The Contract

Note next morning, I woke up with one heavy, pounding realization echoing inside my head: I had agreed to fake-date Damon Hayes.

I stared blankly at the popcorn ceiling of my dorm room, then slowly buried my face in both hands. “What on earth was I thinking?”

Three months.

That was all. Three short, agonizing months of pretending to be the cherished girlfriend of Westbridge University’s most infamous, arrogant hockey captain. Three months of rehearsed smiles, public dates, forced touches, and a strict, ironclad rule against catching actual feelings.

Simple, my brain tried to rationalize. Clean.

At least, that was what I kept repeating to myself like a mantra.

My phone buzzed against the wooden nightstand, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I reached out and picked it up. A single text message lit up the screen from a contact I hadn't even bothered to properly label.

Damon: Library. 5 p.m. Don't be late.

I frowned at the lack of greeting. No good morning. No polite please. Just a command wrapped in arrogance.

I fired back a response before I could overthink it.

Me: You could say please.

Three little dots appeared instantly, pulsing in a rhythmic little dance as he typed.

Damon: Please don't be late.

I stared at the screen, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my lips despite my best efforts. Then, I caught myself, my expression hardening. No. I tossed the phone back onto the bed as if it were burning hot. I was not going to start smiling at his texts. That was the exact slippery slope that led straight to disaster.

At exactly five o'seatk, I pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the campus library.

Damon was already there, occupying a secluded corner table bathed in the amber glow of a desk lamp. He had his laptop open, his dark sweater pushed up past his forearms, revealing those corded muscles and ink-mapped skin that had haunted the edges of my thoughts all night. His dark hair was charmingly rumpled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration.

He looked entirely too good for someone who was supposed to be a temporary business arrangement.

His striking blue eyes lifted the moment my shoes clicked against the floor, locking onto mine. “You’re on time.”

“I said I would be,” I replied, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down with a crisp rustle of my notebook.

“Most people aren't.”

“I'm not most people.”

A slow, knowing curve touched his lips. “I've noticed.”

He reached beside his laptop and slid a thick manila folder across the mahogany table toward me. I looked down at it, my stomach tightening.

“Where's the contract?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“Right there.”

I opened the folder, flipping past a cover sheet to reveal page after page of meticulously typed legal text. I couldn't help a dry laugh escaping my throat. “You actually typed this up?”

“Of course. Business is business, red.”

“You’re terrifyingly serious about this, aren't you?”

“Very.” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. “Read it.”

I lowered my eyes to the paper, scanning the formal clauses.

FAKE RELATIONSHIP AGREEMENT.

“Clause one: The relationship will last precisely three months, terminating on December twenty-first.” I looked up at him. “Okay.”

“Clause two: Both parties agree to appear together at selected public events, including team dinners, campus mixers, and booster functions.”

“Clause three: Physical affection will be limited to what is strictly necessary to maintain the illusion of a genuine, romantic relationship in public.” I stopped reading, my cheeks warming. “Define ‘necessary’.”

Damon’s gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before rising back to my eyes. “Holding hands when walking across campus. An arm around the waist at gatherings. A kiss... when people are watching.”

My heart did a traitorous little flip against my ribs. “Right. Fine. Clause four—” I cleared my throat and read on. “Neither party may become unreasonably jealous or interfere in the other's personal lives outside the agreed parameters.” I scoffed, looking right at him. “This one’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because you are the one who needs this fake shield. What happens when some adoring fan throws herself at you in public?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“You’ll love the attention.”

His smile flashed, sharp and dangerous. “Are you jealous already, Amelia?”

“Not in a million years,” I snapped back a little too quickly.

“You answered remarkably fast.”

“Because the answer is blindingly obvious.”

He leaned forward, closing the distance between us, the air suddenly feeling thin and electric. “Good. Because I don't need complications.”

I swallowed hard, looking back down at the paper. “Clause five: No overnight stays. Clause six: No physical intimacy beyond public displays. Clause seven: Neither party may, under any circumstances, develop romantic feelings for the other.”

I stopped dead. I stared at that specific clause, the words staring back at me like a warning label. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to meet his. “That’s impossible to enforce, Damon.”

“We’re not planning on needing enforcement,” he said smoothly, though his voice had dropped an octave.

“You sound awfully confident.”

“I am.”

“Good for you.” I grabbed a pen from my bag, flipped to the signature page, and scribbled my name across the dotted line with aggressive speed.

Damon watched my hand move, his expression unreadable. When I finished, I pushed the folder back across the table toward him. He picked up his pen, but hesitated, his blue eyes searching my face.

“You understand what you’re signing, don't you?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Three months.”

“Three months,” he echoed.

“No feelings.”

“No feelings.”

He pressed the pen to the paper and signed his name with sharp, bold strokes. He set the pen down, leaning back with a strange, heavy exhale.

“Congratulations, Carter.”

“On what?”

“You’re officially my girlfriend.”

