Chapter 6: Fake Girlfriend, Real Attitude
The pen clattered to the desk.
Elena's hand refused to move, muscles stiff with panic and rage. Damon's smirk didn't falter—of course it didn't. He leaned lazily against the edge of the desk, fangs flashing in the dim light like some goddamn warning sign.
"Having trouble committing?" he teased, voice silk wrapped around steel.
Her chest heaved. "You're insane if you think I'm signing my life away to some… some bloodsucking psycho billionaire."
He chuckled low, shaking his head. "Always with the mouth." He leaned down, so close his lips nearly brushed her ear. "It'll get you in trouble, sweetheart. The kind you'll beg for."
Elena shoved him back, hard. "Don't play with me."
Damon straightened, buttoning his cuff like nothing rattled him. "I don't play. I win." He tapped the folder with a long finger. "And this is me being merciful. Without that contract, you're exposed. People will notice you. Enemies will come sniffing. And trust me—compared to them, I'm your fucking guardian angel."
Her pulse thudded in her ears. "Why me? Why bother? You could wipe my memory, couldn't you? Or kill me?"
He paused mid-movement, eyes narrowing. The silence stretched, heavy and sharp. Then he smiled again, cruel and beautiful.
"Because you're useful."
Her stomach flipped. "Useful how?"
Damon poured himself another glass of wine, calm again, like he hadn't just threatened to bleed her dry.
"Blackthorne Industries hosts a gala in two weeks. Every board member, every investor, every vulture in this city will be there. And I," he said, swirling the wine, "need a date."
Elena blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A fake girlfriend," he clarified, lips curving. "One who looks good on my arm, distracts the gossipers, and keeps the press busy. Someone fiery enough to make it look real."
Her mouth dropped open. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Deadly serious." He sipped his wine, unbothered. "Sign the contract, play the role, and you live. Don't…" His eyes darkened. "Well, you already know the alternative."
Elena barked a bitter laugh. "So I'm your beard? Your prop? A shiny toy to make you look good in front of the rich assholes?"
Damon tilted his head, smile spreading. "Exactly. Except you're not a toy. You bite back."
Her blood boiled. "You're un-fucking-believable."
"Thank you," he said with mock sincerity.
She started pacing, muttering curses under her breath. "This is insane. I don't even like you."
"Lie," he said instantly.
Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"You don't like me," he drawled, stepping toward her, "but you want me. There's a difference. And it's written all over you, sweetheart."
Elena felt heat crawl up her neck, but she masked it with fury. "In your delusional dreams."
Damon only smiled wider, predatory.
She grabbed the contract and waved it in his face. "Let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend at some billionaire blood orgy—"
"It's a charity gala," he corrected smoothly.
"—and in exchange, I don't end up dead?"
"Now you're catching on."
"You're a fucking lunatic."
"And you're signing," he shot back.
Her hands shook. She wanted to tear the papers in half, wanted to scream, wanted to run. But his eyes—icy, unrelenting—pinned her in place. There was no out. Not really.
With a curse, she slammed the folder shut. "Fine. But only because I don't feel like being your midnight snack."
His smirk softened into something smug and satisfied. "That's my girl."
Elena scowled. "Don't call me that."
"You'll get used to it."
She shoved past him, heading for the elevator. "Don't hold your breath."
"Sweetheart," he called after her, voice wicked, "I don't breathe."
Her stomach twisted. She jabbed the elevator button, refusing to look back.
The next morning, Elena woke in her tiny apartment, hoping to God it had been a nightmare.
But the thick envelope on her counter said otherwise.
Damon's contract. Delivered by courier before dawn.
She groaned, face-planting into her pillow. "What the fuck have I gotten myself into?"
Two weeks blurred by in a haze of dread. Damon didn't call, didn't text, didn't show—until the day of the gala.
Her buzzer screamed, and when she opened the door, a garment bag hung on her knob. No note. No explanation. Just sleek, black, expensive fabric inside.
She cursed him the whole time she got ready, but when she zipped the dress on, she froze.
It was perfect. Sinfully perfect. A backless black gown that hugged every curve, slit high enough to make her blush, neckline plunging enough to scandalize.
Her reflection stared back in wide-eyed shock. She looked like she belonged on his arm.
The gala was held at the Blackthorne Hotel—his, of course. Elena climbed the marble steps, hating the click of her borrowed heels.
Cameras flashed instantly. She threw up a hand, glaring. "I'm not—"
"Relax," Damon's voice purred.
She turned—and there he was, in a tailored black suit that screamed money and danger. He slid his hand possessively around her waist before she could protest.
"She's with me," he announced smoothly to the press.
The reporters erupted, flashes popping, questions shouted.
"Mr. Blackthorne, who is she?"
"Is this your new girlfriend?"
"Care to comment on the engagement rumors?"
Elena's jaw dropped. Engagement what now?
Damon didn't miss a beat. He leaned down, brushing his lips against her ear. "Smile for the vultures, sweetheart. You're mine tonight."
She forced a stiff smile as they moved inside, his hand never leaving her waist.
"Engagement rumors?" she hissed under her breath.
"Relax," he said casually. "Keeps them guessing."
"You're insane."
"And you're stunning," he countered, eyes raking over her.
Her cheeks burned despite herself. "Don't."
"Don't what?" His smirk turned wolfish. "Compliment my girlfriend?"
"Fake girlfriend," she snapped.
"Details," he murmured.
The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and diamonds, filled with the richest, coldest people Elena had ever seen. They all turned as Damon entered, whispers spreading like wildfire.
"He brought someone."
"Who is she?"
"She's gorgeous. Dangerous, too."
Elena straightened her spine, meeting their stares with a glare of her own.
Damon leaned close, lips brushing her ear again. "That's it. Look untouchable. My perfect little lie."
Her pulse stuttered, heat pooling low despite her fury.
She hated him. She wanted him. And she was trapped.
As the gala swirled around them, Damon steered Elena toward a balcony. His hand slid lower on her back, possessive, his lips curving wickedly as he whispered, "Time to play the part, sweetheart. Kiss me, or they'll know you're fake."