SIX YEARS LATER

The smell of burnt sugar filled the kitchen.

Merry Steele coughed, jolting out of her deep thoughts and waving smoke away with one hand as she yanked the pan off the stove.

The caramel had gone too far again. Bitter, blackened, useless. Just like her mood.

"Damn it," she cursed.

Her apron was dusty with flour. Her hair was tied in a messy bun that had started slipping hours ago.

The clock on the wall read 5:47 a.m. She had been up since four, fighting a failing oven and ringing the plumber over a leaking pipe, trying to prepare pastries that barely sold enough to keep the lights on.

Outside, the early winter sky was pale and cold.

She scraped the ruined sugar into the trash and leaned both palms on the counter, breathing slowly.

Rent was overdue. Her father's medication cost more every month. Her sister's college tuition reminder sat unread on her phone. And the landlord had already hinted that his patience was running thin.

She closed her eyes shut.

History seems to be repeating itself. Don't think about him.

The thought came anyway.

Snow. A voice. A face that hardly softened.

Her chest tightened.

She turned up the mp3 player to drown it out.

****

****

Damon Blackwell stood in front of a wall of windows seventy three floors above the street, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler. The city woke far downstairs with cars horning and people moving.

He felt nothing.

Behind him, a voice cleared. "You were late yesterday."

Damon didn't turn. "I own my time."

Jeffery sighed. "You also own responsibilities."

"Spare me that, Jeff."

Silence.

Damon finally turned. His suit was immaculate. His face beautifully carved from discipline.

The man had no softness left in him. No warmth. Just control.

"Board meeting's in an hour," Jeffery said. "They're watching you closely."

"They always are."

"You're still unstable, man. Your father's going crazy about it."

Damon's jaw flexed. "I'm keeping their money safe. That should satisfy them."

"It doesn't. You need to clean up your image," Thomas added. "No scandals. No explosions. They enjoy your diligence but...."

Damon's eyes darkened.

"Say what you mean." He said.

"I mean," Jeffery said carefully, "you need a woman."

Silence slammed between them.

"A fiancée. A wife. A presence. Someone who makes you look human."

Damon let out a slow, humorless breath. "I don't pretend to love."

"You said you did it once."

"Fuck you, Jeffery. I was drunk."

Jeffery grinned. "Think about it. I can always help with the preparations."

When the door shut, Damon finally moved-one hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles whitened.

His chest burned.

A familiar pressure crawled up his throat.

Not now.

He reached for the drawer and pulled out the pill bottle. Shook it once. Twice.

Empty.

His breath hitched.

The memory came uninvited.

Snow. A door. Her voice saying his name like it meant something.

He slammed the drawer shut.

He buzzed the intercom.

"Mrs Harvey. Send my pills in now."

****

****

Merry dropped a tray of cupcakes onto the display shelf just as her phone buzzed.

A message from the bank.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

Her throat tightened.

She leaned against the counter, dizzy.

"Breathe," she whispered.

The bell above the door jingled as her waitress walked in late, offering a rushed greeting and apology. Merry nodded, barely hearing her.

She wiped her hands and checked her messages again.

A new message notification flashed across the screen.

From: BlackByte Corporate Affairs.

Her heart slammed.

She didn't open it.

Five years ago, she'd walked away from a boy who couldn't love her out loud.

Now the man he'become was suddenly knocking on her life again.

She stared at the unopened email, fingers trembling.

Don't.

She clicked it anyway.

"We would like to formally invite you to discuss a business proposition involving a private culinary contract..."

Her breath caught.

The name at the bottom burned through her eyes.

Damon Blackwell.

The room swam.

She closed her eyes-and for a split second, she could hear his voice again.

"I just need space."

Her hands shook.

"No," she whispered. "Not again."

Across the city, Damon stared at his reflection in the glass.

His phone buzzed.

A notification from his assistant.

"She opened the message. No reply yet."

His chest tightened painfully.

****

****

It was three days now and Merry Steele wasn't showing any sign of interest.

The phone buzzed.

Merry glanced at the screen, frowned at the unfamiliar number, then answered.

