Elle
The office door slammed behind Camila, and the sound crawled down my spine. She just stood there, staring like I'd grown a second head. Or worse, conjured a wealthy, gloomy fiancé out of thin air.
"Cam," I whispered, my fingers tightening around her cursed notebook like a shield. "Before you explode..."
"Before I—Elle, what the hell just happened out there?!" Her voice cracked with panic.
I winced. "Would you believe me if I said I was dropping off your notebook and accidentally got proposed to?"
Her glare could've sliced glass.
I shrugged. "It's fine," I said waving it off. "By next week, everyone will forget this ever happened."
Camila groaned, dragging me toward the far corner like the tall man in the room might overhear. "You really don't know who that was, do you? Damian Blackwell. My boss. Untouchable. Wealthy. One of the most sought-after men in New York."
I blinked. "Huh. That explains the expensive jawline."
She nearly choked. "Elle, this isn't funny!"
But before she could say more, the door opened.
The air shifted. Heavy and cold. He stepped inside, gaze sweeping once before landing on me.
"Excuse us," he said.
Camila stiffened. "Sir—"
"I said, out." His tone left no room for argument. With one helpless look at me, she slipped past him and closed the door behind her.
Silence followed, thin and loud.
He walked across the room with slow, deliberate steps. "I should introduce myself properly, but I'm sure you know who I am. Damian Blackwell."
"Elle," I said, my voice smaller than I liked. "Marielle Morgan."
He studied me like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong box. "Do you have the faintest idea what you just stepped into?"
I forced a laugh. "Yeah. A very public, very casual proposal. I'm assuming your actual bride was running late, so I got the understudy role." I lifted a hand. "No problem. Tomorrow, we call it off, blame it on the champagne, and everyone moves on."
For a second, I thought I'd defused it. Then he laughed. Low, sharp. The kind of laugh that meant trouble. "It doesn't work that way, Elle."
The words landed like a stone in my gut, heavy and cold.
He didn't smile. "That wasn't a stunt I can fix with a press release. I'm a public figure. This..." he gestured between us, "...is now a story. We'll have to carry it for months—appearances, dinners, headlines. That's the only way to control it."
I stared at him. The audacity. "Wow! Isn't this fascinating? And here I was, a sweet little girl who wanted popcorn and 'The Crowned Heart' without accidentally becoming a tabloid headline."
"Respectfully, sir," I forced a smile but my eyes stayed cold. "I don't care how this affects you. I'm out of here."
His face went harder. "Of course. I should've guessed. Your type always runs when it gets difficult. But if it's money you want…" He dipped his hand into his pocket like he'd done the same gesture a hundred times. "You'll be compensated. Generously."
"My type?" My laugh came out too quick, too sharp.
"Girls who stumble into the spotlight, suddenly realize the pressure, then look for a payout. I've seen it before."
My jaw clenched until it ached, words like sparks fighting to break free. I stepped closer, voice slicing the air. "Listen carefully, Mr Blackhole," I twisted his name like venom. "You should be grateful I saved you from embarrassing yourself."
His jaw ticked, the only sign he felt it.
"You think you did me a favour? You only made things worse. You don't understand the weight of what you've stepped into."
"Then enlighten me." I leaned back against the chair, trying to sound calm. "Because from where I'm standing, I just saved you from becoming tomorrow's joke."
He reached for the notebook. Our hands brushed. Skin against skin, quick and unplanned.
The spark hit like fire under my skin.
My vision ripped open like lightning, and suddenly I wasn't there anymore.
He was alone in this office. Papers scattered. A speakerphone blaring angry voices. Two men in suits, cold and sharp:
"Without an heir," one said, "the board will force a transfer to your uncle. The company won't stay in your hands much longer."
Damian's fist slammed the desk. His face went white with something that wasn't anger—fear. He looked like a man on the edge of being erased.
"…they can't take it from me," his voice broke in the vision, low and desperate. "It's my company. My father's legacy…"
Then it was gone.
I staggered back into the present, air rushing into my lungs. My hand trembled where it had brushed his.
"You were going to lose it," I whispered before I could stop myself. My voice shook. "The company. They said they'd take it if you didn't produce an heir."
The room froze.
His eyes locked on mine, sharp and furious now, like I'd just peeled back a secret I wasn't supposed to touch.
"How," each word came out slowly and clipped, "do you know that?"
I opened my mouth, but the truth stuck in my throat. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, I touched your hand and saw your secret like a movie reel?
The door cracked open.
"Sir?" Camila's voice came fast and shaky. "Sorry to interrupt, but some of the investors are leaving early. They want to see you before leaving."
Damian didn't move. His eyes never left me—cold, sharp, like he was reading me.
I grabbed the distraction like a lifeline. "Here." I shoved the notebook toward Camila. "Your precious book. Guard it with your life. Apparently, my new side hustle is accidental fiancée."
Her hand stretched, but his caught the book instead. His fingers brushed mine, slower this time, deliberate.
"You know her?"
Camila swallowed hard. "She's... my best friend, sir. My roommate."
He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting just a "Your best friend," he repeated. "Interesting."
I yanked my hand back, heart slamming, and slipped past them before he could stop me.
"See you at home, Cam and... congrats, Damian. Guess we just had our first fight as an engaged couple."
I slipped out before he could say a word, his silence chasing me down the hall.
I didn't look back. But his stare followed me, and I knew this wasn't over. No, it was just beginning.