Paris was grey that morning. The kind of grey that didn't scream storm or whisper serenity. It just hung—flat and thick, like the city was holding its breath.
Camille sat by the tall windows of Damien's guest suite, untouched coffee cooling beside her, eyes lost in the delicate fog that curled above the Seine. Her hands were clasped around her knees, the hem of her robe brushing against her calves.
She hadn't slept.
Not because of the bed—it was exquisite. Cashmere linens. A mattress engineered to cradle secrets. But Camille's mind had refused silence. It buzzed with the words spoken at last night's dinner, the weight of eyes that didn't believe her, and the electric charge between her and Damien that had lingered like perfume.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, smoothing her robe quickly.
It wasn't Damien. It was Elise—the assistant. Always perfectly dressed, always perfectly unreadable.
"Monsieur Rousseau is requesting your presence in the study," she said. "He asked me to deliver this."
She handed Camille a sleek garment bag and a small envelope.
Camille waited until Elise had left before opening it.
Inside the envelope: "Meeting at nine. Wear this. And thank you—for last night." It wasn't signed, but his handwriting was distinctive—elegant, slanted, calculated like the man himself.
Camille opened the garment bag slowly. Inside was a dove-grey blouse with silk-covered buttons and a tailored charcoal skirt. Understated. Precise. Commanding without noise.
Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed and walking down the marble corridor, heels echoing in tandem with her racing thoughts. She reached the study doors and paused.
Composure was her armor. And in Damien Rousseau's world, nothing less than steel would do.
She pushed the doors open.
He looked up from behind a wide oak desk, phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, fingers scrolling through digital documents on a tablet.
"Yes, confirm the statement. No leaks," Damien said crisply, before hanging up and standing.
Camille didn't speak immediately. She took in the room first—dark wood shelves lined with books and models of ships. A whiskey cart. A sword mounted above the fireplace. A legacy office, inherited or conquered.
"You're early," Damien said.
"You're welcome," she replied, stepping inside. "What's this meeting about?"
He gestured to the seat across from him. "The press."
Camille sat, crossing one leg over the other. "You promised I'd control the narrative."
"You do. But today is our first official appearance in public. We're attending the Rousseau Foundation's charity luncheon at the Palais Garnier."
Camille blinked. "The Garnier? That's not a luncheon. That's a circus."
"Exactly."
He handed her a press release draft. She scanned it quickly—mentions of their relationship timeline, charitable alignment, her fluency in four languages, and a quote attributed to her she hadn't given.
"I didn't say this."
"You will," he said calmly. "Unless you have something better."
Camille tossed the paper back on his desk. "You want to parade me in front of your investors and aristocratic family friends like some rare acquisition."
Damien's jaw flexed. "I want to solidify your presence beside me. Quickly. If we don't get ahead of speculation, we'll drown in it."
She leaned forward. "And if I choke? What then?"
He studied her carefully. "You won't."
Camille hated how much she wanted to believe him.
---
The Palais Garnier shimmered with gold and history. Built for performances, it was now filled with nobles, business magnates, and politicians pretending to be human.
Camille stepped out of the black car and adjusted her posture. Paparazzi lined the barricades, their cameras already flashing. Damien's hand slipped lightly around her waist.
"Ready?" he asked, low enough for only her to hear.
"No," she said. "But I'm here."
They walked the carpet together. To the public, they were elegance and romance and wealth stitched into formality. Camille knew better. She could feel his tension in the way he held her waist—too gently for a man in love, too possessively for a man who didn't care.
Inside, chandeliers bathed the grand atrium in warm light. Waiters in white gloves floated between clusters of guests with champagne flutes. A string quartet played something baroque and expensive.
They were instantly surrounded.
"Damien, at last!"
"Darling, we thought you'd be in Geneva!"
"And this must be... her?"
Camille smiled, poised and perfect. She responded in flawless French to the first guest, in Italian to the next, and in crisp English when a woman from the British embassy approached. Each word was a measured step in her tightrope act. Every glance held meaning. Every laugh was a calculation.
She was dazzling. And she knew it.
Damien didn't leave her side once. Every now and then, he would lean in with a comment, reminding her of a name or a political position. His knowledge was encyclopedic, his charm tailored per audience.
To the crowd, they were magnetic.
But Camille knew that being seen was only half the battle. Being believed required deeper magic.
It came sooner than expected.
"Camille Durand."
The voice made her spine go rigid.
She turned—and there stood her.
Karina Leveau.
The French-Moroccan heiress of Leveau Capital. A woman who once owned every room she entered and broke three ministers before lunch. Tall. Stunning. Cunning. And Damien's ex.
She looked at Camille like a collector studying a counterfeit painting.
"Karina," Damien said coolly. "I didn't realize you were in Paris."
"Darling, you know I never miss a Rousseau Foundation event. Especially now that you're offering...entertainment."
Her eyes raked over Camille with venom-laced curiosity. "So, you're the linguist."
Camille smiled, slow and warm. "And you must be the cautionary tale."
The man nearest them choked on his champagne.
Karina's smile didn't falter. But her gaze narrowed.
"Tell me," she said sweetly, "how does a woman of such modest background find herself attached to the Rousseau fortune?"
Camille tilted her head. "I speak four languages, manage six cultural portfolios, and make better coffee than his private chef. That usually does the trick."
Karina stepped closer. "Be careful, darling. Power borrowed is always eventually returned."
"And power married?" Camille asked. "Does it disappear with the divorce?"
Karina's nostrils flared.
Damien intervened then, smoothly inserting himself between the two women. "Ladies. Perhaps now is not the time."
Karina touched his arm briefly. "Oh, but it was so illuminating."
She disappeared into the crowd like a ghost in sequins.
Camille stood still for a beat, her chest tight.
"Are you alright?" Damien asked.
"No," she said honestly. "But I didn't break."
Damien looked at her, really looked.
"You were brilliant."
Camille turned her face away, because if she didn't, she might ask him what it felt like to kiss a woman and still keep secrets in your mouth.
---
Hours later, back at the penthouse, Camille stood in front of the mirror again. She was removing her earrings when she felt Damien's presence behind her.
"You should've warned me about her," Camille said softly.
"She wasn't supposed to be there."
"She was."
He didn't argue.
Camille turned to face him, bare shoulders rising with her breath.
"Why did it end between you?"
Damien met her eyes. "Because she never wanted me. Just the empire I inherited."
"And what if I want both?"
A beat of silence.
"Then I'd be in trouble," Damien said.
She moved past him. "Good. Trouble means we're telling the truth."
But in her room, she sat alone in the dark, fingers resting on the contract.
Because tonight, for the first time, Camille wasn't sure if the lie they were telling the world would protect her from the truth growing inside her.
That she might already be falling.