I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine.

For a moment, I panicked—my heart racing, breath caught in my throat. Then I remembered.

Damien's penthouse. My new home. My new life.

I sat up slowly, taking in the guest room he'd given me. Calling it a "room" felt like an insult. It was bigger than my entire apartment had been. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. The bed was massive, covered in silk sheets that probably cost more than my car. There was a sitting area, a walk-in closet already filled with the clothes from yesterday's shopping spree, and a bathroom with a tub big enough to swim in.

This was temporary, I reminded myself. Six months. Then I'd take my five million and disappear.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Adrian:We need to talk.

Adrian:Emma, answer me.

Adrian:This is childish. Call me back.

Twelve missed calls. Twenty texts. All from last night after I'd turned my phone on silent.

I deleted every single one without reading the rest.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," I called, pulling the sheets up even though I was wearing perfectly modest pajamas.

The door opened, but it wasn't Damien. It was a woman in her fifties, elegant and composed, carrying a silver tray.

"Good morning, Miss Emma," she said with a warm smile. "I'm Margaret, Mr. Cross's housekeeper. I've brought you breakfast."

"Oh, you didn't have to"

"Mr. Cross insists." She set the tray on the bedside table. Coffee, fresh pastries, fruit, and what looked like an omelet that belonged in a restaurant. "He's already left for the office, but he asked me to make sure you're comfortable."

"He left?" I glanced at the clock. 6:47 AM. "It's barely seven."

"Mr. Cross is an early riser," Margaret said. "But he left this for you."

She handed me a note card. Heavy stock, expensive. The handwriting was sharp, precise.

Emma—

Make yourself at home. My credit card is in the kitchen drawer (black Amex, don't lose it). Buy whatever you need. Margaret will help you settle in.

We have dinner tonight at Rousseau's at 8 PM. Wear the navy dress.

—D

P.S. Don't answer Adrian's calls. It'll drive him crazy.

I couldn't help but smile at that last line.

"Mr. Cross mentioned you might need help unpacking?" Margaret asked.

"I don't really have much to unpack," I admitted. "Everything I own fit in three boxes."

Her expression softened with something that looked like sympathy, but she was too professional to comment.

"Well then," she said, "perhaps you'd like a tour of the penthouse? It's easy to get lost your first few days."

Damn!! Lost was an understatement.

Damien's penthouse took up the entire top floor of the building. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a kitchen that looked like it belonged on a cooking show, a home office, a gym, a library, and a living room with windows that made you feel like you were floating above the city.

"Mr. Cross doesn't entertain often," Margaret explained as we walked through the immaculate space. "But when he does, he prefers intimate gatherings. Ten people maximum."

"How long have you worked for him?" I asked.

"Eight years." Her face lit up. "He's a good man, Miss Emma. I know the media makes him out to be cold, ruthless, but he's been nothing but kind to me and my family. When my husband was sick, Mr. Cross paid for the best doctors, the best treatment. He didn't have to do that."

I filed that information away. Damien Cross—ruthless businessman with a soft spot for the people who worked for him.

"Does he..." I hesitated. "Does he date much?"

Margaret's smile turned knowing. "Mr. Cross has had companions, yes. But nothing serious. Not since—" She stopped herself. "I shouldn't gossip."

"Since what?" I pressed.

She looked conflicted, then sighed. "Since his sister left. He's been... different. More focused on work. Less interested in personal connections." She gave me a meaningful look. "Until now, apparently."

I wanted to tell her it was fake. That Damien and I were just playing a game. But that would defeat the entire purpose.

"He's been very kind to me," I said instead. Which was true, in a strange, calculating way.

"Good." Margaret patted my hand. "You seem like a lovely girl. And goodness knows Mr. Cross could use someone to soften those sharp edges."

If only she knew.

I spent the rest of the morning exploring the penthouse, trying not to feel like an imposter. Every surface was expensive. Every piece of art looked like it belonged in a museum. Even the books in the library were first editions.

This wasn't my world.

