm afraid of you?"
"You think you're afraid of what I'll do to you." He shifted, brushing a knuckle down the line of my jaw. "But what scares you is what you'll let me do."
I stopped breathing. He didn't move any closer. Didn't touch me again. Just let the silence hang like smoke between us. Then he rolled over, facing away, as if the moment hadn't just gutted the air. I stayed awake longer than I should have, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his back trying to remember why I agreed to this. Trying not to think about how fast my pulse still raced and failing miserably.
When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the silence. No city noise, no traffic horns, no voices. Just the muffled hum of a penthouse sealed off from the real world. I noticed was the heat. Not from the sun, though the early light was creeping through the sheer curtains but from the man beside me. Damien.
Still asleep. Still shirtless. Still far too close.
He was turned toward me now, one arm folded under his head, the other resting between us. His face was softer like this less armour, more human. Dark lashes against golden skin, a faint furrow between his brows even in sleep, he never truly let go.
I stared too long, Let myself wonder too much. I hated how badly I wanted to reach out and trace that line between his brows. Smooth it out. See if it would disappear beneath my touch.
I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him. The moment my feet touched the floor, I felt it again that strange pressure in my chest. Not quite dread. Not quite desire. Something messier.
I took my time showering, letting the hot water wash away the residue of last night's tension. When I emerged, a robe wrapped tightly around me, I found the bedroom empty. The bed was made. Damien was gone. A note waited for me on the nightstand, written in neat, masculine handwriting.
> Meeting. Kitchen. Eat something.
Don't test me today, Isla.
No "good morning." No smiley face. Just a command disguised as courtesy. I rolled my eyes. Typical. Still, I walked down the hall toward the kitchen, half-expecting it to be empty. It wasn't. A breakfast spread worthy of royalty covered the island cut fruit, pastries, smoked salmon, French-pressed coffee. A silent housekeeper nodded politely before retreating down the hall.
Damien stood near the window, already in a tailored black suit, talking into an earpiece. His voice was low and clipped, laced with irritation.
"Yes, I said restructure. No, I don't care about the board's panic attack." Pause. "Tell Liang if he wants to keep his position, he'll play ball."
He turned, eyes flicking to me as I entered. The stare was brief but hard hitting. He Then he looked away and ended the call.
"Eat."
"That's the second time you've said that."
"And I meant it both times."
I approached the island cautiously, picking at a croissant. "You always have people feeding your fake fiancées?"
"You're my first."
He poured two mugs of coffee, set one in front of me.
I raised a brow. "Lucky me."
"You are."
His gaze was unreadable, cold steel behind sunlight. I sipped. Strong. Rich. Perfect. Just like him.
"Busy day ahead?" I asked, gesturing toward the phone still buzzing on the counter.
"Always."
"And what's my role in it?"
His eyes held mine. "Be available."
"For what?"
"Whatever I decide."
My spine stiffened. "That wasn't in the contract."
"No, but the optics were. And today, we have a follow-up lunch with Lucien Roth."
I blinked. "Wait, the Lucien Roth?"
"Yes."
"As in, Valerius competitor and international scandal magnet Lucien Roth?"
He smirked faintly. "That's the one."
"Why would he want to meet your... fiancée?"
"Because Roth is nosy. He doesn't believe things unless he sees them himself. And he's already poking at last night's engagement like a wolf sniffing blood."
I narrowed my eyes. "So I'm bait."
"No," Damien said smoothly, stepping closer. "You're the threat he didn't expect."
I stared up at him, wary. "And if he doesn't buy it?"
"Then you weren't convincing enough."
My jaw tightened. "You're charming in the morning."
"You should see me at night."
"I have," I muttered.
His lips twitched. But he said nothing else. Instead, he walked back toward the windows, phone in hand, already vanishing into whatever empire level war he was orchestrating next. I stood there, robe tied too tightly, coffee cooling between my hands, wondering how the hell I was supposed to keep doing this. Pretending. Lying. Smiling when all I wanted was to scream at him, kiss him. Both.
God help me.