I stared at him, the words tasting strange on my tongue. “Fake girlfriend.”

His signature, slow smile bloomed across his face. “Right. My mistake.”

Something about hearing him say it made my stomach flutter with a nervous, sickening heat. I hated how easily he got under my skin. I snatched the folder, shoving it back into my bag. “So. What happens now?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Now we have to make sure everyone buys it.”

“How do we do that?”

He stood up, towering over the table. “Dinner.”

I frowned, freezing mid-motion. “What?”

“Our first public date.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Damon, I have macroeconomics homework, a stack of finance papers, and—”

“So do I.”

“Then why are we wasting time going to a restaurant?”

“Because real couples eat together, Amelia.” He rounded the table, stopping just inches from my chair. “And we aren't a real couple, which means we have to work twice as hard to look like one.”

I looked up at him, my breath catching in my throat. He was standing entirely too close. I could see the faint flecks of gold in his striking blue eyes, could smell that intoxicating blend of cedarwood and clean linen.

His eyes dropped briefly to my lips, lingering there for a heart-stopping second before he stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Seven o'clock,” he commanded softly. “Be ready.”

And with that, he turned and walked away into the rows of bookshelves, leaving me sitting alone with a racing heart and a terrifying sense of inevitability.

At seven o'clock sharp, a soft knock echoed against my dorm room door.

I took one final, critical look at my reflection in the small bathroom mirror. I had chosen a simple, form-fitting black dress that ended just above my knees—nothing extravagant, nothing flashy. But the moment I opened the door and saw Damon standing in the hallway, I instantly regretted not putting more effort into my appearance.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, dressed in a tailored charcoal jacket over a crisp white shirt with the top buttons casually undone. He looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a luxury fashion magazine.

For a second, Damon didn't move or speak. His blue eyes swept slowly down from my hair, taking in the black dress, and resting back on my face with an intensity that made my knees feel weak.

“What?” I self-consciously smoothed the fabric of my skirt. “Is something wrong with my outfit?”

Damon blinked, clearing his throat as a slow, mesmerizing smile crept across his face. “Nothing is wrong. In fact... it’s a problem.”

“A problem?” I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“Because every guy in that restaurant is going to be staring at you, and I’m going to have to spend half my night pretending I don't want to punch them.”

Heat rushed violently to my cheeks. I looked away, grabbing my small purse from the desk. “Shut up and let's go before I change my mind.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound, and gallantly opened the door for me. To my utter shock, he even walked me out to his sleek black sports car and opened the passenger door, shielding the top of the frame with his hand so I wouldn't bump my head.

I slid into the leather seat, staring up at him as he closed the door. “Who are you, and what have you done with the arrogant hockey captain?”

He walked around, slid into the driver's side, and gave me a sideways grin as he started the ignition. “Just expanding my skill set, red.”

The drive into the city was filled with an easy, low hum of conversation. The silence wasn't suffocating anymore; it felt comfortable, a fragile bridge built over deep water. But as the car slowed to a halt in front of Le Château, a five-star French restaurant with valet parking and glowing crystal chandeliers hanging from the windows, my panic returned tenfold.

I stared through the glass at the impeccably dressed patrons inside.

“Damon,” I whispered, my voice tight. “No.”

He turned off the engine, looking at me sideways. “What?”

“This place is insane. Look at them! They’re wearing diamonds and tuxedos. I can't go in there.”

“You look stunning,” he said simply, his voice dropping to a low, unyielding register. “And you are with me. Get out of the car.”

“I don't like people paying for me, Damon. I don't belong here—”

“You’re my girlfriend,” he interrupted, opening his door and walking around to mine before I could argue further. He pulled my door open, extending a hand down to me. “Act like it.”

Defeated, I placed my hand in his. His fingers instantly closed around mine, warm and calloused, pulling me out of the car. The electric jolt of his skin against mine shot straight up my arm.

As we walked through the grand double doors of the restaurant, the whispered murmurs started almost immediately. Heads turned. Eyes tracked us across the velvet-carpeted dining room.

The maître d’ greeted Damon with immediate, deferential respect, leading us to a secluded candlelit booth in the corner that offered a view of the entire room.

Once we sat down, Damon across from me, the weight of a dozen staring eyes pressed down on my shoulders.

“Everyone is looking at us,” I hissed quietly, staring down at my water glass.

“Good. That means the acting is working.”

“This isn't acting for them, Damon. This is real life.”

Before he could answer, a woman at the adjacent table leaned over with a warm, sugary smile. “Excuse me, but you two are the most gorgeous couple I’ve seen all evening. How long have you been together?”

I nearly choked on my sip of water.

Damon didn't miss a beat. Without a second of hesitation, he reached across the small table, his large hand sliding over mine, his thumb gently stroking my knuckles. He looked at the woman with a soft, convincing smile that looked terrifyingly genuine.

