Camille had never seen the French Riviera like this before. Not through the tinted windows of a private car, not with a billionaire beside her and an entire fabricated engagement hanging over her head like a silk noose. The car coasted through the winding roads of Èze, the Mediterranean glinting beneath them like an invitation and a threat. Damien hadn't spoken for miles. His profile was hard in the afternoon sun—clean lines, aristocratic angles, and a silence that said more than any monologue could.
She turned her face slightly to the window, watching the lavender fields blur past in splashes of violet and green. "Are you planning to brief me before we get there, or should I improvise?"
He didn't look at her. "You're not new to strategy, Camille."
"No. But it helps to know who I'm supposed to be charming."
His gaze slid to her finally. "My grandmother. Marguerite Rousseau. Matriarch of the family. Sharp as ever. Suspicious of everyone, especially me."
Camille arched a brow. "And you think she'll believe I'm in love with you?"
"I think," Damien said coolly, "she'll believe whatever you choose to show her."
The audacity of him. The way he handed her an impossible situation with the calm detachment of a man who had never needed to negotiate with anyone but the world's most powerful men. Still, Camille had known when she signed the contract that this wouldn't be about appearances alone. It would be about control. Not just his—but hers too. It would be about who could wield it more gracefully, who could make lies sound like promises and truth feel like temptation.
By the time they reached the estate, the air had shifted. Everything about the grounds whispered legacy. Roses in bloom along stone paths. Whitewashed balconies. The Mediterranean lapping just beyond the cliffs. It looked like it had never known hardship. It probably hadn't. Except maybe within its walls.
Camille stepped out of the car and adjusted her sunglasses. Damien came around to her side and offered his hand. She hesitated—then took it. Warm, steady, calculated. He didn't squeeze, didn't pretend. They were partners in a performance now. And the stage was already set.
Inside, the staff ushered them through corridors lined with oil paintings and ancestral photographs. Camille absorbed everything—the elegance, the symmetry, the carefully preserved history. When they reached the salon, a woman in her eighties stood waiting, regal in a navy-blue suit, silver hair swept into a chignon, eyes sharp as glass.
"Damien," she said, with a faint accent that had never been diluted by time or travel.
"Grand-mère," Damien greeted, leaning in to kiss both her cheeks.
Marguerite Rousseau turned her gaze to Camille, who offered a poised smile.
"This must be her," the matriarch said, eyes flicking up and down with dissection disguised as curiosity.
Camille stepped forward. "Camille Durand. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Madame Rousseau."
"Hmm," the older woman murmured, as if already unconvinced. "You're prettier than I expected. I was certain he'd choose someone… colder."
Camille tilted her head slightly. "Damien does have a way of surprising people."
Marguerite studied her. "And do you love him, Miss Durand?"
Damien stiffened beside her, but Camille didn't miss a beat. She reached for his hand with practiced ease and twined her fingers through his.
"I love him enough to know that he'll never say it first," she said, her voice soft but steady. "But he shows me in other ways. Every day."
For a heartbeat, Marguerite said nothing. Then she gestured to the sitting area. "Join me for tea. We'll see what else you know."
The afternoon spiraled into polite warfare.
Camille navigated every question like a diplomat. Her background, her family, how they met, how long they'd been together—Marguerite asked it all, her tone cordial, her eyes anything but. Camille matched her story to the details Damien had provided and filled the gaps with precision and charm. She told tales of imagined dates, feigned memories, sprinkled in just enough vulnerability to sound real. Damien played along, inserting quiet anecdotes or resting a hand casually on her thigh, his performance immaculate.
And yet, beneath the surface, Camille could feel the storm building. Not between them and Marguerite—but between each other. Every touch felt loaded. Every glance heavier than necessary. By the time the older woman excused herself to rest before dinner, Camille was already on edge.
In the hallway outside the guest suites, she turned on Damien the moment they were alone.
"You didn't say she'd interrogate me like a hostile witness."
"You handled it."
"She was testing me."
"She always tests everyone."
Camille crossed her arms. "How long do we have to keep this up?"
Damien's voice dropped, just slightly. "Until it no longer matters."
"What the hell does that mean?"
But he didn't answer. Instead, he opened the door to her suite and stepped aside.
"You should rest. There'll be more of them tonight. Cousins. Heirs. Sharks in pearls."
Camille narrowed her eyes. "And I suppose you'll be the charming groom-to-be again?"
His smirk was faint. "Would you prefer the alternative?"
She didn't dignify it with a response.
Instead, she walked past him into the room and shut the door with a quiet finality that echoed louder than a slap.
But even alone, she couldn't escape the weight of it.
She sat on the edge of the bed, heels still on, posture still rigid, trying to breathe through the static that buzzed beneath her skin. What had she expected? A clean transaction? A simple arrangement with no personal cost?
Damien Rousseau wasn't a man who trafficked in simplicity. Every move he made was a calculated chaos, and she was beginning to realize that the only way to survive was to master the rhythm before it drowned her.
Dinner was worse.
The dining hall was lit like Versailles had sneezed elegance all over it. Gold fixtures. Crystal chandeliers. A table long enough to host a minor royal family. And around it, the Rousseaus—each more polished and poisonous than the last.
Camille met them all. The cousin from Monaco who smelled like old money and malice. The niece who smiled too wide and asked too many questions. The uncle who called her "Damien's flavor of the month" without even bothering to whisper.
She endured it all with grace.
Damien, infuriatingly, seemed unfazed. He charmed, deflected, whispered the occasional joke in her ear that almost made her laugh—almost. But Camille had been raised to read rooms, and this one was bleeding suspicion. She could feel it in every smile, in every glass of wine handed too sweetly, in every toast raised too precisely.
By dessert, she was exhausted.
When Damien walked her back to her suite, neither of them spoke. The hallway was too quiet. The air too thick. At the door, she turned to him, her fingers on the handle, her composure fraying.
"This is going to spiral," she said.
He nodded once. "It already is."
And then—impulsively, like something broken loose inside her—Camille reached up and kissed him.
It wasn't in the contract.
It wasn't for performance.
It wasn't even planned.
She kissed him because she needed to. Because the lie was becoming a truth she couldn't control. Because for one second, she wanted to forget the world that watched them like vultures.
And Damien kissed her back.
Without hesitation. Without mercy.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that had nothing to do with deception. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't polite. It was something desperate—something dangerous.
When she pulled away, breathless, he didn't chase her.
He just looked at her. Silent. Still.
Then he said quietly, "We're going to burn for this."
She opened the door.
"Then we should choose the fire," she replied.
And closed it behind her.