The sunlight poured into the conference room like liquid gold, too bright and beautiful for the tension seated beneath it.
Camille stood across the glossy table from Damien Rousseau, her posture crisp and composed, but her heart an erratic metronome. She wore a navy sheath dress—clean lines, high neckline, power in fabric. She'd learned that in the trenches of male-dominated boardrooms. And yet, nothing in her arsenal of armor had prepared her for Damien's gaze.
"You still haven't said why I'm here," she said.
He leaned back in his chair, an infuriating picture of calm. His charcoal-gray suit was unbuttoned at the collar, one hand resting near a cup of untouched espresso. "Because you didn't ask."
Camille stiffened. "And if I start asking now?"
Damien didn't smile. He studied her. "Then we'll get to the part where you either walk out that door or sign something that will change your life."
There was silence between them—a thick, humming space where the room seemed to shrink around the possibilities neither of them would say aloud.
She sat down.
He slid a file across the table.
"I need a temporary fiancée," Damien said.
Camille blinked. "Excuse me?"
"For three months," he said evenly. "Public appearances. Family events. One trip to Marseille. The illusion of a relationship. Convincing enough to satisfy certain... legacy stipulations in my grandfather's will."
"Your grandfather," she echoed slowly. "As in Henri Rousseau, the shipping magnate who once sued the French government over coastline permits?"
"That would be him."
"And what exactly do you need from me?"
"Everything except the part that binds in court. No intimacy unless mutually agreed. Public affection on occasion. Loyalty at all times. In return, I will fund your entire independent language consultancy startup. With legal guarantees. Tax-free. Unrestricted."
Camille opened the folder.
There it was in black and white—her name, his signature, and a figure that made her throat tighten. The amount would fund not just her dream, but five years of her mother's hospital bills and still leave change.
"This is insane," she said. "You can't just buy someone's life for a quarter of a year."
He leaned forward. "I'm not asking for your life, Camille. I'm asking for your control of a very specific narrative."
"And what happens when the press starts digging?"
"They won't. I've handled more dangerous secrets than a fabricated engagement."
Camille stood again, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.
"Why me?"
This time, he hesitated.
"Because you're brilliant. Fluent in four languages. Impeccable under pressure. Because you understand the game without needing to dominate it. And because"—he paused—"I don't trust anyone else to keep their head when the world comes circling like sharks."
The words stunned her more than they should have.
Not because they were flattering.
But because, in his eyes, she saw a glimmer of something terrifyingly familiar—loneliness dressed in armor.
She sat back down. Slowly.
"If I agree to this," she said, "I write my own press releases. I set the narrative tone. And you don't get to dictate my wardrobe."
Damien actually laughed. "That was never the plan."
She hesitated, fingers poised above the pen. The temptation clawed at her—freedom, purpose, power. All wrapped in a lie that might become truth if she wasn't careful.
Camille signed.
And with one flourish of ink, the game became real.
Camille sat in the back of the black town car again, this time without the pounding uncertainty that had clouded her thoughts the night before. She had the contract tucked in her leather satchel. Her name beside Damien Rousseau's—on the kind of document most women would only dream about, though not for reasons they'd expect.
The terms were clear. Three months. Public displays. Appearances at events carefully curated by his team. In exchange, complete financial freedom.
And yet, the moment her pen met the paper, she'd felt something shift inside her—a tether pulled taut between her pride and her price.
The driver took a smooth right onto Avenue Montaigne. Camille didn't need to look up to know where they were headed. Damien had been precise.
Their first official appearance was scheduled tonight.
A gala at the Musée Rodin.
A Rousseau Foundation benefit—meaning press, cameras, society figures, and plenty of hungry eyes looking for cracks in the perfect illusion. This was where the performance would begin.
Camille had lived most of her life performing. As a girl navigating silence after her father vanished. As a student pushing through elite universities on merit scholarships. As a young woman learning that power was never given to people like her, only earned in increments, battle by battle.
But this wasn't the same.
This time, her stage partner was a man who could unravel her with a glance.
When the car stopped in front of the grand stone museum, Camille took one last breath and stepped out.
The flashbulbs hit instantly. She blinked once, but recovered. Damien was already at the entrance, adjusting his cufflinks, his frame backlit by the golden lights that poured through the museum's tall arched windows.