“Thank you,” Damon replied smoothly. “We’re coming up on our anniversary soon.”

Anniversary? My eyes widened in sheer panic, and under the cover of the white tablecloth, I furiously kicked his shin with the heel of my shoe.

Damon didn't even flinch. His grip on my hand simply tightened, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a silent, mocking challenge.

The woman gushed for a moment longer before turning back to her own companion. The second she looked away, I glared at Damon across the candle flame.

“An anniversary?” I hissed under my breath. “We signed the contract this morning!”

“We have to sell it, Amelia,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “If we’re going to convince the board, we have to convince everyone else first.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe I am.”

The waiter arrived, taking our orders with practiced grace. As the tension melted away into the rich atmosphere of the restaurant, we actually began to talk. Truly talk. We bypassed the witty banter and the sharp insults, drifting into real stories. He told me about the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, about the grueling hours on the ice, and the lonely reality of living behind a gold-plated mask. In turn, I found myself telling him about late nights studying in cramped apartments, about my mother’s quiet strength, and how much I wanted to pull my family out of financial quicksand.

For a brief, dangerous moment, I forgot we were acting. I forgot about the contract, the fake smiles, and the cameras. I just saw the man beneath the armor—complex, brilliant, and surprisingly vulnerable.

He reached across the table again, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched me speak. “You really carry the world on your shoulders, don't you?”

“Someone has to,” I murmured, offering a small, sad smile.

His gaze softened, a rare, breathtaking gentleness washing over his sharp features. “You don't have to carry it all by yourself, red. Not anymore.”

My heart skipped a beat, hammering wildly against my ribs. The air between us grew thick, charged with an emotional gravity that terrified me far more than his arrogance ever could.

Then, the illusion shattered.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

The voice was like fingernails scratching across a glass window.

I turned my head. Standing at the edge of our booth, draped in a glittering emerald designer dress that cost more than my monthly tuition, was Victoria. Her painted red lips were curled into a venomous, triumphant smile, and her eyes flashed with pure malice as she looked down at our joined hands.

Damon’s entire body went rigid. The warm, soft man from a second ago vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, lethal wall of ice.

“Victoria,” Damon said, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. “Go away.”

“Oh, come now, Damon,” she purred, stepping closer, completely ignoring restaurant etiquette. Her gaze flicked sharply to me. “I just wanted to drop by and see how the happy little couple was doing. Has he told you yet?”

My stomach plummeted. A cold knot of dread tied itself into my gut. “Told me what?”

Victoria laughed, a high, mocking sound. “Oh, sweetie. You really think he brought you here because he likes you? You think a guy like Damon Hayes—heir to a multi-million-dollar empire—dates scholarship girls from the wrong side of the tracks out of the goodness of his heart?”

I looked slowly from Victoria to Damon. Damon’s jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He wouldn't look at me.

“Damon?” I whispered, my voice shaking. “What is she talking about?”

Victoria leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. “He’s using you, Amelia. He needed a clean image to save his precious hockey captaincy from the university board. You’re just a prop. A convenient little pawn in his rich-boy game.”

The restaurant around us seemed to blur. The clinking of silverware, the murmur of voices, the ambient jazz music—it all faded into a deafening roar in my ears.

“Is that true?” I choked out, staring at Damon.

Damon finally looked at me, his blue eyes swimming with a desperate, frantic panic I had never seen before. He reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly as he tried to touch my wrist. “Amelia... let me explain—”

I jerked my hand away as if his skin were burning hot.

I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor, turning heads across the entire dining room. I didn't care. Humiliation and betrayal burned hot behind my eyes, stinging like acid.

“We had a contract,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the heartbreak. “We had rules. But you... you lied about why you needed me.”

“Amelia, wait—” Damon stood up, starting to step around the table.

“Stay away from me,” I choked out, tears finally spilling over my lashes.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and fled toward the exit, pushing past waiters and stunned patrons, desperate to escape the suffocating air of the restaurant.

I burst out onto the wet, chilly city sidewalk, the night air biting at my bare arms. I didn't wait for Damon. I started running down the pavement toward the campus dorms, my heels clicking frantically against the concrete.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Behind me, the heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open.

“Amelia!” Damon’s deep voice roared over the traffic, echoing down the empty street.

I didn't look back. I pulled my purse tighter against my chest, tears blurring the streetlights into a smear of yellow and red.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed violently in my purse.

Thinking it was Damon calling, I pulled it out, frantically swiping the screen to silence him. But it wasn't a call. It was a text message from an unknown, encrypted number.

My breath caught in my throat as my eyes scanned the screen.

Attachment: 1 New Photo.

It was a crystal-clear, high-definition photograph of Damon and me sitting across from each other at the restaurant table, just moments before Victoria had interrupted us—our hands intertwined, looking deeply, hopelessly in love.

And right beneath the photograph was a final, chilling message:

Playtime is over, little girl. He was never yours to keep. Watch your back.