CHAPTER FOUR: Past Lives & Press Lies

The doorbell buzzed again. Sharper this time. Urgent.

Damon didn’t move at first—just stood there, frozen. His phone lowered. His jaw tightened. Then, finally, he crossed the living room in two long strides and disappeared down the hallway.

Elena stood still, heart hammering. Something about the change in his face… it wasn’t business.

It was memory.

It was dread.

She heard the low murmur of voices through the walls—tense, clipped. A woman’s voice. Sharp. French-accented. Angry.

And then—nothing.

Damon reappeared minutes later, jaw set, tie loosened slightly. The kind of looseness that meant control had slipped—just a little.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well? Should I duck?”

“She’s gone.”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Ah,” Elena said slowly. “Family visit. Must be nice.”

“It wasn’t a visit,” he muttered, clearly unwilling to elaborate.

She let it drop. For now.

Later that night, Elena wandered the hallways of the penthouse. It still felt like a hotel someone had dared her to stay in. Cold. Perfect. Empty.

She passed a locked door with no handle. Paused.

Everything else in the place screamed curated, polished, posed.

But this?

This was private.

And Damon Vierre didn’t do private.

She reached out, almost touched it—then heard his voice behind her.

“Don’t.”

She jumped.

He stood behind her in a T-shirt now, sleeves rolled, the illusion of softness not quite landing.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Just: “Never go near it again.”

Their eyes locked. And for a moment, Elena felt something crack between them. Like a pressure system shifting.

“Fine,” she said, and walked away.

But her mind didn’t.

The Next Morning

Paris had the nerve to be sunny.

Elena stepped into the kitchen, groggy, and found Damon already dressed—another razor-sharp suit, another unreadable expression.

“I have interviews all day,” he said. “You’re expected at fittings.”

“Fittings? Again?”

He slid a sleek black card across the marble island. “Anything you need. Stylists will be waiting.”

“I liked my own clothes.”

“You’ll need ones that fit headlines now.”

“Right,” she muttered. “So I dress for the lie.”

He looked at her for a long beat. “You dress for survival.”

That shut her up.

At the Fitting

The studio smelled like roses and satin. Elena stood half-numb in front of a gold mirror as a designer fussed over hems and camera angles. A sleek navy evening gown glittered across her frame like liquid shadow.

“You look like money,” Margot whispered beside her, sneaking in with a croissant and no invitation.

Elena glanced over. “What are you doing here?”

“Official friend duties. And possible spy. I brought sugar and judgment.”

Margot’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “You look… different.”

“Like I sold my soul?”

“No. Like you’re starting to forget you ever had one.”

That stung more than Elena wanted to admit.

Meanwhile, Across the City

A photo arrived in the inbox of a tabloid journalist named Clarisse Devaux.

It was blurry. Zoomed in. But the ring was clear. Damon’s ring.

And the woman beside him?

Not Valeria.

Caption:

“New fiancée? Or placeholder? Where is Valeria Dufort?”

Clarisse grinned.

It was time to resurrect the ghost.

Back at the Penthouse

That night, Damon returned later than usual. Elena sat on the floor, surrounded by unopened boxes from luxury brands, her feet bare, her eyes distant.

He dropped his keys with a metallic clink. “You’re not ready?”

“I’m ready to not be seen,” she muttered.

He didn’t push. Just walked to the kitchen, poured himself something dark. Stared into the glass like it held answers.

Finally, she asked: “Who was Valeria?”

The air stiffened.

Damon didn’t move.

“She was someone I shouldn’t have trusted.”

“She ran?”

He looked up. “She didn’t run. She vanished.”

Elena went still.

He set the glass down—untouched.

“That’s why you’re here.”

She swallowed. “You think she’s coming back.”

“I think people like her don’t disappear without reason. And I think the press has a memory like a lion.”

“And you needed a decoy,” she said flatly.

He didn’t deny it.

Elena stood. The gown she’d been fitted for hung behind her like an accusation.

“You could’ve picked anyone,” she whispered. “You picked me because I’m easy to replace if it goes wrong.”

“No,” he said, finally. “I picked you because you’d survive it if it does.”

She met his gaze.

No more pretending.

And for the first time, she saw something behind the ice.

Regret.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She picked it up.

An email, unsigned.

Subject: You’re in over your head.

Body: He’s lying. About her. About everything.

Check Room 7B. Basement level.

She stared at it.

Then turned slowly.

“Damon,” she said. “Do you have a basement?”

He didn’t blink.

“No.”

But his voice… was too calm.

Too quiet.

And far too late.

The name hit Elena like a slap across the face.