"Yes?"

A cold yet soothing tenor came in.

"Hello, Merry Steele. Damon Blackwell on the line. You're invited to BlackByte tomorrow...."

No greeting. No introduction.

She blinked once. "Pardon?"

A pause. Calm. Annoyingly sure of itself.

"You heard me, Steele."

Her mouth curved slightly - not a smile. More like disbelief.

"Ah...." she said. "Behold the audacity."

"Call it anything. You'll report to BlackByte by 12 today," he continued. "You'll be compensated well."

"You're calling a stranger and issuing commands. Is this how you usually introduce business?"

"I don't waste time."

"Sadly, you've wasted some today."

Controlled irritation slipped into his voice. Just a bit.

"Stop being difficult!"

Merry laughed softly. Dry. "No, I'm being sensible. There's a difference."

"You applied here...."

"Years ago," she corrected. "Stupidest attempt of my life."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I need someone competent," he said. "You'll do."

"You don't need me."

"You're overthinking this."

"And you're underthinking basic respect."

"You'll regret turning this down."

Her smile vanished.

"That line only works when I care. But, sadly, I don't."

A breath on the other end. Sharper now.

"Be at my office tomorrow."

"No."

Flat. Clean. Final.

She ended the call.

Her phone buzzed instantly.

She didn't look at it.

Merry exhaled slowly, irritation boiling all through her mind.

Not because he was intimidating.

But because he'd spoken like someone used to being obeyed, and she hated that it still made her spine straighten.

She won the local cooking competition again.

Merry Steele was still smiling as she finished thanking the townspeople for their support and for choosing her kitchen again.

She hoped this win would finally revive her failing Merry's Kitchen. Rumors had been killing her business, and she needed every set of eyes and mouths in that crowd.

She stepped down the wooden staircase behind the podium while her friend and co-host, Samantha, continued speaking in that forever-loud voice of hers.

She looked at her bank statement and frowned, pushing a hand into her hair with fear.

She needed fresh air.

Merry didn't make it past two steps when she froze.

Her breath died.

Holy Christ...

Standing right in front of her was Damon Blackwell. Dark, dangerous and devastatingly handsome. His sculpted face, his sharp jaw, those cold blue eyes that always saw too much.

Two bulky men in dark suits stood on either sides of him, though he looked like the only protection they needed.

Damon stood tall and proud, but he looked surprised too.

Of course, there was enough to surprise him.

By seeing how his eyes quickly flickered to her bosom and down, Merry knew he had also acknowledged that she'd gotten curvier through their years apart.

He didn't waste time.

Just gave a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes and said:

"Talk?"

Her voice had disappeared, but her body didn't. She nodded and followed him before her pride kicked in and she matched his long strides.

"We can talk here," she said sharply.

He stopped. Turned. Amused.

A single look and his guards retreated even though they didn't stand far.

Merry crossed her arms.

"What do you want, Mr... Blackwell?"

His face hardened.

Dauntless and angered at realizing he was trying to make her feel nervous, she looked him straight up in those deep blue eyes and for a moment, he was surprised she could dare. He continued.

"Miss Steele, I'm here with an offer."

He paused.

"Your kitchen is going down, I hear." he said lightly.

Silence.

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm glad to confirm you're good at what you do, so I want you as my cook. It comes with perks. You will also pretend to be my fiancée..." His eyes dipped to her mouth. "...and you'll be my fuckmate until December 31st."

The world went quiet.

Merry looked away from his face, her heart beating like a wardrum.

Her mind was going berserk with thoughts.

Crazy thoughts and then she realized....

She was heating up and sexual thoughts swamped her mind.

He'd only said the word FUCKMATE and....

Was it the way he said it or....?

Was it the whole idea of it?

She forced her voice steady.

"What made you think-?"

"You need the money," he cut in.

"Don't." She glared. "Go away from me."

"The pay is a hundred thousand dollars a week. I expect your answer at ten in the morning."

"Damon, I hate you."

"You'll need to decide on that also. But I don't give you leave to. If there's anyone who should be hating the fuck out of the other person...." His voice was beginning to increase but he paused and internally corrected himself.

