Rain splattered across the limousine's tinted windows like muted applause. Camille Durand sat rigid in the backseat, hands folded over a slim leather portfolio that contained more secrets than it ever had contracts. Her heels clicked nervously against the car's floor with each speed bump along the Rue de Varennes. She'd spent five years clawing her way up the Parisian corporate ladder, but tonight—tonight was unlike any negotiation she had ever prepared for.
Her destination was not a boardroom. It was Damien Rousseau's penthouse.
The elusive billionaire had summoned her.
No explanation. No details. Just a message routed through his assistant, bearing the Rousseau seal and a time. Midnight. Always midnight, with Damien. As if he were allergic to daylight or perhaps preferred the cloak of darkness where leverage and seduction tangled without consequence.
Camille adjusted the collar of her cream blouse, smoothed her skirt, and exhaled slowly as the limousine eased to a halt in front of the building. The doorman opened the car door as if expecting royalty. She stepped out, clutching the portfolio like armor.
Inside, the penthouse building was eerily quiet. Every step she took up the marble stairwell echoed like a question she wasn't sure she wanted answered. When the elevator doors slid open at the top floor, Damien's assistant greeted her with the same unreadable smile she wore at corporate galas.
"Right this way, Mademoiselle Durand."
Camille's heart beat a rhythm of defiance and apprehension as she entered the suite. Damien Rousseau stood at the far end of the vast living room, backlit by the city skyline, a crystal glass in one hand, and a file in the other.
"Camille," he said without turning. "Do come in. We have a contract to negotiate."
And just like that, the game began.
---
She stepped forward carefully, her heels silent against the plush Persian rug. The room was opulent but severe, all steel and glass interrupted only by a few antique pieces that looked like they held stories no one dared tell.
Damien finally turned. The overhead light caught the sharp planes of his face—flawless jawline, dispassionate grey eyes, dark hair swept back in practiced disarray. He wasn't handsome in a traditional sense. He was arrested. Dangerous. The kind of man who didn't ask for attention but commanded it.
"I appreciate your punctuality," he said, his voice low, almost lazy. "Sit."
She sat.
He dropped the file on the table between them. Her eyes scanned the cover. Her name. Rousseau Corporation. Confidential Addendum.
"That portfolio you're holding," he said, "isn't why you're here."
Camille raised her chin slightly. "Then why am I here, Monsieur Rousseau?"
Damien walked to the bar and poured a second drink without asking. He handed it to her and sat across from her in the low leather armchair.
"Because you're the only person in my company I can't predict."
She blinked. That wasn't an answer. Not really. It was a statement designed to disarm. And it did.
"You're offering me something," she said finally. "But it's not a promotion, is it?"
Damien smiled faintly. "Not quite. I want to hire you for a personal project. One that requires complete discretion."
"Which is why I'm here at midnight instead of the office."
He nodded.
"What does it involve?"
"A contract marriage."
Camille stared at him.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Six months. Public appearances. A fabricated history. You'll be compensated well beyond your current salary. Afterward, you'll receive full rights to your patents from your previous work at Rousseau Labs."
It was too much. Too fast. Her patents? He had to know how long she'd fought legal for ownership. And now he dangled them like a bribe.
"Why me?" she asked.
Damien looked at her, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered in his expression.
"Because you know how to keep secrets. And you hate being controlled."
Camille stood abruptly. "This is madness. I'm not for sale."
"No," he said, slowly rising, "you're for hire. There's a difference."
She walked toward the elevator, his offer burning like acid in her chest. But before the doors could close, he added one final line.
"Think about it, Camille. You're not walking away from a job. You're walking away from freedom."
And damn him—he knew exactly how to twist the blade.
---
The rain followed her home, shadowing her window panes like an uninvited guest. She didn't sleep. She read every line of the contract. She drank tea, then wine, then nothing at all. And somewhere between 4 a.m. and sunrise, Camille Durand made a decision.
She didn't want safety anymore.
She wanted power. She wanted her life back.
And if she had to marry Damien Rousseau to reclaim it, so be it.
But he had no idea what he was getting in return.
Camille picked up her phone and typed one line:
I accept.
The response came within seconds.
Good. The games begin at dawn.