But it could be, whispered a traitorous voice in my head. For six months, this is your world.

My phone buzzed again. I almost ignored it, thinking it was Adrian, but the caller ID said "Unknown."

I answered. "Hello?"

"Emma Hartley?" A woman's voice, sharp and professional.

"Yes?"

"This is Victoria Chen from Metropolitan Magazine. I'd love to schedule an interview about your engagement to Damien Cross. Our readers are dying to know—"

I hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. Different number.

"Miss Hartley, this is James Park from City Elite News"

I hung up again.

By the third call, I'd turned my phone off completely.

Gosh!..How did they get my number? How did they even know who I was?

The answer came twenty minutes later when Margaret found me in the library, looking frazzled.

"Miss Emma, you should see this." She held out a tablet.

The screen showed a gossip website, and my face was plastered across the front page.

"WHO IS DAMIEN CROSS'S MYSTERY WOMAN?"

Below that, a photo from last night—me stepping out of the car in that red dress, Damien's hand on my back, looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

We looked real. We looked like a couple actually in love.

I scrolled down. More photos. Us dancing. Him whispering in my ear. The moment Adrian confronted us, Damien's hand protectively on my waist.

And then—

"Oh no."

There were photos of me from before. Old social media pictures I thought I'd deleted. Me at my college graduation. Me at some party I barely remembered. Me with Adrian, back when I thought we were happy.

Someone had dug into my entire history.

The article was brutal.

"Sources close to the situation reveal that Emma Hartley, 26, was previously engaged to billionaire heir Adrian Castellan. The engagement ended dramatically just three months ago when Hartley allegedly walked out of her own wedding. Now she's been spotted with Damien Cross, 32, Castellan's known business rival. Coincidence? Or calculated revenge?"

"This is bad," I whispered.

"Mr. Cross called," Margaret said gently. "He said not to worry. His PR team is handling it."

"His PR team?" I looked up. "He has a PR team?"

"Of course, dear. When you're that wealthy and that private, you need people to control the narrative." She squeezed my shoulder. "Just breathe. This will blow over."

But it didn't feel like it would blow over.

It felt like a storm was coming.

---

At 7 PM, I stood in front of my closet, staring at the navy dress Damien had specified.

It was beautiful—elegant, sophisticated, with a neckline that was modest but still showed just enough. I put it on, zipped it up, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like someone else.

Someone confident. Someone who belonged at fancy restaurants with billionaires.

Someone who wasn't terrified out of her mind.

"You can do this," I told my reflection.

The intercom buzzed.

"Miss Emma?" Margaret's voice. "Mr. Cross is here."

My heart jumped. "I'll be right down."

I grabbed the clutch that matched the dress—also chosen by Damien—and headed downstairs.

Damien was waiting in the foyer, checking his phone. He'd changed into a different suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. When he heard me on the stairs, he looked up.

And his expression shifted.

"Perfect," he said quietly. "You look perfect."

"You chose the dress," I pointed out.

"I chose well." He offered his arm. "Ready?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really." But he was smiling. "Come on. We have a reservation."

---

Rousseau's was the kind of restaurant that required reservations six months in advance. Unless you were Damien Cross, apparently.

We were shown to a private table in the back—intimate, candlelit, impossibly romantic. The other diners were staring, whispering behind their hands.

"They're all looking at us," I murmured once we sat down.

"Good." Damien unfolded his napkin. "That's the point."

"I saw the articles," I said. "About me. About us."

"I know. I sent them."

I blinked. "You what?"

"Not the content—I don't control what gossip rags write. But I made sure they knew where we'd be tonight." He looked completely unbothered. "The more public our relationship, the more it will eat at Adrian."

"You leaked our location?"

"Emma, everything we do from now on is a performance. Dinner at exclusive restaurants. Weekend trips. Charity events. All of it designed to show Adrian exactly what he lost."

I should have been angry. Should have felt manipulated.

But honestly? He was right. Adrian needs to know what he'd lost.

"So what's tonight's performance?" I asked.