He only sent her a humorless smile and stepped back, straightening.

He turned and walked away, ignoring the crowd, moving like a man no one dared touch.

Merry stood trembling, lips quivering, trying not to fall apart.

Samantha saw everything and stormed toward her, heels clacking, her chest banging.

"Holy hell, Merry! What.... what does Damon Blackwell want? How did he find you? Oh my god....I'm not very good at calming you down but that was your campus...."

Samantha couldn't even finish for her lips rounded in an 'O'.

Merry wiped her mouth and ran a shaky hand through her hair. Samantha guided her to the porch swing-her place of calm.

"Sam... Damon wants me to be his cook."

Samantha blinked. "Father lord- What does that even mean?"

Merry explained quickly, voice uneven.

Samantha shook her head and took Merry's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"This is insane, Merry. Fucking crazy but listen. Think with your heart and your brain. If you want it, you choose it. If not, walk away. You know who you are, girl."

"I'm ashamed to know I want to but.... Why did he find me? Why did he meet me in particular? What does he want with me?"

But Merry couldn't say what scared her most-the spark between them that came alive the second she saw him, or her fear that he didn't feel it too.

Dangerous chemistry rushed back. His hands. His mouth. The memories she had buried for years.

And then a slow smile curled on her lips.

"Of course," she whispered. "I'd love to find out."

****

****

Merry parked outside H-E-B, stomped out her cigarette, and walked in to the pharmacy aisle. She reached for three boxes of Durex condoms without shame, paid, and strutted out.

People stared. She didn't care.

Her dress was shorter. Her heels higher. Her mind set.

She couldn't stop imagining Damon naked.

She knew exactly what he was doing-but she could control her feelings. This was just a game.

And she would win.

She got into her car humming softly, adrenaline and lust mixing in her blood.

She was ready.

Merrillyn zoomed off.

Ready to face Damon Blackwell.

Ready to shock him.

Ready to drown him.

****

****

She gave small smiles to the staffs who stared at her. Only courtesy made them look away and mind their businesses.

Of course, she was breathtakingly hot.

Secretaries and receptionists were everywhere.

Merry stepped past the BLACKBYTE reception desk and caught a few lingering stares from the staff.

It was precisely 10:00am when the secretary finished recording Merry's information and calling Mr Blackwell.

The blonde lady then showed Merry the elevator that would take her to floor 67. She then informed Merry that the door opposite the elevator was where she would be directed to and an assistant would help her.

She explained that floor 67 was the waiting room for visitors and Mr Blackwell would pick her there.

Merry nodded and turned only to see Damon Blackwell casually striding past. Their eyes met and Damon stared her down like she was some unwanted air.

Merry didn't mind.

Taking the cue, Merry walked after him.

With the help of his personal key card, they were heading for executive floor 70.

Merry raised her chin and looked at him.

"You seem very eager for me."

"As I said, you're likely going to make a good cook."

"Likely." She said, dryly. "You came yesterday with more polished words. They caught me unawares."

Silence.

"You shouldn't have worn what you're wearing." Damon said and looked at her.

She looked him squarely on the face.

"You elaborated the nature of the business, didn't you?" She asked, softly and touched his arm.

He looked up at the dark, nearly-invisible elevator ceiling.

She knew she was scaring him and nostalgia hit her.

A memory of them talking about how they saw the future where she'd touched his arm, asked him if they'd be together after graduation-in that soft voice -and he'd stared up at nothing and she'd laughed it off.

Now, she had a gentle hand on his arm and it seemed to take same immediate effect which he clearly didn't like.

"Billionaire, you need a woman, huh?" She cooed. "What for?"

"And you shouldn't be touching me, Miss Steele."

"Why so?"

"We've not concluded. You need to keep the good impression."

"I meant, why do you keep everything so friggin' official, Blackwell? Yeah, you'll pay but I'd be happy if you dropped the whole "missy" thing."

He looked at her now and his eyes were dark with anger.

At that, he grabbed her hand off his arm and pinned her back to the wall.

"Don't play with me, Steele." He growled dangerously, and Merry giggled.

