CHAPTER THREE: Terms and Conditions

The ring was deceptively simple.

No diamonds. No antique filigree. Just a platinum band with a slight twist in the center—modern, cold, expensive.

Elena stared at it like it might explode.

Damon didn’t speak. He stood across the room, posture carved from stone, waiting for her reaction like it didn’t matter—like everything in the box hadn’t just flipped her world upside down.

“Is this... real?” she asked finally, her voice hoarse.

“The ring?” he replied. “Yes. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The first appearance. A charity luncheon in Marais. You’ll wear that, answer nothing, smile politely. I’ll handle the rest.”

The velvet snapped shut between her fingers.

She rose from the couch slowly, pulse quickening. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke,” he said without looking up.

“You’re telling me I go from pouring drinks in stained shoes to playing trophy wife in less than twenty-four hours?”

“That’s the arrangement.”

“No. That’s your arrangement. Mine included... breathing space. Processing. Not parading around Paris pretending we fell in love in a flower shop.”

His gaze flicked to hers, sharp. “This isn’t love, Elena. It’s logistics.”

Her chest tightened. “Right. Logistics.”

She turned away, fingers clenched at her sides.

He didn’t stop her when she walked toward the balcony. The cool wind hit her face like reality—wide, relentless, unapologetic.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, watching Paris glitter beneath her. She didn’t belong in this world. She never had.

But she couldn’t go back either.

Rent was due. Matteo was fragile. Their eviction was still etched behind her eyelids.

She was already wearing the costume.

When she came back inside, Damon hadn’t moved. Just stood there in silence, staring at a tablet like her meltdown hadn’t happened.

“Elena,” he said without looking up, “do you want to read the contract before signing?”

“I already signed,” she muttered, folding her arms. “Didn’t realize it included mandatory press events and soul-leasing.”

That made him glance up. A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement, maybe. Respect?

She didn’t care.

“Then here are the full terms,” he said, stepping forward and placing a second document on the table between them. “You can still back out. But if you don’t—this begins now.”

Her eyes skimmed the pages.

No intimacy.

Appear at agreed events.

Speak nothing to the press.

Maintain the illusion in public.

Personal matters off-limits.

No secrets discussed.

She looked up sharply. “You want honesty and lies in the same breath.”

“I want control,” he corrected. “Honesty ruins that. And you—you're unpredictable.”

She stepped closer. “Then why me?”

A long pause.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard. “Because you don’t need me.”

The answer stunned her.

Not because it was untrue—but because it was exactly right.

That night, her phone buzzed twice.

First: Sofia:

“WHERE ARE YOU. YOUR BROTHER SAID ‘SOME MAN TOOK HER’—EXCUSE ME???”

Second: Matteo:

“The new place is crazy. Do we live in a movie now?? Also… do I call him sir?”

She didn’t reply to either.

Instead, she lay on a mattress that probably cost more than her entire nursing school tuition and stared at the ceiling until sunrise painted the walls a pale, uncertain gold.

The charity event was held in a restored cathedral-turned-ballroom in Marais.

By the time they arrived, Elena was in a cream silk dress she hadn’t picked, wearing the ring she hadn’t asked for, clinging to the arm of a man she still didn’t trust.

The cameras started before they even left the car.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Damon said under his breath, his face smooth as marble. “Smile, but not like you’re in pain. Don’t touch me unless I touch you first.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“You agreed to this,” he muttered, stepping out as the flashes exploded.

Then he turned, extended a hand, and pulled her out with practiced grace.

The crowd went silent.

For a split second, all she heard was the thudding of her own heartbeat—then came the gasps, the murmurs, the questions.

“That’s not Valeria—”

“Who is she?”

“Is this real?”

“Vierre’s finally showing his face?”

Damon didn’t flinch. Just guided her forward like she belonged there, like she wasn’t seconds from vomiting into a marble urn.

“Elena,” he said through his smile, “meet the wolves.”

Inside, champagne flowed like water, and smiles were sharp as knives.

Elena stumbled once when introduced to the Minister of Culture—but recovered quickly, cracking a dry joke about flan and French bureaucracy that made three people laugh.

By the time dessert arrived, people were leaning in, curious. Charmed.

Damon watched her from across the table, unreadable.

Afterward, in the car, silence fell thick between them.

He finally broke it.

“You’re better at this than I expected.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You say that like you’re surprised I can use cutlery and not throw myself into a chandelier.”

He didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You made people like you.”

“No. I made them forget to hate you,” she replied. “It’s different.”

They arrived back at the penthouse just before ten.

She kicked off her heels, tossed her clutch, and poured herself a glass of water.

Damon hovered by the window, jacket still on, eyes scanning something on his phone.

“What is it now?” she asked, rubbing her temples.

“Photos,” he murmured. “We’re already trending.”

She crossed over. The headline on his screen read:

“Damon Vierre Debuts Mystery Fiancée—Is the Ice King in Love?”

Beneath it, one photo stood out.

She was laughing—really laughing—at the table, wine glass in hand. Damon was watching her.

Not the crowd.

Not the cameras.

Her.

Elena swallowed hard.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said, more to herself than him.

He looked up slowly.

“No,” he agreed.

But his eyes lingered.

Too long.

Too quiet.

Too real.

The doorbell buzzed.

Damon stiffened.

“Stay here,” he said sharply, already moving.

She heard the door open. Then a familiar voice sliced through the air like a knife dipped in perfume—

“Bonsoir, Damon. Miss me?”

Valeria.