The contract felt heavier in her bag than the tote full of textbooks she'd left at home.
Elena hadn't slept the night she signed it. She'd sat at the edge of her bed, eyes fixed on the wall, questioning every moment of the past twenty-four hours. What kind of man offered a stranger a hundred thousand dollars to play pretend? And what kind of woman accepted?
Apparently, the kind with three jobs and four digits of debt.
At 6:00 p.m. sharp the next evening, the black car returned—just as promised. This time, it came with a garment bag and a box containing designer heels she didn't know how to walk in.
"From Mr. Vale," said the driver. "He'll meet you at the venue."
The venue, it turned out, was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
A gala.
Not just any gala—the Vale Foundation Winter Benefactors' Ball. She recognized the name now. It had been mentioned in articles and donor lists. Celebrities, royalty, venture capitalists, old money and new—all rubbing shoulders under a ceiling painted by forgotten gods.
She stepped out of the car in the kind of dress that made strangers stop and stare.
Champagne silk, soft as breath. Off-shoulder, elegantly draped across her collarbone with a hint of sparkle at the waist. Her hair, swept into a loose chignon, framed her face the way an artist might brush light on canvas.
She didn't recognize herself.
As she reached the bottom of the Met's famous stairs, flashbulbs exploded around her. Dozens of paparazzi shouted questions she couldn't decipher over the pounding in her ears.
"Elena."
She turned.
And there he was.
Damien Vale in a midnight tuxedo. Classic black. Clean lines. Cufflinks shaped like miniature chess pieces. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes lingered. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You clean up well," he said, offering his arm.
"You rented me," she replied. "It's the least I could do."
His mouth twitched, but he didn't respond.
Inside the Met, everything shimmered. Crystal chandeliers bathed marble floors in gold. Violinists played near the grand staircase. Waiters floated by with trays of flutes and foreign names.
Elena had seen places like this in movies. She didn't know they existed in real life.
"Smile," Damien said softly. "They're watching."
She pasted one on. Tilted her chin just so.
A photographer appeared instantly.
"Elena Cruz and Damien Vale—confirming engagement rumors?" he called out.
"Elena, over here!"
"Ms. Cruz! Is that a ring?"
Damien took her hand. Slowly lifted it.
There was a ring. She hadn't noticed until now. Rose gold, delicate and gleaming, snug on her fourth finger. She looked at him, startled.
"Had to complete the look," he murmured. "You don't mind, do you?"
She didn't answer.
Because at that moment, Damien leaned in, brushing a kiss—soft and deliberate—along her cheek.
The cameras exploded.
Her heartbeat followed.
He didn't look at her as he straightened, guiding her inside like nothing had happened.
---
"You were right," she said quietly as they moved through the crowd. "This is a performance."
He didn't look at her. "Everything is. The trick is not flinching."
"Even when you're lying?"
He met her gaze then. Steady. Cool.
"Especially then."
They entered the ballroom, where champagne towers glittered beneath a custom Vale Technologies chandelier. Elena's breath caught—her name was engraved in gold script beside Damien's on the central table.
She was a ghost until now. But tonight, she'd been written into the story.
"Keep your smile," he murmured. "The real tests are about to begin."
As if on cue, a woman in emerald silk approached. Graceful. Thin. Blunt-cut blonde bob that probably cost more than Elena's entire wardrobe.
"Darling," she cooed to Damien, air-kissing his cheek. "You didn't tell me she was stunning."
"Elena," Damien said smoothly. "Meet Mirabel Vale."
Elena's breath hitched.
His sister.
"Ms. Vale," she said, extending a hand.
"Mirabel, please. We're family now, aren't we?"
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
The word family hung between them like a loaded question.
"I was surprised when Damien mentioned you," Mirabel continued. "We didn't know he was dating anyone. Let alone..."
She trailed off.
"Let alone someone from a modest background?" Elena finished, perfectly pleasant.
Mirabel's smile tightened. "I was going to say a fresh perspective."
"Right," Elena said. "Well, fresh as I am, I promise I'm not allergic to caviar or crystal."
Damien chuckled—low and quiet.
Mirabel didn't.
"Do excuse me," she said coolly, turning away.
Elena turned toward Damien. "Did I pass your first test?"
"Barely," he said, but the corner of his mouth was tilted in approval.
She picked up a glass of champagne and took a small sip.
"Why do I feel like this entire room is waiting for me to fail?"
"Because they are."
"Why?"
"Because they don't know you," he said simply. "And because they think I never will."
She turned to face him fully. "Why do this? Why not just tell them all to mind their own business?"
He looked away then—just briefly. "Because sometimes power doesn't protect you. It isolates you. And they smell weakness in isolation."
She studied him carefully. For the first time, something in his armor cracked.
Not vulnerability. But memory.
"Tell me something true," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "What?"
"If we're going to pretend to be in love, we need something real between us. Something honest."
He tilted his head, intrigued.
"All right. Something true," he repeated. "I haven't had a real conversation in five years that wasn't about money, strategy, or betrayal."
She nodded. "Fair."
"Your turn."
She took another sip. "Something true: I haven't had a real night of sleep in four years that didn't involve worrying about what bill I'd miss next."
He looked at her then—closely.
Not the calculating glance of a businessman. Something else.
Something almost human.
"You'll do," he said softly.
"For what?"
"For this." He looked toward the stage, where the emcee was approaching the microphone. "Tonight's main event."
Before she could ask what he meant, the spotlight hit them.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the emcee announced, "please join me in congratulating the newly engaged couple—Damien Vale and Elena Cruz!"
Applause thundered.
The spotlight followed as Damien offered his hand.
"Time to sell the illusion," he said.
Elena took it.
And together, they stepped into the light.