He turned as she approached, and for a moment—just a fraction of one—his gaze swept over her not as a business ally, but as a man stunned by the woman before him.
Camille had worn a deep emerald gown, sleek and tailored, with an asymmetrical neckline that revealed just enough to whisper power without pleading for it. Her hair was swept up in a soft twist, diamond studs at her ears—borrowed, of course—from the Rousseau vault.
Damien stepped forward and extended his arm. She took it without hesitation.
"You look exquisite," he murmured.
"Don't sound so surprised," she replied smoothly.
He chuckled, low and almost warm. "I'm not. I simply wasn't prepared for you to weaponize it effectively."
"Consider it my first move," Camille said.
They entered the museum together, eyes following them like satellites. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence.
Damien led her through the atrium and into the sculpture garden, where soft classical music floated on the breeze. Waiters in white gloves moved silently through the crowd, offering flutes of champagne.
Their roles had begun.
Camille leaned in just slightly, her hand resting on his forearm like it belonged there. "You said you needed someone who could play the part," she whispered. "Just remember—I don't bluff."
"Neither do I," Damien said without smiling.
They mingled for an hour—smiles for donors, nods to old money, brief conversations Camille mastered like a chess player studying her opponent's every move. She introduced herself as Damien's fiancée. Let the word roll off her tongue as if it were familiar.
And yet, with every passing moment, she felt the tightness in her chest increase.
Because part of her—some vulnerable, traitorous part—was beginning to believe her own lie.
They stepped aside near a marble column draped in ivy. Damien took two glasses from a passing tray and handed her one.
"I knew you were capable," he said. "But I underestimated how quickly you'd adapt."
She sipped her champagne. "That's your first mistake."
"And what's the second?"
"Assuming I'm doing this for the money."
His brows lifted.
Camille smiled, soft and sharp. "You think I'm here because of the check. But the truth is—I'm here because I want the power. The kind of power women like me aren't handed unless we take it by force."
Damien stared at her for a long time. "You're more dangerous than I thought."
She stepped closer. "Good. That means I'm doing it right."
Before he could reply, a voice interrupted.
"Damien, mon garçon—where have you been hiding your bride-to-be?"
Camille turned to see an older man approaching with a woman in a sapphire gown beside him. The man's hair was silver, his accent clipped and refined. Camille recognized him instantly—Jacques Moreau, an oil magnate whose family had ties to the Rousseau empire.
Damien's arm wrapped around her waist. "Jacques, allow me to introduce Camille Durand. My fiancée."
Camille extended a hand, all grace. "Enchantée."
Jacques smiled knowingly. "She's a beauty. And she has fire—I can see it in the eyes. Good choice, Damien."
Beside him, the woman in sapphire nodded once. "She's certainly not what I expected."
"I get that a lot," Camille said lightly.
After they moved on, Camille turned to Damien. "You surround yourself with hawks."
"They're vultures," he said. "Make no mistake."
"And you? What are you, Damien?"
He met her gaze, something unguarded flickering behind his composed façade. "I'm the storm they're trying to outfly."
The music shifted. A waltz. Damien offered his hand.
Camille hesitated. "This wasn't in the contract."
"No," he said, "but it's in the performance."
She took his hand.
The moment they stepped into the dance, the rest of the room blurred. Damien moved with precision, leading her effortlessly through each turn, each step, each shift in tempo.
But what unnerved Camille most wasn't his skill.
It was how easy it was to follow him.
How right it felt.
When the music ended, applause echoed. They bowed, exchanged practiced smiles with the audience, and retreated once more into the shadows of the garden's far end.
Camille's breath caught as Damien leaned close. "You've done well tonight."
"High praise, coming from Paris's most famously untouchable bachelor."
"You've touched more than just the headlines," he said, voice low. "And that's precisely what concerns me."
She looked up at him, every cell suddenly aware of how little space separated them. "This is still just a performance, Damien."
"Is it?"
Camille didn't answer. Couldn't. Because for the first time since she signed that contract, she wasn't entirely sure.
Not of her role.
Not of his rules.
Not even of herself.
She pulled back.
"Good night, Damien."
He said nothing. Just watched her walk away, back straight, heels echoing against marble.
The first cracks had formed.
And neither of them noticed how deeply the illusion had already begun to cut.