Elle
The door clicked and Camila walked in, dropping her bag by the hall table like always.
I didn't even give her a second to breathe. "Your boss," I snapped, grabbing a cushion and tossing it onto the couch like it was his face. "Is the most arrogant, selfish man alive. I finally get it, this is what you deal with every day."
Her shoulders stiffened as she bent to take off her shoes, slow, cautious. "Elle…"
"No, don't 'Elle' me." I paced the living room, the walls suddenly too close. My hands wouldn't stay still. "He stood there like I ruined his life, like I begged for this. Do you know what he said? That we have to keep this ridiculous little show going for months. Months, Camila! As if I don't have my own life outside of his drama."
Camila sank onto the couch, lips pressed together like she was holding back words.
"This is the best part," I laughed sharp and humorless. "He tried to pay me. Like I was some extra on a set. Not even a proper contract. Just throw cash at me like I'd sell myself cheap. Not like I would have gone with it but at least..." I laughed more.
She twisted her fingers in her lap, voice small. "Maybe he didn't mean it like that."
"Please." I cut her a look, every nerve buzzing. "Cam, the man is ice. He meant it."
The room went quiet except for my ragged breath. I dropped onto the couch beside her, rubbing my face with both hands. "I still think this is a bad dream. Any minute I'll wake up, popcorn in hand, scrolling through Netflix instead of... this."
Camila gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Elle… maybe you should just go along with it. At least tomorrow night."
My head turned slow. "Go along with what?"
"There's a dinner. With his family." Her voice was quiet, careful. "He told me to tell you."
The words hit like cold water. My mouth fell open. "Dinner? With him? Cam, do you even hear yourself? You're joking."
She bit her lip. "Come on, it's one night. You smile, eat, then it's over."
"Never! No way," I sat up straighter, scoffing. "I'm not walking into that, it's insane." I laughed, loud, the sound filling the room. The mere thought of it alone was hilarious.
Camila flinched. "Insane? Elle, insane is telling him about your vision. What were you thinking?!"
The words landed cold. My laugh died and silence pressed in. I stared at the ceiling, then back down at my own hands.
"I know it looks bad," I muttered, softer now, "but it can't be that bad, Cam."
Her eyes finally met mine, sharp, furious. "You don't just tell a man like Damian Blackwell something like that. You don't hand him a weapon against you."
"It wasn't a weapon, Cam. It was the truth. You don't even want to know what I saw this time?"
Her hands pressed hard against her knees. "Can you take this seriously for once?! You just got engaged to the most powerful man in Newyork city, and you told him about his secret. How unreasonable can you be?"
I wanted to argue. To laugh it off. Instead I sank deeper into the couch, arms crossed, the energy bleeding out of me. I have never seen her this angry before.
She gave a tired sigh. "Elle… he doesn't play. Not with his company. And you just dragged me into your mess. I didn't sign up for any of this."
The words stung. She stood, muttering something about a shower, and padded down the hall.
Left alone, I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. My chest wouldn't settle. For a second, I wondered if I really had pushed too far.
Then I whispered into the empty room, almost daring it to disagree:
"No. If he wants a game, he'll get one."
Damian
7:42 p.m.
The tie sat clean against my collar, cuffs sharp. I hated waiting. I pulled out my phone and dialed.
"Sir?"
"Is she ready?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Text me the address. Now." I didn't wait for her reply before cutting the call.
When the message came through, I read it twice. A street name that didn't match the picture in my head. I drove out anyway.
The neighborhood rose around me. Quiet, polished, not low-class but not elite either. A careful middle ground. Too clean.
My car rolled slow until the numbers aligned. I stared at the building, brickwork neat, blinds drawn. No way.
I called again. Camila answered on the second ring.
"Are you sure?" My voice cut the air. "This address. This house."
"Yes, sir. I can see your car from the window."
I tilted my head, spotting a faint shadow moving behind the binds.
"Fine. Tell her to come down," I said. My hand tightened around the wheel. "I don't like waiting."
I ended the call before she could breathe another word. For a moment I sat there, staring at the building like it was mocking me. It didn't add up. Elle Morgan and Camila didn't fit this picture. Not this street. Not this house.
Someone was paying. Someone with money.
My mouth curved, humorless. "So that's it, huh? Some rich fool keeping you comfortable. Probably the kind who thinks buying a woman a roof makes him a man." I tapped the wheel once, sharp. "Figures. Women like you don't end up in places like this on their own."
Men like me didn't believe in coincidences.
I muttered into the quiet, "So who's keeping you, Elle?"
Then I leaned back, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the show to begin.
Elle
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dress Camila had laid out. I didn't move. I wasn't going to.
"Elle, you seriously need to start getting ready," Camila said from the doorway, arms crossed tight.
"I said I'm not going," I shot back, sharper than I meant to. "I'd rather eat nails than sit through dinner with him."
She stepped inside, voice rising. "Do you even hear yourself? It's one dinner. Just get dressed!"
I turned, eyes narrowing. "Why are you pushing this so hard? Since when do you care if I play along with your arrogant boss?"
Her lips parted, but she shut them quick. Too quick.
I stood, crossing the room until we were face to face. "No, seriously, Camila. Why are you acting like it's more than just your job? You've been weird all day. Avoiding me. Fingers twitching. Not looking me in the eye."
"Elle, please, don't..." she tried, but I grabbed her hand before she could finish.
And then it saw it.
His office, cold and sharp. Damian leaning back in his chair, eyes like steel. His voice cutting into her: "if you want to keep this job, you'll watch her. You'll pay attention. And when you see something you've missed, you'll bring it to me."
The image slammed into me and then it was gone. I gasped, my grip on her hand loosening.
When I came back, she was staring at me, pale.
"You didn't tell me," I said, voice low. My chest burned. "Were you planning to actually tell on me?"
Her head shook fast. "No, Elle, never. I would never do that to you."
"Then why hide it?" I pressed. "Why let me walk around clueless while he's pulling your strings?"
"Because I know how you are. You'd do something drastic, and he already knows too much. He's outside right now. I don't want him hearing us."
Something turned hard inside me at her words. If Damian thought he could use her to control me, he had no idea what kind of game he'd started.
"Fine. I'll go to that dinner. But on my own terms."
Before I could let the thought settle, a sharp knock rattled the door downstairs.
Camila's eyes went wide. She rushed out of the room.
A moment later, I heard it—the deep, even voice that made my skin crawl.
"Good evening."
Damian.
He stood in the entryway like he owned the place, a dark shape against the soft light. His tie was sharp, his presence sharper. Camila hovered beside the door, wringing her hands.
His eyes flicked up the moment he saw me. They didn't move away.
"You're late," he said simply, as if I had kept him waiting.
I planted a hand on the couch. "I wasn't planning on coming at all."