The restaurant was nestled on the edge of the bay, exclusive and secluded exactly the kind of place where powerful men had quiet conversations that could change the world.
Damien's father, Harold Blackwood, had reserved a private room. Lena could feel the pressure in the air before she even stepped inside.
Damien didn't speak the entire drive over. His jaw was set, and his silence said more than words ever could. It wasn't just dinner it was a performance, a test. And she was the untrained actress expected to pass.
When the host led them to the private room, Lena's breath caught.
Harold Blackwood was already seated, sipping dark wine, the very image of dominance. His hair was silver, his suit flawless, and his eyes Damien's eyes were twice as cold.
"So," Harold said as they entered. "This is the girl."
Lena forced a polite smile. "Good evening, Mr. Blackwood."
He raised a brow at Damien. "You didn't tell me she was this… plain."
The air tightened.
Lena's stomach twisted, but Damien's face remained unreadable. He pulled out a chair for her surprisingly gentleman-like' then sat beside her.
"She wasn't chosen for beauty," Damien said evenly. "She was chosen for silence."
Harold chuckled darkly. "Ah. Just like your mother, then."
Lena's eyes flicked to Damien. His fingers were clenched around the silverware.
"Tell me, Lena," Harold said, taking another sip of wine. "What exactly do you bring to the table? Other than medical bills and a pretty smile?"
Lena hesitated. She wasn't supposed to speak unless asked—but this felt like a trap either way.
"I bring peace," she said calmly. "Damien doesn't have to fake his life anymore. And you get to parade around a married son to satisfy the board. Win-win."
Harold's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Spoken like someone who knows she's a placeholder."
Before Lena could respond, Damien's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"That's enough."
Even Harold looked surprised.
Damien met his father's eyes, his tone icy. "You wanted a marriage. You have one. Don't confuse gratitude with submission."
Silence.
Then Harold leaned back in his chair, watching his son closely. "You really have changed."
"I had to," Damien said. "Some ghosts don't stay buried."
That hung in the air like smoke.
Lena said nothing. She didn't understand all of it but she understood enough. There were scars between father and son that went deeper than any contract could reach.
Back at the Penthouse
They returned home just after nine. Lena kicked off her heels, her feet aching from both the shoes and the tension.
She turned to Damien, who was loosening his tie. "Thank you."
He glanced at her. "For what?"
"For defending me," she said softly. "You didn't have to."
His eyes met hers gray, unreadable, but softer than usual. "No one insults my wife. Not even him."
Lena gave a half-smile. "You almost sounded like a husband just now."
Damien stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat from his body.
"This isn't real," he murmured. "But I'll protect what's mine. Even if it's temporary."
The words sent a shiver down her spine.
He turned and walked away again, leaving her with her heart pounding and a single thought echoing in her mind:
What happens when something fake starts to feel real?