"Well...." She said. "I prefer the name 'Steele' without that 'Missy' word backing it up."

The elevator dinged open. His office unfolded-floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp lines, cold colors, some flower vases and perfect order.

A perfect view of the bustling californian city.

It was beyond luxury and elegance.

She sat before he ordered her to.

Merry's eyes drifted-not to him, but to the desk.

Her fingers reached out without thinking, brushing a slim metal pill case near his blotter, cool under her touch.

Damon's gaze followed the movement instantly.

"Don't touch that," he said, too quick, too sharp-for something that small.

She stopped, then withdrew her hand as if she'd touched something private.

"Damon," she said plainly, "we both know this is a sweet opportunity. And we both know I'd do a fucking good job with everything you described yesterday. Don't drag this. I've got a handful of things to deal with."

"Don't swear around here. This is...."

He avoided her eyes.

She stood, walked around the desk, and stopped right in front of him.

His jaw tightened.

"We're wasting time," she murmured.

She lifted her leg and pressed her heel right at the crease between his torso and thighs one tiny inch from the masculine bulge beneath his suit pants.

He flinched, shocked she'd dare.

"What are you doing, Merry?"

"Showing you what you've been missing for months. And what I could take away again."

He tried to stay composed. He failed.

Her foot moved only lightly and his hip jerked. Their eyes locked. She smiled.

Then she stepped back.

Damon grabbed her waist instantly-reflex, instinct, maybe memory.

"Don't touch me, Damon. The job hasn't been taken yet. And until it is, you don't get access."

She guided his hands off her body.

He was silent. His jaw tight. His eyes dark. His hip stiff.

She cupped the back of his head, massaging slowly. "Relax. Can't believe you still want me that bad."

His voice rasped, "Steele. Just sex. Forget what you're thinking. I just want your body."

"Damon," Merry said evenly, "we both know why I'm here. You need control. Appearances. Someone who fits the picture and won't bore you to death."

She sat and leaned back, crossing her legs. "And I'm good at my job."

His jaw tightened. "This isn't a game."

"No," she said softly. "It's an arrangement. A family problem, I guess."

She stood and walked slowly to the glass desk, slow enough to make him aware of every step.

"We're wasting time. Aren't you excited about being my fiancé?" she murmured.

Damon didn't move. Didn't look at her. But the tension in him gave him away.

"Just sex," he said at last, like a warning. "No complications."

Merry laughed quietly. "What else did you think it'd be about."

Then, she went to sit again, smirking back into his watchful blue eyes.

"Give me the fucking contract papers, Damon Blackwell. I'll need a good lawyer."

Damon was suddenly in front of her. He slipped his hand into her hair.

"What....?"

Damon only smirked softly and stepped back.

****

****

As Merry walked out of the lawyer's office, she smiled softly.

Three missed calls.

All from Samantha.

Merry smiled faintly and didn't return them yet.

When the elevator opened into the lobby, Damon was already there.

Waiting.

Not pacing. Not watching the doors. Just standing, hands in his pockets, coat on, expression neutral.

"You don't linger," he said, walking beside her without looking.

"I like efficiency." He pushed open the glass doors. "Your contract's digital copy will be emailed within the hour. NDA included. Violation penalties are... severe."

She stepped into the afternoon light. Cameras across the street shifted, curiously.

Merry noticed. Damon didn't need to.

He stopped just short of the curb. Cars rolled past. The city pretended not to care.

"You cook," Damon said. "You attend what I attend. You don't speak to the press unless approved. You don't improvise."

She turned to face him, eyes bright. "You just hired me to improvise your life."

A pause.

Then, Damon spoke: "You don't fall in love with me."

Merry tilted her head, teasing. "Too late to make that rule."

Then, she huffed, irritated.

"WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE EVEN WORTH LOVING?"

His jaw flexed. "You don't use the past also."

"Then don't make me talk about it," she said simply.

Another pause. Longer.

Finally, he nodded once. Not agreement. Acceptance.

"My driver will pick you up at seven," he said. "You're moving into the penthouse tonight."

