This wasn’t in the Contract

Elliott’s POV

I didn’t sleep that night. After Damien’s offer—no, his proposal…I tossed in bed with the weight of it crushing me from all sides. I couldn’t get it out of my head. 

The way he said it, like it was a simple business deal, like it wasn’t going to change everything for me. But it would. My body kept replaying that moment in the studio. 

The way his fingers had brushed my skin, the intensity in his eyes like I was something more than just a name on his payroll. We almost kissed. In a way that was too close.Too Intimate. Too terrifying.

And then, like a slap to reality, his phone rang. Celeste. His ex-fiancée. The name alone was a wake-up call. He wasn’t asking me to be his friend. Or his lover. He was asking me to fill a role—a fake boyfriend. 

One that would distract the press, shield his reputation, and calm the boardroom storms that brewed around rumors. Because those rumors weren’t just whispers anymore. 

They were headlines. Damien Whitlock, the billionaire bachelor who's always been known to abstract from women, was now being gossiped about behind closed doors as “the gay CEO.” 

The kind of talk that made investors nervous and the public curious—and Damien? Silent. He couldn’t deny it. Even after the act with the lady. Not without adding fuel to the fire.

And now? He wanted me to be his cover. I wanted to say no. Every sane part of me screamed to walk away. But the truth was, I needed the money—badly. 

My rent was already overdue, my bank account was a joke, and my cracked camera lens was hanging on by tape and a prayer. 

But what scared me more than my finances was how much I didn’t hate the idea and yes what the society could say. So when the sun finally rose, I walked into Damien’s office with my head bowed and shame crawling up my neck.

“Yes,” I said. My voice barely carried.

He looked up from his desk, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Yes?” I cleared my throat, forcing the word again. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

His face remained unreadable for a beat longer than I expected. Then a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. There was no celebratory clap, no warm hug, no romantic rush of emotion—just quiet understanding. 

A contract had been sealed. A deal made. But beneath that calm exterior, I saw something flash in his eyes. Relief. 

Maybe even... pride?

I couldn’t be sure.

******

Two days later, I stood in front of a mirror I didn’t own, buttoning a black shirt that didn’t belong to me either. Damien had arranged a room for me in his penthouse—temporarily, he said.

It was too soon, too strange, too much. But he insisted that convenience was important, and I had no room to argue when I had no place to go. The gala was tonight. Some elite company events—champagne, power suits, fake smiles, and real stakes. 

The kind of place where reputations were made or destroyed in one evening. The kind of place I didn’t belong. “You’re overdressed,” Damien said from the doorway, his voice calm but amused.

I turned and blinked. He stood there in a fitted black suit that looked like it had been made just for his body. No tie. Just him, casual in the way only rich men could afford to be.

“You told me to look decent,” I muttered, tugging at my sleeves. “I don’t own ‘decent.’ This was borrowed from someone who thinks I’m crazy for even doing this.”

He walked up to me, every step measured. His hands moved with confidence, undoing the top button of my shirt, rolling up my sleeves just enough to expose my forearms. “There,” he said softly. 

“Now you look like someone I’d choose.”

His words landed in my chest like a warning shot. I wasn’t used to this. Not just the attention—but the intention behind it. He wasn’t flirting. 

He was crafting an image. And I was part of it.

By the time we arrived at the gala, my nerves were on fire. The flashing cameras were everywhere. Reporters barked names. Lights flashed like lightning storms. It wasn’t subtle. 

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t safe.

Every pair of eyes turned to Damien the moment he stepped out of the car. Some of those eyes lingered on me—confused, assessing. 

Others narrowed in suspicion. I was the unknown face. The strange presence beside him. And some expressions twisted into something uglier. He reached out, his hand brushing mine as we walked up the steps.

“Ready?” he murmured.

“For what?” I asked under my breath, already tense.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and took my hand—in front of everyone.

My stomach dropped. The flashes erupted like fireworks. I could already imagine the headlines: Damien Moreau seen holding hands with unidentified male at company gala.

The whispers were going to turn into screams.

I wasn’t ready for this. Not emotionally. Not socially. I could already feel the heat of judgment from the corners of the crowd. 

Men in tailored suits glared. Women raised eyebrows and whispered. Disgust wasn’t exactly subtle.

I wanted to let go. I wanted to run. But I didn’t.

We walked in together. Smiled together. Lied together. He introduced me as “Elliott, the one who finally managed to make me smile.”

People laughed. It was too polished to be spontaneous. They didn’t know what to make of us. Some smiled tightly. Others looked away. 

A few murmured behind champagne glasses, their glances sharp and not kind. An hour passed. Or maybe more. I found myself drifting to the edge of the ballroom, holding a drink I didn’t want, watching Damien work the room like he was born for it. 

Every conversation seemed like a performance. Every smile was calculated. And that’s when I saw her.

Celeste.

Blonde, sleek, and furious in red. She stood by the piano like a storm waiting to happen, her eyes fixed on Damien.

I didn’t think so. I moved.

Maybe it was instinct. Or jealousy. Or survival. Maybe I didn’t want to be made obsolete before I even started playing the role. I crossed the floor, fast.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I reached him, voice louder than usual, fingers sliding along the back of his jacket.

He looked at me, his eyes searching for mine. 

Then something shifted. His arm wrapped around my waist—tight, intentional.

And then, without a word, he kissed me.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t to taunt Celeste.

It was something else. Something real in the middle of everything is fake. His lips moved against mine like he had something to prove—not to them, but to me. 

It was slow, deeper than it should’ve been. Not the kind of kiss you give someone you’re paying. My hands gripped his jacket as the world blurred around us. 

And for a moment, I forgot what the deal was. I forgot who we were pretending to be. He pulled back slowly. His forehead pressed against mine.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “That one wasn’t planned.”

I couldn’t breathe. “Right,” I said. “Me neither.”

I looked over my shoulder. Celeste was gone. And something about that felt like a victory. Not just because I’d played my part. 

But because, maybe, I’d gotten a glimpse of something behind Damien’s mask. Something that wasn’t for show. But as we posed for photos and exchanged more careful touches, a cold thought crept into my head.

If this was how one unplanned kiss felt...

How the hell was I supposed to survive the rest of the lie?