The contract was drawn up and signed less than two hours later by Thorne's top legal team. It was a masterpiece of corporate cynicism, detailing everything from the required carat weight of the engagement ring (minimum 4 carats, ethically sourced) to the mandated public display of affection (a maximum of two seconds of hand-holding, limited to photo opportunities).
Julian stood over Elena as she read the final clause: The parties agree this engagement is non-binding and purely commercial, dissolving automatically upon the successful acquisition of the Centurion Building, or 90 days from the signing date, whichever occurs first.
"Everything clear, Elena?" Julian asked. He referred to her by her first name now, but it still felt like a command.
She signed the document with a flourish. "Perfectly clear, Julian. You are purchasing an actor for three months."
He handed her a small, velvet box. The ring inside was a square-cut diamond that seemed to absorb and reflect all the light in the room, impossibly bright and cold.
"Put it on."
She slid the ring onto her left hand. It felt alien, heavy, and conspicuously wealthy. It wasn't just jewelry; it was a shackle of gold and ice, a promise to a lie.
"Now, let's establish the foundational rules of engagement before the jet arrives to take us to our first outing," Julian commanded, walking to the minimalist conference table.
He started listing them, hands spread on the table.
"Rule 1: Residency. For maximum believability, you will be moving into the penthouse immediately. My driver is on his way to collect anything you deem essential from your Queens apartment. I want you to maintain a visible presence. We are currently sharing a master suite, but sleeping arrangements are strictly platonic. You will have the guest wing for your actual
use."
"Agreed. I'll pack my paints first," Elena muttered, already thinking logistically.
"Rule 2: Public Persona. You are Elena Rosetti, Executive Assistant turned Philanthropist. You met me through work, but your passion is art and local community causes. You will be my softening agent. You must be impeccably warm and gracious at all times. No complaining. No visible exhaustion."
"That's just my usual job description with a better wardrobe," she said dryly.
"Rule 3: Contact. Unless absolutely necessary for a photo opportunity, or to address an external party, there will be no physical contact. Hand-holding, a brief touch on the arm, a chaste kiss for the camera—that is the limit. Inside the penthouse, we do not exist to each other outside of planning sessions."
"A truly romantic foundation," Elena noted, feeling the heavy silence of the tension settle between them. "Agreed. Separate wings, separate worlds."
"Rule 4: The Backstory. We met six months ago, secretly, at a benefit for the Metropolitan Museum. You challenged my views on modern art. I found your passion irresistible. We've been private until now, due to my work demands. Memorize it."
"A beautiful lie," she confirmed. "When is the debut?"
Julian consulted his phone. "Tonight. A last-minute substitution. The Governor's Annual Charity Gala for Inner City Youth. It's exactly the kind of event the Miller family loves to see their partners attending. The Miller matriarch, Agnes, will be there."
Elena closed her eyes briefly. A gala? Now?
"I don't have an appropriate gown."
"Your new wardrobe manager is waiting at the penthouse. She has five options. We depart in 90 minutes. You will be introduced as my fiancée, and your mission is simple: Charm Mrs. Agnes Miller."
Ninety minutes later, Elena was a different person. She stood in the colossal, echoing foyer of Julian's penthouse, barely recognizing her reflection. The dress was a midnight blue velvet, elegant and simple, hugging her figure in a way her usual corporate sheath dresses never did. Her hair was swept up, and the heavy diamond ring felt like a spotlight on her hand.
Julian stood by the door, already in a razor-sharp tuxedo, looking like a statue carved from ice and confidence.
"Ready?" he asked, his tone still professional.
"As I'll ever be," she replied, straightening her spine.
The journey to the gala was silent and tense. They arrived at the glittering, columned venue, stepping out of the car into a storm of flashes and shouts.
"Mr. Thorne, who is the lady?" "Is this the new fiancée?"
Julian's arm wrapped around her waist—the first deliberate, non-professional touch. His hand was warm, secure, and heavy against the thin velvet of her dress.
"Everyone," Julian announced, his voice carrying over the crowd, "this is Elena Rosetti. We are very happy."
The word 'happy' sounded utterly foreign on his lips.
They navigated the cocktail reception. Julian was stiff, offering curt nods and one-sentence answers. He was the CEO, not the fiancé. He hated this.
"Julian," Elena whispered, her face fixed in a public smile, her lips barely moving. "Loosen your tie. You look like a robot. Smile. Look at me like you just remembered I exist."
He shifted his gaze to her, the ice in his eyes briefly melting into confusion.
"I am smiling," he muttered back.
"That's a grimace, not a smile. Put your hand over mine, now. A protective, adoring gesture.
Performance."
He reluctantly complied, his hand covering hers on his arm. The warmth transferred, and a faint electric spark seemed to jump between them.
Elena steered him through the crowd until she spotted the target: Mrs. Agnes Miller, a formidable woman in pearls and tweed, currently holding court with a Senator.
"Agnes," Julian said smoothly, stepping into the circle, his social muscle memory kicking in. "It's a pleasure."
Agnes Miller's eyes, however, were fixed on Elena. "And who is this lovely young lady, Julian? You've certainly been keeping a secret."
Elena turned on the full wattage of her charm—the genuine, warm empathy she reserved for her friends and family, now deployed as a professional weapon.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Miller. I've heard so much about your dedication to the arts. I'm Elena Rosetti." She extended her hand, not for a handshake, but to lightly touch the woman's elbow—a gesture of intimacy and respect.
"Julian is a menace, you know," Agnes joked, but her smile was genuine.
"Oh, I know," Elena laughed, a silvery, honest sound that drew a small, stunned glance from Julian. "But he's a project. And beneath all the steel and glass, he truly cares about giving back to the city." She squeezed Julian's arm, projecting their fake connection. "That's what drew me in. His quiet commitment to the people who need it."
Agnes Miller looked from the beautiful, passionate young woman to the slightly bemused, impeccably dressed billionaire. She nodded slowly. "A softening influence, Julian. Very good. It's what you've always needed."
The conversation flowed seamlessly from there. Elena asked about Agnes's favorite local artists, discussing galleries she knew, and projecting an image of deep, community-focused stability. She had not only secured Julian's initial introduction but had turned the tide.
As they walked away an hour later, Julian finally let go of her waist as they entered the quieter hallway leading to the exit.
"You performed beyond expectations," he admitted, the compliment grudging but real. "You managed to make me sound like a human being who gives a damn."
"That's my job, now," Elena said, pulling the heavy diamond ring off her finger and placing it back into her small clutch. The absence of the ring felt suddenly light, almost painful. "But let's remember the rules, Julian. That was the performance. Now it's just the costumer and the director. Goodnight."
She turned and headed toward his waiting car, leaving Julian Thorne, the ruthless, calculating CEO, standing alone in the quiet hallway, feeling the strange, lingering phantom heat of her hand on his arm. He had purchased stability for his company, but he had just let pure, unpredictable chaos into his life.