Valeria

The name hit Elena like a slap across the face.

Valeria.

The word clung to the air, heavy and perfumed with history—Damon’s history.

Her throat dried instantly, but she forced a smile anyway. “Valeria,” she echoed, as if the name meant nothing.

The redhead turned, and for one suspended second, Elena forgot how to breathe.

Valeria was beautiful in a painted, permanent way. The kind of woman sculpted by European genetics, private tutors, and bloodlines that didn’t include disappointment. Not just beautiful—regal. Her emerald gown shimmered like envy itself. Her hair was the kind of copper you only saw in fashion campaigns. Her eyes? Razor-sharp.

And they were on Elena.

“So,” Valeria said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “This is the fiancée?”

Damon stepped forward smoothly, his arm grazing Elena’s back—light contact, but intentional.

“Elena Sinclair,” he said evenly. “My future wife.”

A pause.

Valeria’s gaze dipped to Elena’s hand. “No ring?”

“We’re keeping things… understated,” Damon replied before Elena could.

But Valeria’s eyes lingered on Elena like she was trying to see through her. “How refreshingly modest.”

Elena resisted the urge to fold her arms. “It’s a temporary engagement,” she said, injecting just enough coolness. “There’s no need for theatrics.”

“Of course.” Valeria’s voice was velvet over steel. “But still… a Sinclair. You’ve come a long way from bartending, haven’t you?”

There it is.

Elena’s smile tightened. So Valeria had done her homework. “You know how it is,” she said lightly. “You mix enough expensive drinks, you eventually meet the poison you’re meant for.”

Damon almost choked beside her. Elena didn’t glance at him.

Valeria's lips curled. “Poison. I like her.”

Damon’s expression remained unreadable. “She’s not for your entertainment, Val.”

“I never said she was.” Valeria turned to Elena again. “Do you know how Damon and I met?”

“I don’t think it matters now, does it?” Elena answered sweetly. “He’s not marrying you.”

That earned her a flicker of something behind Valeria’s eyes. Satisfaction bloomed in Elena’s chest before she realized how dangerous this game was. She wasn’t supposed to engage. She was supposed to play the role: polite, pretty, non-threatening.

But then again, if she was going to be someone’s “public secret,” she might as well be a memorable one.

They didn’t stay much longer.

The media had taken their photos. Socialites had offered false congratulations. Someone had asked when the wedding would be, and Damon had answered vaguely: “Soon.”

By the time they returned to the car, Elena’s feet were screaming and her cheek muscles ached from smiling.

The moment the door shut behind them, she exhaled.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, turning to him.

Damon loosened his tie. “Define that.”

“Bringing me there without warning me about her? You ambushed me.”

“I told you there would be sharks. I didn’t promise to name them all.”

“Valeria was more than a shark. She was your ex.”

He looked over at her slowly. “Would it have changed anything if I told you?”

“No. But I would’ve worn taller heels.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. She hated that it still made her stomach twist.

“Do you still love her?” she asked, surprising even herself.

Damon’s eyes flickered. “No.”

“That was fast.”

“It’s been years.”

“She looks like she regrets letting you go.”

“She didn’t let me go. She left.”

Elena blinked.

“She walked away when things got complicated,” Damon said. “When my family nearly lost the company and the media turned on me… she vanished. I don’t do reruns.”

That last part wasn’t for her. It was for himself.

Elena swallowed whatever sympathy threatened to rise. She wasn’t here to feel anything. Especially not for him.

“And yet you brought me there, hand on back, lips close to mine, paraded me around like I was… what? A trophy? A warning?”

His eyes cut to hers. “A truth.”

Her breath caught. “A lie.”

“A lie that looked her dead in the eye and didn’t blink.”

The silence that followed was deafening. She should’ve been flattered. Instead, she felt gutted.

He shifted closer. “You held your own. You impressed me.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“I know. That’s why it worked.”

The worst part? Her stupid chest swelled at his words.

God help her.

Back in her hotel suite, Elena peeled off her heels and threw them against the closet wall.

She collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night.

The way Valeria’s eyes had scanned her like a barcode. The press of Damon’s hand at her waist. The way her own pulse had betrayed her when he’d said “my future wife.”

She was losing the thread.

There were too many blurred lines. Too many near-moments. And the more she played this role, the more real it felt.

Her phone buzzed.

Damon: You did well tonight.

She didn’t respond.

Another message.

Damon: You made her jealous.

Elena stared at the screen.

Then typed: That wasn’t in the contract.

Damon: Neither was looking that stunning.

She dropped the phone onto her chest.

Damn him.

She was supposed to be immune.