CHAPTER 2: MY NEW FIANCÉ HATES ME

The executive leather chair creaked under my weight as I swiveled back and forth, feeling like I was about to throw up out of sheer nerves. I had spent exactly four minutes pretending to own this mahogany empire.

I looked back down at the open folder on the desk. Greed had blinded me so badly the first time that I didn’t even notice the name printed at the very top of the contract. I leaned in close, squinting at the paper, looking for the actual recipient of this fortune.

Executive Onboarding Contract for: Camila Dupont.

The air lodged in my throat. Dupont. That wasn't just any last name. I remembered reading that name in a business magazine I found tossed on the subway last week. The Duponts were the majority shareholders of Montenegro Enterprises. They owned vineyards in France, hotels in Europe, and probably half the oxygen we were breathing in this tower.

They thought I was the billionaire partner's daughter.

True, raw, violent panic settled in my chest. This wasn't a funny clerical error anymore. This was major-league identity theft. If I signed this, they weren't going to send me to a local precinct; they were going to prosecute me for corporate fraud, grand larceny, and who knows how many other federal crimes. I pictured myself wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. Orange washes me out, it really highlights my dark circles. I pictured myself eating flavorless mush off a metal tray for the next thirty years.

"Game over, Vargas," I said out loud, jumping to my feet.

I grabbed my knockoff bag, accidentally kicked the desk leg, and swallowed a groan of pain. I had to go to the Human Resources office right now. I’d tell them Beatriz had verbally kidnapped me, that I never claimed to be the Dupont heiress, and that I’m dyslexic and just got off on the wrong floor. Yeah, that excuse would work. A harmless misunderstanding.

I marched with military precision toward the frosted glass doors of my new office. I reached out for the steel handle.

Before my fingers could even brush the metal, the door violently swung inward, nearly flattening my nose. I jumped back, tripping over my own feet.

A man walked into the office like he owned the building, the city, and probably the entire planet.

My confession speech vaporized on my tongue. This guy's presence was so overwhelming it practically sucked the light right out of the room. He was tall, easily six-foot-three, with broad shoulders wrapped in a navy suit cut with lethal precision. His dark hair was slicked back flawlessly, not a single strand out of line. But it was his face that left me glued to the floor.

He had a jawline so tense and sharp it looked like it could shatter diamonds, and gray eyes, cold as glacier ice, that locked onto me with an intensity that made me shrink my shoulders out of pure survival instinct. He was ridiculously handsome. A Greek god poured into Italian silk. And clearly, he wanted to murder me.

He didn't say "hello." He didn't say "welcome." He didn't even blink.

He took two steps toward the desk, utterly ignoring me for three solid seconds while he tossed a manila folder down next to my million-dollar contract. Finally, he turned his head and looked me up and down.

His gaze dragged over my scuffed shoes, my patched-up skirt, and my discount blouse. I saw the exact second absolute mockery and disdain settled into the corner of his mouth.

"So this is the famous bohemian rebellion phase your father warned me so much about," his voice was deep, rough, and rattled in my chest like thunder. "I suppose dressing like you live under a bridge is your way of protesting the corporate machine. Fascinating."

Under a bridge? I clenched my fists. The fear of prison vanished for a microsecond, instantly replaced by pure, unadulterated hood indignation. Nobody, no matter how much designer fabric they wore, insulted my premium thrift-store finds.

"Listen here, watch how you—" I started, raising my index finger ready for a fight.

He held up a hand, slicing my sentence in half with a gesture that dripped with absolute authority. I shut my mouth instantly, feeling like a scolded puppy.

"Let’s spare ourselves the anarchist speech, Camila," he said, pronouncing my name like it was a personal insult. "Your father and I signed the deal last night. You’re on the payroll and you have your board seat as the Dupont representative. But I want to make the ground rules crystal clear from this exact moment."

He stepped closer. His cologne smelled like expensive wood, raw power, and cold rain. My heart rate spiked to alarming levels. I had to tilt my head back just to hold his gaze. He was so close I could see silver flecks in his storm-cloud eyes.

"I don’t care how many tantrums you throw. I don't care about your bored rich-girl whims, or your attempts to sabotage this merger," he continued, dropping his voice to a threatening murmur that gave me goosebumps. "You can play the nine-to-five office drone, you can blow this company's salary on your pointless art projects. But do not get in my way."

I was paralyzed. My brain was desperately trying to connect the dots. He thought my cheap clothes were a costume, a rich-girl protest. He thought I was a spoiled heiress. He was, without a single doubt, Maximiliano Montenegro, the CEO. And he hated my guts.

"Did you understand me?" he demanded, when I failed to react.

I nodded slowly, muted by sheer panic.

Maximiliano straightened his posture, adjusting a silver cufflink on his sleeve with infuriating calm, as if the hostility he had just dumped all over me was just another Tuesday. He took a step back, turned toward the door, and paused with his hand on the steel knob.

He turned his head halfway to shoot me one last glacial glare.

"Oh, and one more thing," he dropped, with the most casual, lethal tone in the world. "Don't think our arranged marriage is going to interfere with how I run my business. See you in the board meeting in ten minutes, fiancée."

He walked out, the door shutting behind him with a heavy thud.

Silence crashed over the room again, but this time it buzzed in my ears. I stood rooted to the center of the plush carpet, incapable of moving a single muscle. The air around me felt like it had turned to Jell-O.

Fiancée.

The word bounced off the walls of my empty skull, crashing into my debts, my lies, and my three dollars and fifty cents. I hadn’t just usurped the identity of a billionaire empire's heiress. I hadn’t just committed master-class fraud.

I had just gotten engaged to the most terrifying man in the city.