Chapter 3: The Rules of Engagement

The Blackwood Tower penthouse looked different in daylight. Warmer, almost. The floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with morning light, turning the chrome and glass into something less cold. Almost inviting.

Almost.

"Your rooms are down the hall to the left," Damian said, not looking up from his tablet. He sat at the dining table, black coffee steaming beside him, already dressed in another impossibly expensive suit. "The master suite is mine. You'll have the guest suite. It has its own bathroom and terrace."

"I'm surprised you're not putting me in the basement."

"The basement is for prisoners." He finally looked up, gray eyes flat. "You're not a prisoner. You're an asset."

"Comforting."

He pushed a folder across the table. "Read this. Your background story. Everything you need to know about me, my company, and our supposed relationship. Memorize it by tonight."

She flipped it open. The first page was a timeline of their "courtship"—how they met at a charity gala three months ago, how he was captivated by her wit and beauty, how they'd been secretly dating ever since. Doctored photos were attached, her face superimposed onto other women's bodies.

"This is disturbing."

"It's necessary. The media will dig. They need to find something believable."

"You couldn't have picked a real woman?"

"I told you why I picked you." He took a sip of coffee. "You're dangerous. You can handle yourself. And you have no connections to my world."

Alessia set the folder down. "What about my father? When do I get to see him?"

"Not until this is over."

Her blood ran cold. "That wasn't the deal."

"The deal was that I protect him. I can't do that if you're running off to visit. Ivanov's people are watching him. If they see you, they'll know something's changed." He stood, walking toward her with that unhurried stride. "Your father is safe. He's in a secure location. But you can't contact him until this is finished."

"You're a monster."

"I'm a businessman." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head up. "And you're my fiancée. Which means starting today, you need to act like it."

"I don't even know you."

"You'll learn." He took her left hand, his fingers cool against her skin, and slid the engagement ring onto her finger. The massive diamond caught the light, throwing rainbows across the floor. "There. Now it's official."

Alessia stared at the ring. It felt heavy, foreign, like a shackle disguised as jewelry.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Now we practice."

"Practice what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer, one hand cupping her jaw. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, feather-light, and her breath caught.

"We need to look like we're in love," he murmured. "That means touching. Kissing. Being close without flinching."

"I don't flinch."

"Prove it."

His lips met hers.

It was a test, she realized. A power play. The kiss was controlled, calculated—designed to make her melt. She didn't melt. Instead, she kissed him back. Hard. Fierce. She poured all her anger into it, turning it into a battle for control. Her fingers curled into his jacket, pulling him closer. His hand slid to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

Neither pulled away.

The kiss deepened, and something shifted. The anger melted into something hotter, something dangerous. She felt his heartbeat through his chest, matching the frantic rhythm of her own. His other hand found her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back first.

They stood there, breathing hard, inches apart. His eyes were dark, composure cracked for the first time.

"Good," he said, voice rough. "That was... good."

Alessia wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to run out the door and never look back.

Instead, she stepped away, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers.

"Was that part of the rules?" she asked. "Kissing the help?"

His jaw tightened. "You're not the help. You're my fiancée."

"Right. Your fake fiancée. The one you blackmailed into this." She crossed her arms. "What else? Do I have to sleep with you too?"

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or something else entirely.

"Only if you want to," he said coldly.

"I don't."

"Then we won't." He straightened his jacket, the mask sliding back into place. "But understand something. My enemies are watching. The traitor inside my organization is watching. If they sense weakness, they'll strike. So when I touch you, when I kiss you—you need to react. You need to believe it."

"I'm not an actress."

"You're a thief. You've spent your whole life pretending to be someone you're not. This is no different." He walked to the door. "I have meetings. When I get back, we'll go over the rest of the file. There's a dress in your closet for the gala next week. Try it on."

"Gala?"

"The first public appearance. We'll be announcing our engagement to the press." He paused at the door, glancing back. "Try not to steal anything while I'm gone."

Then he was gone, leaving Alessia alone in the penthouse, wearing his ring, her lips still burning from his kiss.

She looked down at the diamond.

Six months, she reminded herself. Six months, and Papa is safe.

She could survive anything for six months.

Even Damian Blackwood.