The penthouse was more fortress than home.
Camille's heels sank slightly into the plush carpet as she followed Damien Rousseau through the cavernous living space, her portfolio clutched tightly to her chest like a shield. She couldn't help but take in the polished elegance of her surroundings—the sleek marble fireplace that flickered with controlled flame, the steel-and-glass architecture that reflected the city skyline like a fractured mirror, the art hung with deliberate taste. There were no signs of domestic life. No photos. No clutter. Only power, arranged in lines and shadows.
Damien stopped at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Seine and turned toward her slowly.
"I trust the ride here was comfortable," he said.
Camille met his eyes. "Luxurious. If slightly unsettling."
A faint smirk touched his mouth. "Good. I prefer to unsettle before I negotiate."
He gestured toward a low-slung seating area near a polished black table. Camille sat, the leather swallowing her for a moment. Damien remained standing, silent, until the air between them turned tight and expectant.
Finally, he placed a single document folder on the table and slid it toward her.
"This is the contract."
Camille raised a brow. "For what exactly?"
"For your silence. Your presence. Your obedience."
She stared at him.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me." His voice was low, almost silky. "And I chose my words carefully."
Camille leaned forward. "You summoned me here at midnight, offered no explanation, and now you're asking me to sign a contract that sounds more like a leash than an agreement. Are you trying to insult me?"
He didn't flinch. "No. I'm offering you a role. One only you can play."
She opened the folder slowly. The contract inside was clean and crisp, bound in thick paper. The legal jargon was as expected, but what caught her attention was the title at the top:
Personal Accompaniment and Discretion Agreement – Rousseau Industries.
Camille's brows furrowed. "Is this some kind of—what? Escort arrangement? Image management ploy? You think I'm that naive?"
Damien finally sat, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled.
"No, Camille. I think you're one of the few people in this city with enough intelligence to read between the lines. Which is why I chose you."
She swallowed, her instincts tugging in opposite directions. "You chose me. For what?"
Damien leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Because my enemies are circling. The media is watching. I have rivals inside my own board, a pending international deal that requires a show of stability and trust. I need a partner who understands performance. Someone who can act the part, blend into power, and survive it."
Camille closed the folder. "You want a fake relationship."
"I want a controlled one. A public alliance. A contract that keeps everything clean—and binding."
She stared at him, mouth dry. "Why me?"
Damien's eyes gleamed. "Because you're discreet. Ambitious. And because I've read your file. I know what you're running from."
The silence cracked like lightning between them.
Camille's throat constricted. "You went digging."
"I had to. I always vet who I tie myself to."
Her mind flickered to memories she'd buried—things she hadn't spoken of since Marseille. A past she thought locked away under legal seals and years of silence. Now she sat opposite a man who had pulled the truth from the shadows like it was nothing.
She stood, anger flaring through her spine. "If you think you can blackmail me into this circus—"
"I'm not blackmailing you. I'm giving you a choice."
He rose too, a shadow taller than her, cool and commanding.
"You can walk out of here with your secrets intact. I'll make sure of it. Or you can sign the contract, stay close, and rise with me."
Her breath hitched.
"There's a merger happening in two months," he continued. "One that will redefine Rousseau Industries. The board needs assurance. Investors need optics. And I need someone who won't betray me. You play your part, and when it's over, you walk away with ten million euros and a recommendation no one in this hemisphere would ignore."
Camille blinked. "Ten million."
"Yes."
"And all I have to do is… pretend to be yours."
"Appear as mine. In public. At events. For the cameras. We will rehearse the story. Curate the past. Control the narrative."
"And in private?"
"In private, we will be professionals. Bound by confidentiality and distance. Unless, of course…"
He let the silence hang.
Camille's lips parted slightly. "Unless?"
Damien gave the smallest of smiles. "Unless you break the rules."
She stared at the contract, then at him. The air between them shimmered with challenge, with something else too—something coiled and electric.
It was insane. But it was also an opportunity wrapped in danger.
"I want my own clauses," she said finally. "Non-disclosure to extend five years post-agreement. No romantic or sexual obligations. I choose my attire. And I'm allowed an escape clause should I discover any criminal dealings."
Damien nodded slowly. "Done."
She raised a brow. "Just like that?"
"I admire precision," he said. "And a woman who knows her terms."
Camille looked at the pen he held out. Her fingers hovered above it, then wrapped around it with something like resolve.
She signed.
When she looked up, Damien's expression was unreadable.
"Welcome to the obsession," he said softly.
---
Later that Night
Camille was escorted by the same assistant to a separate wing of the penthouse. The suite Damien had assigned to her was sleek, softly lit, and impossibly luxurious. Everything in it—from the scent diffusing from the hidden vents to the silk-threaded bed linens—felt like a world removed from her usual life.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, the contract now folded neatly in her purse.
What had she done?
Ten million euros. One fabricated relationship. Eight weeks of orchestrated deception. And a man who looked at her like he knew what she'd dream before she did.
Camille walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out across Paris. She had no idea what kind of storm she'd just stepped into. But for the first time in years, she felt something stir deep inside her—an old instinct she thought long dead.
Survival.
But not just that.
Something else. Something darker.
The thrill of entering the lion's den… and not planning to leave quietly.