ALMS TO LOVE CHAPTER 6

The next morning charles phoned and he will be driving over to pick up fiona Infront of her place The New york townhouse didn't appear to be a styling studio.

It seemed like an embassy for a king—white marble floors, gold-inlaid columns, and tall mirrors with soft lights around them. Fiona stood in the middle of the room feeling out of place and under scrutiny.

Which wasn't far from the reality.

She was hemmed in by rows of designer gowns, shelves of stilettos, cases of jewelry that were treated like national treasures—and one very keen billionaire sitting in the corner, crossed legs, a glass of scotch resting in his hand.

Charles Billion had not uttered a word since she entered.

He observed.

Quietly. Fiercely. As if he was auditioning someone to play a character in a movie only he could helm.

Fiona pulled on the sleeve of her blouse. "This is… too much."

A woman of commanding height, with silver-blonde hair, turned to her like a hawk in mid-flight.

"'A bit much' is for funerals, Miss Generys. This"—she swept a hand toward the gowns all around them—"is for war."

Fiona blinked. "And you are?"

"Clara Antonov. Charles's personal stylist. Or, in your case, the miracle worker." She smiled tightly. "You've got good bones. I just need to make you look like someone who's slept inside a penthouse and not a hospital chair."

Fiona's lips compressed. "Wow. Subtle."

Charles's voice broke through the room at last—low and smooth.

"She means well."

"I'm sure she does," Fiona said under her breath.

Clara clapped her hands once. "Strip. We start now."

"I—excuse me?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "There's a changing room in the back of that divider. I don't want a front-row seat to your trauma. Now go."

Fiona slid behind the divider, cursing softly in Tagalog.

Charles smiled slightly into his glass.

Later, Clara's voice sounded out again. "Try the ivory Valentino. It says 'humble sophistication' while whispering 'old money.' And for God's sake, stand up straight!"

Fiona stepped out moments later, wrapped in a sleek column gown that hugged her curves like it was sculpted for her.

Charles’s expression didn’t change.

But something in his eyes shifted.

Clara circled Fiona like a general inspecting her soldier. “Hair down. No curls—too romantic. Earrings, small and tasteful. Shoes—Louboutin, nude, pointy.”

Fiona sighed. “You’re really committing to the fantasy.”

“This isn’t fantasy, sweetheart. This is strategy.”

Charles finally stood. “Let her breathe, Clara.”

Clara arched an eyebrow. "You're the one who told her she needed to be perfect."

"She will be," Charles said, eyes fixed on Fiona.

Fiona folded her arms. "You sound like you're talking about a show car."

Charles advanced, his voice neutral. "You're not. You're a piece of art. And by Sunday, you'll strut into that brunch like you're the owner of the Billion name."

Fiona regarded him—honestly regarded him.

Cold, calculated, composed.

And in there somewhere… sparks of something else. Something he wasn't yet willing to call it.

She didn't blink.

"I'll go in like your wife," she said quietly. "But you'd better believe I'm doing this for my reasons. Not yours."

He gave her one nod.

Consent. Or challenge. Perhaps both.

Clara snapped her fingers once more. "Now put on the navy Dior. She's not greeting just the family—she's greeting Madam Jamaica. If you shake, she will detect it. If you blink repeatedly, she'll assume that you have secrets. And if you wear a bad color of lipstick—"

"She'll disown me," Fiona concluded. "Got it."

Turning back in the direction of the dressing room, Charles's eye lingered a fraction longer.

Not because she was perfect.

But because she wasn't.

And that—frighteningly—made her much too real.

Leather and Lace

The black Maybach sat idling like a sleeping monster in front of the small brownstone house Fiona lived in. Its windows sparkled like secrets—dark, pricey, un readable.

Fiona was on the front stoop, coat pulled tight, staring at the car as if it were something living.

Then the door opened.

Charles Billion emerged—perfect in a navy three-piece, shades in the clouds, and the type of quiet swagger that could never be learned. It was innate.

He didn't smile. He just sized her up.

Twice.

"You're late," she said.

He glanced at his Patek Philippe, deliberate and slow. "You're fortunate I arrived."

Fiona's jaw clenched. "Charming."

Charles pointed to the car. "You going to wear that to brunch with my grandmother? Or are we having a charity production of Les Misérables?"

Fiona blinked. "It's a coat."

"It's a tragedy," he snapped, shooshing Clara out of the car.

Clara arrived, arms laden with garment bags and annoyance. "Good morning to you, Miss Generys. Look number five time."

"I am not changing in the street."

Relax," Charles interrupted. "There's a mobile dressing room in the car. Privacy. Champagne. Forgiven mirrors."

Fiona's eyes narrowed. "Do all your imitation wives get this treatment?"

"Only the sixty-million ones."

She climbed into the Maybach, jaw clenched, heart racing. Charles seated himself across from her like a monarch about to witness his court jester perform.

Clara unzipped a bag and took out a blood-red dress with a throat-cutting neckline. "This is the one."

Fiona arched an eyebrow. "Are we seducing your grandma or threatening her?"

Charles grinned. "She likes women who bite."

Fiona leaned in. "Then maybe you should've married her."

Charles's expression lost the smirk for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled—cold, lazy. "No thanks. She already owns my soul."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Kids. Can we please concentrate?"

While Fiona changed behind the screen, Charles filled a glass of bourbon from the in-car bar and swirled it as if it contained solutions.

He talked without lifting his head. "You have to listen to something, Fiona."

She fastened the back of the gown, voice level. "Let me take a guess—another regulation?

"More like a warning." He sat back. "In my world, appearances are oxygen. You don't look the part, you choke. You don't play the role, you're eaten alive."

Fiona emerged in the red dress. The dress stuck to her like heat. Her shoulders braced. She didn't blink.

"I've been choking for years, Charles. I'm still standing."

That stopped him.

His eyes—so used to scanning, sorting, dismissing—finally settled on her like he was seeing her.

Clara, stunned silent, finally whispered, “Okay. Damn.”

Charles stood, slowly. His voice dropped a notch.

“You’ll do.”

Fiona arched a brow. “Is that the highest praise I’ll get?”

He sipped his bourbon, gaze unreadable. “You want compliments? Date an influencer.”

“You want silence? Marry a mannequin.”

Their words clashed like sabers—sharp, gleaming, just inches from skin.

A long beat.

Then Charles reached for his phone, tapping it once.

"Go, Driver."

The car glided forward. Fiona fiddled with her earrings, heart pounding in her throat.

Charles leaned in closer—breathe-by-breathe.

"Remember, Fiona," he whispered. "To everyone out there, you are head-over-heels in love with me. Play your role. Smile like I hung the moon. And don't you dare make my grandmother think for one moment you're anything other than obsessed with me."

Fiona's smile was sweet. "Oh, I can easily pretend disgust. Love shouldn't be that different."

Charles's dark, silent laugh.

Charles leaned in close, his voice barely more than a whisper honed to ice.

"Just remember," he told her, his eyes glinting, "in this tale. I write the ending. Make yourself self-contained and respectable. Don't be like a peddler. Do you understand?"