The morning after their fabricated engagement was announced, Camille awoke not to sunlight, but to the cold hush of a penthouse that felt like a stranger's memory.
She sat on the edge of the guest bed, wrapped in one of the thick robes provided by the Rousseau staff. Though she hadn't expected hospitality to extend this far, everything in Damien's home came with the haunting precision of wealth—tasteful, immaculate, silent. Like its owner.
Her phone buzzed.
7:03 AM.
A message from an unknown number: Driver waiting downstairs. You're expected at 7:30. - D.R.
No "Good morning." No gentle preamble. Just command.
Camille exhaled sharply and stood, stretching her arms over her head before padding to the window. Paris gleamed below, indifferent and glittering. She wasn't just a guest in Damien's world anymore. She was a player in it. And if last night's brief, intoxicating press reveal was any indication, the rules would change with every step she took.
She dressed quickly—a tailored cream blouse, high-waisted charcoal trousers, soft waves pinned back from her face. Polished, but not ornamental. She wasn't some glossy ornament for Damien's arm. She wouldn't allow herself to be.
When she stepped into the private elevator, she found a neatly wrapped breakfast box waiting on the leather seat beside her. A note was affixed.
"You don't eat before 8, but today might test your patience. Eat." — D
She stared at the handwriting. Crisp, slanted, impatient.
And familiar.
Against her better judgment, she smiled.
By the time she reached the waiting town car, Camille's armor was back in place. The world might think she was Damien Rousseau's fiancée, but she had her own game plan. She would play the role, navigate the spotlight, collect the payout—and then disappear with her freedom intact.
What she hadn't accounted for was just how close the spotlight would burn.
—
The first event on Damien's calendar that day was an impromptu brunch at the home of his cousin, Celeste Rousseau-Ferrand—a noted art dealer and media darling, whose invitations doubled as press releases. Camille had never met her, but from the paparazzi coverage alone, she knew Celeste curated her inner circle as ruthlessly as she curated her galleries.
The town car pulled up in the 16th arrondissement. Camille stepped out into a swirl of camera flashes. Damien was already there, leaning casually against the marble balustrade of Celeste's courtyard, dark sunglasses in place, a navy wool coat draped over his shoulders like royalty.
"You're late," he said, lips barely moving.
Camille gave him a tight smile. "Your driver stopped for a croissant."
His brow arched. "Did you eat it?"
"Yes."
"Good. You'll need the energy."
"Why? Are we dancing or just dodging knives disguised as hors d'oeuvres?"
He glanced at her with something close to amusement. "You'll see."
Celeste greeted them at the entrance like a monarch blessing her heirs. Her smile was too wide, her cheekbones too sharp, her perfume expensive and overwhelming.
"Darling!" she exclaimed, kissing Damien on both cheeks. Then, with a glance sharp enough to slice a Chanel hem, she turned to Camille. "So this is the mysterious fiancée."
Camille extended a hand. "Camille Durand."
Celeste ignored it. "You're not what I expected."
"That's mutual," Camille replied smoothly.
For a flicker of a second, Celeste's eyes glittered with respect. Then, with a pivot worthy of a stage actor, she ushered them inside.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of subtle interrogations disguised as conversation. Camille answered questions about her work, her childhood, her nonexistent love story with Damien. He, in turn, played his role effortlessly—hand resting on the small of her back, soft glances across the table, fingers brushing hers over mimosas.
But Camille felt it—the scrutiny, the silent suspicion. She was an anomaly in their world. Too intelligent. Too composed. Not polished enough to be harmless. Not arrogant enough to be dismissed.
By the time they exited the event, Camille's smile was a hairline crack away from splintering.
"Your family is exhausting," she said once the car door shut behind them.
"I warned you," Damien replied.
"You didn't mention the part where they analyze my every syllable like I'm a museum exhibit."
"They are collectors," he said dryly. "You're simply... not for sale."
Camille turned to him. "Why did you really choose me?"
Damien looked out the window.
Because you're not for sale. Because you won't become a footnote. Because you won't run.
But what he said aloud was only this: "Because you didn't need me."
And somehow, that felt more intimate than any compliment he could have given.
—
That evening, Camille returned to her temporary suite in Damien's penthouse. The staff had left fresh linens and a delicate glass decanter of wine on her nightstand. On the desk sat another envelope. This time, no signature.
Inside, a single sheet of paper read:
Marseille. This weekend. Pack for four days. Weather mild. Expect family scrutiny. And something more dangerous than inheritance disputes.
Camille read it twice. Then again.
The war had begun.
And she had just agreed to walk into the lion's den wearing only ambition and a name that wasn't truly hers.
Camille didn't sleep that night.
Marseille.
The name alone stirred a hundred questions and a thousand possibilities. She paced the length of the guest room while the city glowed below, her thoughts a relentless storm.
She'd known this agreement would take her places—society events, photographs, polite conversations laced with landmines. But traveling with Damien? Meeting more of his family?
There were too many variables. Too many places for the story to splinter.
And then there was the note's final line: something more dangerous than inheritance disputes.
What did that mean? Was it a warning? A test? A joke?
She sank into the armchair near the window, knees pulled to her chest. Part of her wanted to believe Damien had written it to impress her, to keep her alert. Another part—the sharper, smarter part—knew better.
There was a truth simmering beneath this arrangement, one neither of them had spoken aloud.
He wasn't just trying to secure a legacy.
He was protecting something.
And she had just been drafted as his shield.
The thought stayed with her through the night, even as her body eventually succumbed to sleep.