"Tonight, we're madly in love." His eyes locked on mine. "You can't stop smiling. You laugh at everything I say. You touch my hand across the table. You look at me like I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"That's a lot of acting."

"Is it?" He leaned forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're already doing most of that."

My cheeks heated. "I'm just following instructions."

"Sure you are." His smile was infuriating.

The waiter appeared before I could respond, taking our drink orders. Damien ordered wine without asking what I wanted—but somehow picked my favorite.

"How did you know I like Pinot Noir?" I asked once the waiter left.

"I told you. I know everything about you."

"That's creepy."

"That's thorough." He leaned back. "I don't do anything halfway, Emma. If I'm going to destroy Adrian Castellan, I need to understand every piece on the board. Including you."

"I'm a piece on the board?"

"You're the queen." His eyes glinted. "The most powerful piece in the game."

---

Dinner was... surprisingly nice.

Damien was charming when he wanted to be. Funny, even. He told stories about his early days building his company, about the mistakes he'd made, the risks he'd taken. He asked about my life, my dreams, the things I'd given up when I was with Adrian.

"I wanted to be a writer," I admitted over dessert. "Not like, novels or anything fancy. Just... travel writing. Going to interesting places, telling stories about the people I met."

"Why didn't you?"

"Adrian said it wasn't practical. That I should focus on being his wife, building his life instead of chasing pipe dreams."

Damien's jaw tightened. "He's an idiot."

"Yeah," I said softly. "I'm starting to realize that."

He reached across the table and took my hand. His touch was warm, solid.

"When this is over," he said, "when you have your five million and your freedom—go chase those dreams. Write about every place you've ever wanted to see. Don't let anyone tell you it's not practical."

I stared at our joined hands.

"Why are you being nice to me?" I whispered.

"Because despite what the media says, I'm not actually a heartless bastard." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "And because you deserve better than what Adrian gave you."

For a moment, I forgot this was fake.

For a moment, I let myself believe that Damien Cross actually cared.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression turned predatory.

"What?" I asked.

"Adrian's here."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"In the restaurant. He just walked in with Melissa." Damien's smile was pure satisfaction. "Right on schedule."

"You knew he'd come?"

"I made sure he'd come. His assistant is on my payroll." He squeezed my hand. "Remember—you're madly in love with me. Show him what he lost."

I didn't have to look to know when Adrian spotted us. I felt his stare like a physical weight.

"Emma," Damien said softly. "Look at me."

I did.

"Forget he's here," he murmured. "Just focus on me."

So I did. I looked at Damien Cross—at his sharp blue eyes, his perfect features, the way he was looking at me like I mattered.

And then he leaned across the table, his eyes locked on mine—not with tenderness, but with something sharper. Before I could process what was happening, his lips were on mine.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was heated, sudden…he needed to prove something to Adrian.

My body froze, but my heart didn’t get the memo, it raced, wild and confused. I tasted a mix of fire and frustration in that kiss. And when he finally pulled back, breath shallow, I just sat there, stunned, unsure whether to pull him back in.

Because it felt like it wasn’t just a kiss.

It sounds like it is a message.

And every nerve in my body received it loud and clear.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Nothing like the calculated move I expected.

Damien's lips were warm against mine, his hand cradling my face like I was something precious. For a second, I forgot where we were. Forgot why we were doing this.

Forgot it was all fake.

Then he pulled back, his eyes searching mine.

"That okay?" he murmured.

I couldn't speak. Just nodded.

His smile was small, private. "Good."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Adrian frozen near the entrance, Melissa tugging on his arm. His face was white. Then red. Then purple with rage.

"He's leaving," Damien said, still watching me. "Storming out, actually. Melissa's trying to calm him down."

"You're not even looking at him," I whispered.

"I don't need to. I can see it in your eyes—the satisfaction, the vindication. That's all the confirmation I need."

He was right. Part of me felt triumphant.

But another part—a bigger part—was still focused on the kiss.

"That was..." I started.

"Necessary," he finished. "For the performance."

"Right. The performance."

