CHAPTER 5

Camila's POV

I hate everything about this.

I hate the contract sitting inside my purse. I hate the black SUV carrying me away from the apartment I've lived in for the last four years. Most of all, I hate the fact that less than twenty-four hours after signing that contract, my mother's treatment plan has already been approved.

Not partially approved, not placed on a waiting list.

Approved.

Every specialist.

Every medication.

Every procedure.

Months of fighting insurance companies accomplished nothing. Alejandro Vega made a few phone calls, and suddenly doors started opening.

The worst part is that I should be grateful.

Instead, I'm angry because money should not have that much power.

The SUV turns through a pair of iron gates, and my irritation immediately collides with disbelief.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." The words slip out before I can stop them as the estate comes into view.

The driveway alone looks longer than the entire block where I grew up, and the house sitting at the end of it barely qualifies as a house. It looks more like a luxury resort someone accidentally labeled as a private residence.

Glass walls stretch toward the sky. Multiple balconies overlook the ocean. The pool appears large enough to host sporting events.

I stare through the window, trying to process the fact that a single person actually lives here. "No," I mutter, shaking my head. "Absolutely not."

The driver wisely pretends not to hear me.

By the time the SUV stops in front of the main entrance, I've already decided I hate the place.

Not because it's ugly but because it's beautiful. Beautiful in a way that reminds people exactly how much money they don't have.

The front door opens before I can reach it, and a woman in a navy uniform steps forward with a welcoming smile.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Vega." The title hits me so unexpectedly that I almost miss a step.

Mrs. Vega.

For a second, I actually glance over my shoulder before remembering she's talking to me.

The realization feels ridiculous.

I don't look like a Mrs. Vega. I look like a tired nurse who made a desperate decision. Still, I force a polite smile. "Thank you."

The woman takes my suitcase, and before I can protest, two other staff members appear to help.

Of course they do. Apparently carrying your own luggage isn't encouraged in billionaire households.

Inside, things somehow become even more absurd. The entrance hall alone is larger than my entire apartment, and as I follow the staff farther into the house, I find myself staring at everything despite my best efforts not to.

The floors shine.

The windows stretch from floor to ceiling.

Fresh flowers sit on tables that probably cost more than my annual salary.

Everywhere I look, someone is working.

Someone is cleaning.

Someone is arranging something.

Someone is carrying something.

It's less like entering a home and more like wandering into a five-star hotel.

"You're staring." The familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find Alejandro standing near the staircase with his hands in his pockets.

I hate how comfortable he looks here. Then again, I suppose it's difficult not to look comfortable in your own palace.

"I'm judging," I correct, glancing around again. "There's a difference."

A faint trace of amusement appears in his eyes. "And what's the verdict?"

I gesture toward the enormous room around us. "You have entirely too much house."

His gaze follows mine before returning to me. "That's your professional opinion?"

"It's the only reasonable conclusion. Nobody needs three living rooms."

"You counted?"

"I got bored." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and the expression catches me off guard because it makes him look younger somehow.

Less intimidating, more human.

The realization is deeply inconvenient.

"Come on," he says, turning toward the hallway. "I'll show you your room."

"My room?"

He glances back at me. "Did you think we were sharing one?"

I nearly choke. "N-o."

"Good."

"Trust me," I say, falling into step beside him, "that concern wasn't for your benefit."

To my surprise, a quiet laugh escapes him.

An actual laugh, not a polite business smile, not a carefully controlled reaction.

The sound is so unexpected that I stop walking. Alejandro notices immediately. "What?"

I narrow my eyes. "You laugh."

He looks genuinely confused. "Occasionally."

"Huh."

The single syllable earns another amused look from him. "That disappointing?"

"Honestly? A little."

For some reason, he doesn't seem offended. If anything, he looks entertained.

We stop outside a pair of large wooden doors, and the moment I see the serious expression replacing his amusement, my stomach tightens.

The grandfather.

I'd almost forgotten. "He's inside?" I ask.

Alejandro nods. "Any advice?"

For a moment, he actually considers the question then he exhales quietly. "Don't underestimate him."

The answer immediately puts me on edge. "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

Alejandro opens the door, and I follow him into what looks like a private library.

Bookshelves cover the walls.

Sunlight pours through enormous windows. And seated near the fireplace is an older man holding a newspaper.

Santiago Vega.

The reason I'm here.

The reason I'm pretending to be married.

The reason my life currently feels like a bad decision stretched across sixty days.

The moment he looks up, the room changes. Not physically but emotionally.

His attention lands on me and stays there. Not for a second, not for two but long enough that I become painfully aware of every detail about myself.

The way I'm standing.

The clothes I'm wearing.

The fact that my palms are suddenly sweating.

I resist the urge to shift under the weight of his gaze then he slowly lowers the newspaper.

Interesting. The single word shouldn't make me nervous, somehow it does.

Beside me, Alejandro straightens slightly, and the movement tells me I'm not imagining the tension in the room. "Grandfather," he says.

Santiago ignores him completely. His attention never leaves me.

The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before a slow smile appears on his face.

Unfortunately, the smile doesn't make him seem friendly. It makes him seem dangerous, very dangerous.

Then he says something that makes every muscle in my body tighten. "You don't look like the type of woman my grandson usually lies to."

The comment lands like a grenade.

My stomach drops instantly, and when I glance toward Alejandro, I find him staring at his grandfather with an expression that is far too tense to be reassuring.

Santiago notices that too.

His smile widens knowingly as though he's just confirmed something. As though he's been watching us from the moment we walked through the door.

A terrible feeling begins creeping into my chest.

This man isn't testing our marriage.

He's testing our story. And judging by the look in his eyes, I'm not entirely convinced he believes a single word of it.

"What exactly does that mean?" I ask carefully, forcing my voice to remain steady.

Santiago studies me for another few seconds before leaning back in his chair. "Oh, nothing," he says lightly, though the amusement in his eyes suggests otherwise. "I just find first meetings fascinating."

The answer should make me feel better.

Instead, it makes me feel worse because Santiago Vega doesn't strike me as a man who says anything by accident.

His gaze shifts briefly between Alejandro and me before returning to my face, and the smile that follows is so calm that it sends a chill down my spine.

"Tell me, Camila," he says, folding his hands together, "when exactly did you and my grandson fall in love?"