—
By Friday morning, her suitcase was packed. Damien's assistant—efficient and wordless—collected it without comment. Camille had opted for subtle elegance: soft neutrals, silk blouses, and a pair of kitten heels that said I belong, but not I'm yours.
She met Damien in the lobby, her heart steady, her eyes tired. He glanced at her suitcase, then at her.
"No unnecessary jewelry," he noted. "Good."
She frowned. "Am I walking into a photo shoot or a political negotiation?"
"Both."
The flight was private, unsurprisingly. Damien worked through most of it, scribbling notes on a legal pad in French so fast Camille could barely catch up. She didn't try to interrupt. She didn't even pretend to make small talk.
He appreciated that more than he let on.
When they landed in Marseille, the air was cooler than expected, tinged with sea salt and the sharpness of old money. A black sedan waited for them on the tarmac. Camille climbed in without hesitation. Whatever came next, she had already decided she would not flinch.
They drove in silence, weaving through the coastal roads, until the estate came into view—white stone walls, sweeping gardens, shutters painted the color of bruised dusk. It was not simply a house. It was a declaration.
Henri Rousseau had built it decades ago. Damien had inherited its ghosts.
"I spent every summer here until I turned eighteen," Damien said quietly.
Camille glanced at him. "What happened then?"
"My father happened."
He didn't elaborate, and she didn't push.
The housekeeper greeted them at the door, a wiry woman named Lisette with sharp eyes and a voice like dry parchment. She led them inside, past portraits and relics, and finally to their guest suite. One.
Camille paused. "There's only one bedroom?"
Lisette blinked. "You are engaged, no?"
Damien didn't respond. He simply walked inside.
The message was clear: they would sleep in the same room, or the illusion would crack.
Camille closed the door behind her and set her bag on the velvet ottoman at the foot of the bed. The suite was enormous, understated, elegant. But there was only one bed—king-sized, immaculately dressed.
"I'll take the chaise," Damien said without looking up from his phone.
She turned. "You don't have to—"
"I won't touch you, Camille."
She studied him for a moment. There was no challenge in his tone. Just restraint. And maybe something gentler. Respect, perhaps, wrapped in steel.
"All right," she said softly. "But tomorrow, we play the couple."
His lips quirked. "You say that like we haven't been playing it all week."
"Tomorrow, we play it in front of blood. That's different."
He met her gaze fully then, and the space between them felt thinner somehow.
"I know."
—
The next day began with breakfast on the terrace, where Camille was introduced to Damien's aunts, uncles, and cousins—each more refined, more calculating than the last.
They grilled her gently but persistently.
How did you two meet?
How did he propose?
Do you want children?
When is the wedding?
What will you do after you're married—will you keep working?
Camille smiled, laughed, and delivered answers wrapped in velvet. She was quick, gracious, and undeniably poised. If she was lying, no one could tell.
Damien watched her like a man in a storm—still, silent, awed.
At one point, when Celeste arrived unannounced and began recounting an old family scandal involving a hidden will and a forged engagement, Camille leaned into Damien and whispered, "Do they do this every weekend?"
"Only when they smell weakness."
"Lovely."
After lunch, the family drifted toward the gardens. Damien and Camille walked together, arms entwined for show, their footsteps light on the gravel paths.
"You handled them well," he said.
"I'm fluent in wealthy subtext," she replied.
"You could've been one of them, if life had twisted slightly differently."
"I wouldn't have survived it," she said simply.
He looked at her. "You're surviving me."
She stopped walking.
Something about the way he said it—soft, ironic, almost tender—made her chest tighten. She wasn't sure if it was affection or warning.
"You're different from them," she said. "But I don't know if that's better."
He didn't argue.
A beat passed. Then another.
"You'll meet my father tonight," he said finally.
Camille tensed. "I didn't realize he was invited."
"He wasn't. He never is."
"Then why now?"
Damien's jaw tightened.
"Because he's found out what we're doing," he said. "And he doesn't like games he didn't invent."
—
By evening, the estate was transformed for a formal dinner—candlelight, crystal, silver cutlery that shimmered like glass daggers. Camille wore a black satin gown Damien had sent up earlier, its back low, its neckline sharp, elegant. She had no idea how he'd known her size, but she wasn't naïve enough to ask.
Damien appeared beside her in a black tuxedo, the lines of his body sculpted and unreadable.
"You look..." he paused, "...formidable."
"Good," she said. "I don't intend to blink tonight."
He offered his arm. She took it.
They descended into war.
—
The dinner was as tense as expected.
Conversation flowed, laced with history and power plays. And then, midway through the third course, he arrived.
Damien's father.
Charles Rousseau.
He looked like his son might in twenty years—tall, elegant, but hollowed. His eyes were sharp, too sharp. His mouth was a slash of judgment.
"Damien," he said, stepping into the room as if it belonged to him. "I see you've upgraded."
Camille rose with the others, her spine straight.
"This is Camille Durand," Damien said, voice cool. "My fiancée."
Charles's gaze swept over her, impolite and slow.
"Charming. But then, you always did have a taste for unattainable things."
Camille extended her hand. "Mr. Rousseau."
He took it. Barely.
"You'll forgive me if I don't congratulate you," he said to Damien. "I was rather hoping you'd outgrow these performances."
Camille felt Damien still beside her, but his face didn't move.
"We're not performing," Damien said.
"No," Charles said. "Of course not."
Dinner resumed, but the atmosphere had shifted.
There was something bitter in the air now—old resentment, simmering rivalry, shadows of past betrayals. Camille watched father and son trade barbed comments with genteel smiles, and she realized:
This wasn't just a family.
It was a battlefield.
And she was standing in the crossfire.