The following morning arrived with the cruel indifference of time—no slower, no gentler, no matter the magnitude of decisions made the night before.
Camille awoke in her apartment just before six, her body curled beneath her soft linen sheets, but her mind was anything but rested. The pen she had signed Damien Rousseau's contract with still lay on her desk, the folder beside it now open, its contents half reviewed in a haze of disbelief. In the low light of dawn, it almost looked like a dream.
Almost.
The glowing notification on her phone said otherwise.
One new email: Rousseau Holdings, Subject: Onboarding Documents.
Arrival: 10:00 a.m. sharp – Château Rousseau, Marseille.
Marseille. Not Paris. Not even a neutral boardroom. He was uprooting her with the first move. She should've anticipated it.
Camille swung her legs off the bed, bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. The sensation grounded her. By eight, she was packed and dressed, her fingers trembling slightly as they pulled the zipper on a leather duffel she hadn't used since her last corporate conference.
Except this wasn't business.
Not in the traditional sense.
This was a theater. A stage set by a man who played puppeteer with silver-threaded contracts.
Downstairs, the sleek black car Damien had promised idled near the curb. The driver didn't speak, didn't ask questions. He simply opened the door and nodded—respectful but distant, the same way one might greet a royal envoy.
The flight to Marseille was private, as expected. Silent. Luxurious. The kind of quiet that left too much room for Camille's thoughts to loop and twist like a never-ending interrogation.
What the hell was she doing?
She pressed her fingers to her temple as the jet cut through a cloud bank. She wasn't naive. She knew image mattered to men like Damien. Appearances. Reputation. Perception. But there was something deeper underneath his motives, something that went beyond legacy stipulations and inheritance clauses.
And that something unnerved her.
By the time they landed, the Provençal sun was high, casting long amber rays over vineyards and slate rooftops. Camille stared out the car window as they wound through narrow lanes toward a hilltop estate framed by tall cypress trees.
Château Rousseau was less a house and more a private kingdom. Its cream-colored stone glowed in the sunlight, and ivy climbed its walls like veins beneath alabaster skin. Everything about the estate screamed legacy, history, power. And Damien.
The moment the car stopped at the entrance, the front doors opened.
He was already waiting.
Camille stepped out, her heels clicking against the aged stone. Damien wore no tie today—only a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and tailored trousers. Casual elegance. Effortless menace.
"You're early," he said, eyeing her duffel.
"You sent a private plane. Not exactly the kind of thing that lends itself to a casual delay."
His mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "I appreciate punctuality."
"You appreciate control."
That earned a raised brow. "Do you plan to spar with me the entire time, Camille?"
She tilted her head. "Only if you continue treating me like a chess piece."
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the wide marble foyer behind him. "Welcome to your new home."
The words were deliberately weighted.
Camille walked past him, the cool air of the estate brushing over her like a veil. Inside, the château was even more arresting. Tall windows flooded the space with natural light. Antique chandeliers sparkled above polished floors. Oil paintings of Rousseau ancestors lined the walls like silent sentinels.
A house with memory.
A family fortress.
And now—hers, for three months, under fabricated pretenses.
Damien led her through the main hallway and into what could only be described as the heart of the estate—a room with floor-to-ceiling windows, silk drapery, and a balcony that overlooked the sea. In the center sat a mahogany writing desk, a vase of white peonies, and beside it, two champagne flutes.
"You're not seriously expecting me to toast the beginning of this farce," she said.
"Not a farce," Damien corrected. "A strategic partnership."
"With kissing in public."
He smirked. "Only on red carpets."
She ignored the twinge that flared somewhere between her ribs and spine. "I want the full itinerary of your schedule while I'm here. If I'm meant to play the role, I need to know my cues."
"You'll receive it after lunch," he said. "Along with the PR package and the appearance calendar. My team has already drafted a preliminary announcement."
"And you think people will believe it?"
He walked to the balcony, resting a hand against the frame. "They won't question it. I've never paraded anyone. You're the first. It will stir curiosity, yes, but also fascination."
"Convenient for you. Less so for me."
He turned. "Are you having second thoughts?"
"Not about the contract." Camille walked to the opposite end of the room, facing the garden. "But about you."
Damien was silent for a moment. Then, "That's wise."
The admission startled her.
He wasn't charming today. He wasn't even being manipulative. He was simply... truthful.
And that scared her more than his arrogance ever could.
---
By afternoon, Camille had been shown to her suite—a spacious room with a canopied bed, a private terrace, and a walk-in closet that had already been stocked with outfits tailored precisely to her size and style.
The implication was clear: he'd had this prepared long before she signed.
That knowledge tightened her chest.
Was it foresight or calculation?
She stood on the terrace later that evening, the ocean wind brushing against her skin, when a knock came at her door.
Damien didn't wait for permission. He entered.
"I'm hosting a dinner tonight," he said, eyes unreadable. "My grandfather's lawyers are attending. Along with a few... allies who need to see us together."
She turned. "That was fast."
"The inheritance stipulations become active in one week. Appearances must begin immediately."
"Fine," Camille said. "What am I wearing?"
"A dress will be delivered in ten minutes. It's black. You'll like it."
"And if I don't?"
His mouth quirked. "Then you'll make it look like you do. That's part of the role, isn't it?"
She didn't smile.
"Camille," he said, voice low now, "this isn't just about image. My family's trust is divided. My position—"
"Is at risk," she finished. "I know."
"No, you don't," he said, and for the first time, his voice carried an edge of vulnerability. "There are people in that room tonight who would rather see me disgraced than in control. And they will use you to do it. They'll test you. Undermine you. You'll be bait."
Camille blinked. "You're telling me this now?"
"I'm telling you because I trust you more than them. Because I need someone in that room who's not interested in my downfall."
A strange emotion stirred inside her.
Was it pity?
No. It was deeper than that.
Something dangerously close to empathy.
She inhaled. "Then we better give them a show."
Damien nodded once. "The car leaves in thirty. Be ready."
As the door clicked shut behind him, Camille stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back wasn't the version of herself she was used to seeing.
This one looked like she belonged in power plays and velvet lies.
This one looked like Rousseau's match.
And as the sun dipped below the Marseille cliffs, Camille Durand finally realized—
The contract was only the beginning.
The real negotiation was just getting started.