"Not tonight, Damon. I have my kitchen staffs to deal with first. Tomorrow."

"I want efficiency."

She smiled, slow and knowing. "You're already breaking my own rules, Damon. You'll have to manage me."

He met her gaze then. Really met it.

"This is temporary," he said. "You leave at year-end."

Merry stepped back, the noise of the city rushing in between them.

She walked away before he could answer.

Across the street, a phone lifted. A photo snapped.

Damon watched her go, something tight settling behind his chest.

****

****

Morning came too bright.

Damon was already awake when the glass walls of the penthouse began to shine with sunlight.

He stood at the window, shirt half-buttoned, coffee untouched on the counter behind him. His reflection stared back, eyes rimmed dark, hair tousled, jaw set too tight, like sleep had been a personal insult.

He hadn't looked at the bed since he rose.

Merry was going to be there soon. Curled on her side. Breathing. Sleeping.

That was the problem.

He turned away before the thought finished forming.

His phone buzzed.

A message from his father.

"Board meeting moved forward. PREPARE. Your image matters more than ever. Don't embarrass me. Have you gotten that fiancée?"

Damon locked the screen without replying.

The elevator ride up to his office was silent and brutal.

By the time he reached the executive floor, the mask was back in place.

Cold, precise, impenetrable.

The moment he stepped out, everything irritated him.

"Good morning, sir," his assistant said too brightly.

He didn't answer.

A junior analyst trailed him with a tablet, voice eager. "Few minutes ago, the board rescheduled the meeting to eleven-"

"I said nine," Damon snapped without breaking stride.

"Yes, sir, but Martin's office called-"

Damon stopped so abruptly the analyst nearly collided with him.

"I don't care what Martin's office wants," he said quietly.

The quiet was worse than shouting.

The analyst swallowed. "Understood, sir."

They moved again. Faster.

A catered breakfast sat untouched. Someone had chosen pastries with powdered sugar. Damon stared at them like they were an offense.

"Who ordered this?" he asked.

A staffer raised her hand hesitantly. "You usually-"

"Get it out," he said. "Now."

She scrambled.

His assistant tried again, cautiously. "Sir, if you'd like to postpone-"

"No. Call them in now."

The word landed hard.

A steel case slipped from someone's hand. Damon flinched at the sound before he could stop himself.

The room noticed.

His fingers curled slowly at his side.

Unacceptable.

"Why are you all standing there?" he snapped coldly. "If you don't have something useful to add, leave."

They left.

Too fast.

Too obedient.

When the door shut, Damon gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. He stared at the polished surface until his reflection blurred.

Control. He needed control.

His hand went where it always did-automatic, unthinking.

Nothing.

He paused.

He checked the blotter. The pen. The edge of the desk.

His hand moved again, slower this time. He shifted a folder. Checked the corner. Ran his fingers along the smooth surface like the answer might be hiding in plain sight.

The pill case was gone.

The reaction was immediate and sharp. Not panic but worse.

He straightened, jaw tightening, breath measured. He stood very still, counting once. Twice.

He never misplaced anything.

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

His fingers closed around something that did not belong to him.

****

****

At lunchtime, Merry ate with him publicly.

Dressed. Calm. Watching him like she already knew.

"You yelled at three people," she said mildly, setting a mug down on the table. "One of them almost cried."

"I pay them well," he replied. "They'll recover."

She didn't argue. Didn't smile.

"That wasn't about them. You're acting and I think I'll enjoy some parts of your show. Not all, though."

He froze just for a fraction of a second.

"What do you mean, Steele?"

"You're in trouble somehow," she said. Not a question.

Silence thickened.

He poured himself coffee he wouldn't drink. "You don't get to diagnose me."

"No," she agreed easily. "But I get to notice patterns. You get cruel when you're scared of things."

His jaw tightened.

"You were shaking," she said softly. "Your hands. You didn't even notice."

That hit.

He set the cup down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim.

"This arrangement," he said coldly, "does not include emotional analysis."

Merry held his gaze, unflinching.

"Then stop making me see your weaknesses," she said. "Be extra-cold."

Damon looked like he would strangle her.