But the way he was still holding my hand didn't feel like performing.

We left the restaurant thirty minutes later, and the paparazzi were waiting. Cameras flashing, questions shouted from every direction.

"Mr. Cross! How long have you been together?"

"Emma! Is it true you left Adrian Castellan at the altar?"

"Are you two engaged?"

Damien pulled me close, shielding me from the crowd. "No comment," he said smoothly, guiding me toward the car.

But just before we got in, he turned back.

"Actually," he said, "I do have a comment."

Every camera turned to him.

"Emma Hartley is the most incredible woman I've ever met. I'm the luckiest man alive."

Then he kissed me again—quick, possessive—and we were in the car before anyone could respond.

I was breathing hard. "Why did you do that?"

"Because that quote will be in every paper tomorrow morning. And Adrian will read every single one."

"You're ruthless."

"I'm effective." He pulled out his phone. "And it's working. Look."

He showed me the screen. Adrian's Instagram story—a photo of him and Melissa at some club, clearly taken in a hurry. The caption: With the woman I actually love.

"Posted five minutes ago," Damien said. "He's spiraling."

"Good," I said. And I meant it.

---

Back at the penthouse, I kicked off my heels the moment we walked through the door.

"Thank God," I groaned. "Those shoes are torture devices."

"Beauty is pain," Damien said, shrugging off his jacket.

"Easy for you to say. Men's shoes don't have four-inch heels."

"True." He loosened his tie, and I tried very hard not to notice how good he looked doing it. "Want a drink?"

"Yes. Please."

He headed to the bar while I collapsed on the massive couch, my feet screaming in relief.

This whole day had been surreal. The articles. The restaurant. The kiss.

The kiss.

I touched my lips, remembering the way Damien had looked at me afterward. Like maybe—just for a second—it had meant something to him too.

"Here." He handed me a glass of whiskey. "You did well tonight."

"I didn't do anything. You orchestrated everything."

"You played your part perfectly." He sat down next to me—not too close, but close enough. "I know this isn't easy for you."

"Which part? The fake engagement? The constant lying? Or kissing a stranger in front of my ex?"

"All of it." His expression softened. "But you're stronger than you think, Emma."

"Am I?" I took a sip of whiskey, letting it burn. "Because most days, I feel like I'm barely holding it together. Like one wrong move and I'll completely fall apart."

"You won't," he said simply. "You've already survived the worst of it. Walking away from Adrian, standing up for yourself—that took real courage."

"Or stupidity."

"No. Courage." He set his glass down. "I've seen hundreds of people stay in bad situations because they were too afraid to leave. You weren't. You chose yourself. That's rare."

The way he was looking at me made my chest tight.

"Why do you care?" I asked. "About me, I mean. You could have hired anyone to play this role. Why does it matter if I'm strong or not?"

Damien was quiet for a long moment.

"Because I know what it's like to feel powerless," he finally said. "To have someone take everything from you and leave you with nothing. My sister—when Adrian destroyed her, she gave up. She let him win. And I'll never forgive myself for not protecting her."

"That wasn't your fault—"

"Yes, it was." His jaw clenched. "I was so focused on building my company, on making my first billion, that I didn't see what was happening. By the time I realized, it was too late. She was already broken."

"Is that why you're doing this?" I asked softly. "Not just for revenge, but for her?"

"Partly." He looked at me. "But also because I want to make sure what happened to her doesn't happen to anyone else. Especially not to you."

My heart did something complicated.

"I'm not going to break," I promised.

"I know." His hand found mine on the couch, his fingers threading through mine. "But if you ever feel like you might, I'm here. Okay?"

It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in months.

"Okay," I whispered.

We sat like that for a while, hands linked, not talking. Just existing in the same space.

Then my phone buzzed—actually vibrated across the coffee table with the force of it.

I grabbed it, expecting another reporter.

It was Adrian.

Adrian:I saw you tonight.

Adrian:With HIM.

Adrian:What the fuck are you doing, Emma?

Adrian:You think this is funny? You think you can just move on and I'll be okay with it?

