The dress was a weapon.
Camille stared at her reflection in the floor-length mirror, the silk gown clinging to her curves like a second skin. Black, as Damien had promised—sleek, understated, devastating. Its neckline swept across one shoulder, exposing a single elegant collarbone and a glimpse of spine when she turned. Tasteful. Daring. Power stitched in thread.
Her hair was pulled into a low chignon, a few soft strands framing her face. No necklace. Just diamond studs—sharp, minimal. She didn't need adornment.
She was the performance.
As she stepped into the grand hall where Damien waited, she caught the slight intake of his breath. He stood near the base of the staircase, suited in midnight black, his cufflinks glinting like obsidian. For a split second, his expression betrayed something—approval, surprise, something more primal. But it vanished quickly.
"Do I pass the inspection?" she asked coolly.
Damien's gaze lingered at her collarbone. "You exceed it."
She descended the stairs slowly, careful to maintain poise. Camille knew how to walk like a woman in control. But as she neared him, his presence shifted the air around them. His cologne—amber, cedarwood, something expensive—wrapped around her senses.
He offered his arm.
She took it.
Their fingers brushed as she curled hers around his forearm, and the contact sent a flicker of something electric through her veins. They moved through the château in practiced silence, passing guards and discreet staffers. As they entered the drawing room, Camille felt all the attention turn toward them.
Eight people sat at a long dining table, each polished, poised, and potentially dangerous.
Power made them beautiful. Money made them bored.
But their eyes—those were hungry.
Camille knew this kind of crowd. She'd presented to oil barons in Brussels and negotiated with pharmaceutical giants in Zurich. But this was different.
This wasn't business.
This was blood.
Damien leaned toward her slightly. "Left to right: Edmond and Carine Rousseau—my uncle and his wife. Next to them, Léon Thibault, one of my grandfather's estate advisors. Across from them, Clémence Rousseau, my cousin. You'll like her least. Beside her—Jean-Baptiste Durand, a lawyer. No relation to you."
Camille smiled tightly. "Thank God."
"And finally, the man with the crooked tie—Thierry Gaspard. He thinks he can buy Marseille one vineyard at a time."
"They're all here to judge me," she said softly.
"No," Damien murmured. "They're here to test you."
The maître d' pulled back Camille's chair beside Damien. She sat gracefully, resisting the urge to smooth her dress or cross her legs too quickly. Every move tonight mattered.
"So," said Carine Rousseau, folding her linen napkin with elegance too precise to be warm, "this is the mysterious Camille Durand. We were beginning to think you were a fabrication."
Camille smiled sweetly. "I get that a lot."
Damien's uncle chuckled, low and humorless. "You'll forgive our curiosity. Damien's never brought someone home. Not even as a guest."
"Then I'm honored to be the first," Camille replied, lifting her wine glass without sipping. "I hope I don't disappoint."
"You'd have to work very hard too," Thierry Gaspard said with a smile that tried too hard. "You've already made quite the entrance."
Camille tilted her head. "I find that entrances are only useful if you intend to stay. Otherwise, they're just noise."
The table went quiet.
Then, unexpectedly, Clémence laughed.
"A sharp tongue," she said. "Damien always did prefer dangerous women."
Camille smiled but did not answer.
The meal began—roasted duck with cherry glaze, truffle risotto, heirloom vegetables in saffron butter. Camille took careful, deliberate bites, watching, and learning. No one said what they truly meant. Every sentence was barbed, every toast a subtle jab cloaked in courtesy.
The first real threat came during the second course.
"So, Camille," Jean-Baptiste said as he refilled his glass, "what is it you do? Other than look beautiful, of course."
Camille didn't flinch. "I build language architecture for corporations expanding into multicultural markets. I specialize in legal and emotional nuance across French, Spanish, Arabic, and English."
Clémence scoffed. "That's awfully specific."
"It is," Camille agreed. "That's why I'm very expensive."
Damien's lips curved faintly, but he didn't interfere.
"And yet, you're here," Edmond said, leaning forward. "One would think a woman of such independence wouldn't need to be... subsidized."
It was a test.
Camille smiled. "You're assuming I came for the money."
"Didn't you?"
"I came because someone asked me to stand beside him when the world was ready to throw stones," she said, her voice calm, cutting. "And I believe a man who carries a legacy deserves someone who doesn't crumble under scrutiny."
Silence.
Even Damien glanced at her now, his expression unreadable but... darker. Impressed.
"You're not what I expected," Carine admitted.
"I rarely am," Camille replied.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of posturing and polite warfare. Camille didn't slip once. She answered every question with grace, corrected every implication without appearing defensive, and stayed close enough to Damien to confirm the illusion without overselling it.
By the time dessert arrived, she'd become a mystery they couldn't define—and therefore, couldn't dismiss.
---
Later, when the guests had left and the château fell quiet once more, Camille stood barefoot in the grand hallway, wine in hand, pulse finally beginning to slow.
Damien found her near the terrace doors, his own glass untouched.
"You were brilliant tonight," he said quietly.
She turned to face him. "They want to destroy you."
"They've wanted that for years."
"Then why not fight them head-on? Why this entire performance?"
"Because my grandfather tied control of Rousseau Holdings to perception," Damien said. "He believed legacy wasn't just about earnings, but optics. He was old-world that way. Marriage. Stability. Appearances. If I don't meet his criteria, the board can overrule my claim to majority shares."
"And Camille Durand—language strategist and fake fiancée—is your loophole."
"Yes."
Camille sipped her wine. "You said earlier you trusted me more than them. Why?"
Damien was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because you're not trying to impress anyone. That makes you dangerous in a room full of liars."
She stared at him, unsure if it was a compliment or a warning.
"Go to bed," he said softly. "Tomorrow we start making the world believe we're in love."
Camille didn't move.
She felt it again—the pull between them, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn't desire, not quite. It was proximity charged by power, by secrets, by the knowledge that the next step was one neither could afford, but both were approaching.
"Goodnight, Damien," she said, voice low.
He nodded once.
But he didn't leave until she was gone.