The pen still trembled in her fingers.
Camille stared at the signature she'd scrawled, the ink not yet dry, her breath tight in her chest like she'd signed more than a contract—like she'd signed away a part of herself she couldn't name.
Damien stood slowly, the way a lion might stretch after stalking prey. His every movement was controlled, deliberate, and unnervingly graceful. He reached for the file, closed it with a satisfying click, and locked eyes with her.
"We'll release a joint statement by the end of the week," he said. "Your version. I'll approve it, as agreed."
Camille tucked the pen into her clutch. "And after that?"
"Your first appearance as my fiancée will be at the Rousseau Foundation Gala next Friday."
"That soon?" Her pulse spiked. She wasn't sure if it was panic or the high of the impossible. "What happens until then?"
"We prepare. There are details to align, optics to manage." He stepped closer, eyes scanning her face with disconcerting focus. "And you need to be seen. Once."
"Seen?"
"With me. In public. Preferably in a way that makes speculation inevitable."
"You want a staged sighting," she said, crossing her arms.
"I want a perfectly controlled illusion," Damien corrected. "One they won't be able to stop talking about."
"And what would that look like?"
Damien's lips curved, slow and knowing. "Dinner. Late. Exclusive. A few calculated smiles. A stolen glance. The illusion of intimacy without the cost."
Camille's stomach twisted, not from fear, but something else—something that simmered too close to curiosity. She stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt.
"Fine," she said. "Send me the location."
"I'll have Emilie do it." He turned away, retrieving his espresso and downing it like water. "Wear something memorable."
Camille exhaled through her nose. "Memorable how?"
He looked back at her over the rim of his glass. "The kind of dress that whispers power before it screams seduction."
Heat crawled up her throat.
She didn't flinch.
Not in front of him.
---
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of controlled chaos.
Camille's phone lit up with calls from stylists, PR consultants, and an etiquette advisor who addressed her as "Madame Rousseau" more than once before Camille sharply corrected her. Damien's reach, it turned out, was not limited to business or wealth. It extended into wardrobes, headlines, and whispered dinner conversations across Paris.
Her favorite boutique on Rue Saint-Honoré had received a private reservation under Damien's name. The clerk treated her like royalty, ushering her into a private suite while racks of tailored couture floated past like wearable secrets.
Camille stared at the dresses.
They sparkled, shimmered, whispered promises.
None of them felt like her.
Until one did.
A midnight blue gown, silk cut on the bias with a high slit and a back that dipped dangerously low. Sleek. Strong. Bold without apology. When she emerged from the fitting room, the boutique attendant gave a single, approving nod.
"Très Rousseau," the woman murmured.
Camille didn't respond. Her reflection stared back from the mirror, fierce and unknowable. She didn't look like a linguist. She didn't look like someone who'd grown up helping her mother make rent. She looked like someone who belonged in Damien Rousseau's orbit.
And that terrified her.
---
The restaurant was perched on the Seine like it had been carved from moonlight. All chrome, glass, and velvet shadows.
She arrived five minutes early.
Damien was already seated.
He rose when she approached, his eyes drinking her in from head to toe with an expression that bordered on reverence—if reverence could smolder.
"You took my advice," he said softly.
"You made a suggestion," Camille replied, sliding into the booth.
He handed her a menu. "I make very persuasive suggestions."
She didn't disagree.
They dined slowly, a ballet of glances and wine-slicked conversation that was both too intimate and too guarded. Camille played her part. She laughed—just once, delicately. She let her hand rest a second too long near his. She looked at him like she knew things no one else did.
And it worked.
The paparazzi photos surfaced three hours later.
Damien Rousseau and mystery woman. Cozy dinner. Touches exchanged. Speculation exploded.
Camille sat on her bed, robe wrapped around her, phone lit with notifications. Her name was nowhere in the headlines yet—but it would be. Tomorrow or the day after, she would be exposed. Judged. Analyzed like currency.
Her life wasn't hers anymore.
And she had made that choice.
---
The next morning brought a text from Damien.
> "Your name will be released this afternoon. Get ready."
Camille set her phone down and stared at the wall. Her mother would see this. The girls at the consultancy firm she left. Her old professors. Everyone. Every decision she'd ever made would be dissected because of one dinner, one photo, one man.
But when the press statement hit, it was hers. Her words. Her voice.
> "Camille Durand, founder of LinguaCore Solutions, has confirmed her engagement to Damien Rousseau, CEO of Rousseau International. The couple, who met through shared philanthropic interests, have requested privacy and respect as they move forward together."
Polished. Unassuming. Just enough warmth to make the story believable.
Within hours, reporters were dissecting her academic background, speculating on her influence, and debating whether a language consultant could possibly win the heart of France's most elusive billionaire.
They hadn't even kissed.
But the world was already in love with the idea of them.
---
Three days later, Camille found herself in Damien's private residence again.
He poured her wine this time. A soft red from a vineyard he apparently owned. She didn't ask which one. She was afraid of how easily he could name entire regions like assets.
"I read the statement," Damien said, handing her a glass.
She took it without touching his fingers. "And?"
"You write like you're already in control."
"I am."
He laughed. "Good. Then you're ready for what comes next."
Camille raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"The foundation gala. My mother."
Camille blinked. "You didn't say anything about meeting your mother."
"She's on the board. She has opinions. And an uncanny ability to spot liars."
Camille's heart skipped. "Then why are you bringing me?"
"Because if you can survive her, you can survive anything."
It wasn't encouragement. It was a test.
She sipped the wine slowly. "Is there anyone in your life who actually likes you, Damien?"
He didn't flinch.
"My grandfather did. Briefly. Until he made me his puppet. My father didn't have time. My mother sees me as a failed project. And my exes all made off with exit packages that would make your eyes water."
Camille set down her glass. "So I'm a business expense, then?"
"No," Damien said, his tone quieter now. "You're an investment. One I actually expect a return on."
There was silence between them again, but not like before.
This silence felt older, heavier. Like something unspoken had just taken root.
Camille stood. "Send me the itinerary. I'll be ready."
He didn't try to stop her as she left.
And for the first time since she'd signed the contract, Camille wondered who was really playing who.