Elena stood in front of the massive walk-in closet, staring at a sea of designer dresses, shoes, and handbags—each one probably worth more than three months of her rent. She hadn't even unpacked, yet this world was already swallowing her.
A knock came at the door.
"It's time," Ava called through the wood.
Elena exhaled and stepped into the sleek navy-blue evening dress Ava had laid out. It hugged her in ways she wasn't used to—tastefully elegant, but clearly meant to make her look like she belonged in Damien Cross's world.
The dining room was dark wood and chrome, with a floor-to-ceiling view of the city skyline. Damien sat at the head of the long table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, wine glass in hand.
He glanced up as she entered.
Something unreadable flickered across his face.
"You clean up well," he said. "I was half-expecting rags."
She sat opposite him, lifting her chin. "And I was half-expecting horns."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Touché."
A waiter entered silently and served roasted lamb with truffle potatoes. The smell alone made her stomach growl.
"So," she said, picking up her fork, "is this dinner part of the 'training'?"
"In a way," Damien said. "I need to know how you think, how you react, how easily you lie."
Elena froze. "Lie?"
"To the world. Everyone will believe you're in love with me. You'll smile for cameras. Hold my hand like you can't live without it." He leaned forward. "Can you do that?"
She met his gaze, steady. "I've smiled through worse."
Damien looked almost impressed.
"Good," he said. "Because tomorrow night, we're attending the Whitmore Charity Gala. It'll be crawling with cameras and socialites. You'll be introduced as my fiancée."
She blinked. "That fast?"
"Always act like you belong, Elena. The rich smell fear."
She didn't respond. Her instincts screamed that he was testing her constantly, measuring every word and glance.
"And what about your story?" she asked after a moment. "If I'm supposed to be your doting fiancée, I need to know you, don't I?"
Damien's expression darkened just slightly.
"I own fifty-one percent of Cross & Vale," he said. "My father started it, but I built it. I don't have siblings. My mother died when I was twenty-one. I don't do relationships. And I don't let anyone get close enough to hurt me."
His tone was flat—rehearsed, maybe—but she caught something behind the words. A bitterness.
"What happened to you?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her, unblinking. "Curiosity will get you burned."
Elena swallowed the rest of her questions.
Dinner ended in silence. She stood, ready to escape back to her suite when Damien said, "One more thing."
She turned slowly.
He walked over to her, his steps measured. Close now. Closer than was polite.
"You'll need this," he said, slipping something into her palm.
She opened her hand.
A diamond ring. Massive. Sparkling. Beautiful.
"I—" she began.
"It's fake," he cut in. "But no one else needs to know that."
She slipped it on. It felt heavy. Not from weight—but from everything it represented.
"You're not just playing my fiancée tomorrow night, Elena. You are her. Every blink, every touch, every whispered word."
"I understand," she said softly.
He studied her again—like she was a puzzle he hadn't decided if he liked yet.
"Then get some sleep," Damien said finally, stepping back. "Tomorrow, we put on a show."
---
That night, Elena lay awake staring at the ceiling.
She was about to step into a lie so grand it could either save her or destroy her.
And as much as she hated to admit it, one thing had become alarmingly clear:
She wasn't entirely sure which outcome scared her more.