Adrian:We need to talk. Now.

My hands were shaking.

"What did he say?" Damien asked.

I showed him the messages.

His expression darkened. "Block him."

"What?"

"Block his number. Right now."

"Damien, I can't just—"

"Yes, you can." He took the phone from me and did it himself. "You don't owe him explanations. You don't owe him anything."

"He's going to lose his mind," I said.

"Good." Damien handed the phone back. "Let him spiral. Let him obsess. The more desperate he gets, the sloppier he'll become. And when he makes a mistake—and he will—we'll be ready."

I stared at my phone, at Adrian's number now blocked.

It felt like power.

It felt like freedom.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For this. All of it. For giving me a way to fight back."

Damien's smile was soft. "You're welcome."

---

Later that night, I lay in my massive bed, staring at the ceiling.

My lips still tingled from the kiss.

My hand still felt warm from where Damien had held it.

And my heart—my stupid, traitorous heart—was starting to wonder if this fake relationship might become something real.

I rolled over, punching my pillow.

"Don't be an idiot," I muttered to myself. "This is business. Six months. Five million dollars. Then you're gone."

But as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't stop replaying that moment in the restaurant.

The way Damien had looked at me.

The way he'd kissed me.

The way it had felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't pretending either.

---

The next morning

I woke up to chaos.

My phone was exploding with notifications—even with the sound off, it was vibrating like crazy on my nightstand.

I grabbed it groggily.

47 missed calls.

128 text messages.

307 Instagram notifications.

What the hell?

I opened Instagram first, and my jaw dropped.

Overnight, I'd gained fifty thousand followers.

My last photo—a random shot of a sunset from two months ago—had three thousand comments.

"OMG you're with Damien Cross?!"

"How did you land him?"

"Adrian Castellan is SO MAD right now lol"

"You're living every girl's dream"

I scrolled to the explore page, and there we were. Photos from last night. The kiss. Us holding hands. Headlines like:

"DAMIEN CROSS CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP WITH MYSTERY WOMAN"

"ADRIAN CASTELLAN'S EX SPOTTED WITH HIS ENEMY"

"THE REVENGE ROMANCE EVERYONE'S TALKING ABOUT"

"Oh my God," I breathed.

There was a knock on my door.

"Miss Emma?" Margaret's voice. "Mr. Cross would like to see you in his office."

I threw on a robe and practically ran downstairs.

Damien's home office was all dark wood and leather chairs. He was sitting behind his desk, laptop open, looking completely unbothered by the media storm.

"Good morning," he said without looking up.

"Good morning?!" I held up my phone. "Damien, we're everywhere!"

"I know. Excellent, isn't it?"

"Excellent? I've had death threats from Adrian's fans!"

That made him look up. "What?"

I showed him some of the messages.

"Stay away from Adrian, homewrecker"

"You're pathetic"

"Hope Damien dumps you like the trash you are"

Damien's expression went ice cold.

"Forward those to me," he said. "My legal team will handle it."

"Your legal team can't stop random people on the internet from hating me."

"No, but they can make examples of the ones making threats." He stood up, came around the desk. "Emma, I told you—I protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours," I pointed out. "This is fake, remember?"

Something flashed in his eyes. "Right. Fake."

The way he said it made my stomach flip.

"Anyway," he continued, "we have a problem A real one."

"What now?"

"Adrian's filed an injunction against our 'marriage.'" He used air quotes. "He's claiming the marriage certificate he filed is void because you never actually had a wedding ceremony. He wants it annulled immediately."

My heart sank. "Can he do that?"

"He's trying. My lawyers say it's complicated—the certificate was technically legal, even without the ceremony, because you both signed it beforehand. But Adrian's arguing fraud."

"So what does this mean?"

"It means we move up our timeline." Damien pulled out his phone. "I was planning to wait a few weeks before making the next move, but Adrian's forcing my hand."

"What's the next move?”

He looked at me, and his smile was absolutely wicked.

"We're getting married. For real this time.”