The moment the door to the penthouse suite clicked shut behind them, Lena spun on Damien, her voice low but crackling as the two stood in the drawing room— the same one that had been turned into her personal salon but a few hours ago, now swept clean of any and every evidence of the same.

"You knew," she said to him, her tone almost accusatory.

Damien loosened his cufflinks slowly, methodically. "Knew what?"

"That Daniel Stewart worked in your building."

"I didn’t know he was your ex," he said calmly. "Not until he opened his mouth. Though I guessed from the way you nearly passed out in the conference room."

Lena stared at him, arms crossed, body still humming from the press conference and the confrontation after. "You said you’d protect me. That I wouldn’t be dragged."

"And you weren’t," Damien replied. "You handled the media like a seasoned diplomat. As for Daniel," He shrugged. "Unfortunate timing."

She moved closer, her voice tighter now. "You didn’t like him."

"I don’t like anyone who walks away from you when you’re drowning."

That stopped her.

Daniel had walked away from her when she had needed him the most. Hell, all her friends had.

And she didn't blame them, nor did she blame Daniel, not really. She had made peace with him leaving her when she was going through the toughest time in her life— taking care of her ailing mother, not knowing if she would make it to the other side.

She had first met Daniel at the coffee shop she worked at. Slowly, the two had gotten to know each other, and eventually Daniel had asked her out. They had been together for nearly three years when her mother's diagnosis came.

After that, things had gone downhill for them. In the beginning, Daniel had tried to be there for her. But between working, and taking care of her mother when she puked her guts out after chemo began to take it's toll on her frail body, she hardly had time for much else.

Over time, she stopped going out altogether, simply not having the energy to be happy and chipper when everything was falling apart around her. Slowly, after countless rejections, her friends stopped asking to hang out, drifting away.

Eventually, so did Daniel, until he finally broke up with her over texts she was too busy to see.

It took her a whole day to notice his break up texts. But it didn't do much to her heart, then. She had already expected in. Wanted it even, in a way. She had been a shitty girlfriend to Daniel, and he had deserved someone better, someone who was present, who could be there for him because she hardly ever was.

All she had sent in reply was an okay, and wished him all the best in life, before quietly moving on.

She looked up at Damien. "You don’t know what happened between us."

"No," Damien said, voice quiet. "But I know who stayed."

Silence bloomed between them—charged, uncomfortable.

And then Lena laughed—bitter, sharp, wanting something to vent all her frustrations on, and Damien was right there, an easy target, or so she thought. "Don’t you dare pretend this is real. You’re just pissed someone else touched your property first."

His expression shifted. Sharpened.

"I don’t own you."

"Could’ve fooled me."

"I bought a name, Lena. Not your soul."

She hated how he said her name. Hated how it made her feel.

Damien stepped closer, until he was invading her personal space. And there was that scent again—pinewood and citrus and all male. "I don’t care that he’s your ex. But if he’s still in your life, even on the sidelines—"

"He’s not," she snapped, trying to keep her wits about her. His proximity did things to her, things she wasn't even ready to admit to herself just yet.

"Good."

"Why? Afraid your little contract marriage will look less believable?" she taunted, looking into his stormy eyes, anything to get her mind off of how close he was standing.

"No," Damien said. "Because I don’t share. Not even pretend wives."

Lena’s breath caught in her throat.

Damien stared down at her like he was trying not to touch her. Like touching her might ruin something he couldn’t name.

"You said this wasn’t real," she said, her throat suddenly dry.

"And it isn’t," he said, voice low. "That’s the problem."

They were close now. Too close.

Lena’s skin prickled with awareness. She hated how he could disarm her with silence, hated how he could make her feel so much with just a few words.

"How do I know you’re not lying to me?" she whispered, suddenly desperate for an answer, desperate to know if she could really trust him. "About her. About this deal. About everything."

"Because I don’t lie," Damien said, his voice quiet, and controlled— two things she was starting to quickly associate with him. "I manipulate. I maneuver. I buy. I threaten. But I don’t lie."

"You’re charming."

He smirked faintly. "Don’t fall in love, Lena. It’s in the contract."

Her chest tightened.

She hated him.

And wanted him.

And hated that she wanted him.

"I'd like to go home now," she stated, stepping back, wanting to put some distance between them, feeling overwhelmed.

"I'd rather you stay the night. You'll be safer here than your own apartment with all the media attention buzzing around you. The guestroom is already ready for you," Damien offered.

"Oh, so you care about me now?" She couldn't help but taunt.

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a cold hearted tyrant," he said, a sardonic smile plastered across his perfectly shaped lips. "Besides, I protect all my investments well."

Lena rolled her eyes. Of course, he does.

Silently, he led her to the guest bedroom, the room right next to his, leaving her with a quiet 'good night'.

Later that night, she sat alone in her room—the one she’d been assigned in the penthouse suite—reading through the contract which he had obviously deliberately left in her room for her to sign. Though, she hadn't signed it yet. But knew she had to.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He’s dangerous, Lena. He doesn’t care who he hurts. Don’t marry him. – Daniel.

Her blood ran cold.

Was Daniel watching her?

Was this a warning—or something else?

She started typing a reply, but paused.

Then deleted it.

She locked the phone, dropped it face-down on the bed, and turned off the light, not wanting to think anything more for the day.

But in the dark, Damien’s voice still echoed in her mind.

“I don’t share. Not even pretend wives.”