Lina's POV
The silence in Rio's Tesla is deafening as we drive through the city streets. My lips still tingle from our kisses, and I can't stop stealing glances at him. His hands grip the steering wheel with casual control, the same hands that held me so protectively just an hour ago.
"You didn't have to do that," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Do what?" He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Defend me like that. The whole performance with Marcus and Essie. It was... intense."
Now he does glance at me, something unreadable flickering across his features. "It wasn't entirely a performance."
My heart skips a beat. "What do you mean?"
"I mean your ex-fiancé is an asshole who deserved what he got." His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's an edge of lingering anger. "And anyone who would humiliate you in public doesn't deserve your tears."
"I wasn't crying," I protest weakly.
"You were about to." He pulls into an underground garage that screams expensive real estate. "I could see it in your eyes."
The garage is all sleek concrete and dramatic lighting, filled with cars that cost more than most people's houses. Rio parks next to a motorcycle that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie and turns to face me.
"This is where you live?" I ask, suddenly aware of how out of my depth I am.
"This is where we live," he corrects. "For the next three months, anyway."
Right. The contract. The fake engagement. The business arrangement that felt anything but businesslike when his lips were on mine.
The elevator ride to the penthouse is another exercise in tense silence. Rio stands close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my knees weak. When the doors open, I step into what can only be described as architectural perfection.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of San Francisco's skyline. The space is all clean lines and expensive materials, more like a luxury hotel than a home. Everything is pristine, coordinated, and utterly without personality.
"It's beautiful," I say, because it is, even if it feels like a museum.
"It's functional." Rio tosses his keys onto a glass table that probably costs more than my car. "Your room is down this hall. The guest wing has its own bathroom and sitting area. You'll have complete privacy."
Privacy. Right. Because this is business.
He leads me down a hallway lined with abstract art that I'm afraid to look at too closely—it's probably worth more than my entire existence. The guest suite is larger than my entire apartment, complete with a king-sized bed, a sitting area, and windows that offer yet another stunning view.
"I had Patricia arrange for some clothes to be delivered," Rio says, gesturing to several designer shopping bags on the bed. "We'll need to maintain appearances, and that includes your wardrobe."
I peek into one of the bags and nearly faint. The price tag on a single dress is more than I make in a month. "This is too much."
"It's necessary." His tone is brisk, businesslike. "We have events this week. A charity gala tomorrow night, dinner with some investors on Friday. You'll need to look the part."
Look the part. Right. I'm not Cinderella; I'm an actress playing a role.
"There's something else we need to discuss," Rio continues, and something in his voice makes me look up. "My grandfather wants to meet you."
"Your grandfather?"
"Teodoro Kalinawan. The investor I mentioned." Rio runs a hand through his hair, the first sign of nervousness I've seen from him. "He's... traditional. Old-fashioned. He'll want to assess whether you're suitable for the family."
"Suitable how?"
"He'll ask personal questions. About your background, your family, your intentions. He'll be looking for red flags." Rio moves to the window, staring out at the city lights. "We'll need to get our story straight. Know details about each other that engaged couples would know."
The weight of what we're doing suddenly hits me. This isn't just about showing up to a few events and taking some photos. We're about to lie to his family, convince people who matter to him that we're in love when we barely know each other.
"Rio," I say softly. "Why is this investment so important to you?"
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is distant, pained.
"My mom died thinking she failed. She thought she couldn't give me the life I deserved. After my dad left, she worked too hard to take care of us and got very sick. She couldn't afford the medical help that might have saved her."
"Rio..."
"The AI system I'm developing it could have detected her condition years earlier. Could have monitored her heart, predicted the attack, maybe even prevented it." His hands clench into fists. "But it doesn't matter how revolutionary the technology is if I can't get it to market. Teodoro's investment isn't just about money. It's about proving that her sacrifice meant something."
The pain in his voice breaks something inside me. Without thinking, I cross the room and place my hand on his chest, right over his heart.
"She would be so proud of you," I whisper. "What you're doing, what you've built—it's incredible."
He looks down at me, and for a moment the walls he's built around himself seem to crack. "You really mean that."
"Of course I do." The words come out fierce, passionate. "You're going to save lives, Rio. You're going to make sure other kids don't have to go through what you did. That's not failure—that's heroic."
Something shifts in his expression, something dangerous and intense. His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on his chest.
"Lina," he says, my name a warning and a prayer all at once.
Rio's POV
She's standing so close I can count her eyelashes. Her hand on my chest burns like a brand, and the way she's looking at me—with genuine admiration, with belief—makes something tight in my chest loosen and tighten all at once.
This is dangerous. This woman is dangerous.
I hired her to play a role, to help me secure an investment. I didn't expect her to see past the surface, to understand what drives me, to look at me like I'm some kind of hero instead of the calculating businessman I've trained myself to be.
"We should go over our story," I say, but I don't step back. Can't step back.
"Okay," she whispers, but she doesn't move either.
"We met at a charity gala six months ago. Cardiac research foundation. You were there representing your marketing firm."
"Right." Her voice is breathless.
"I asked you to dance. You said yes, even though you don't usually dance with strangers."
"Why did I make an exception?" The question comes out soft, intimate, like we're not rehearsing lies but remembering truths.
"Because I told you about my mother. About why the research mattered to me." I lift my free hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. "You understood. You didn't offer empty sympathy or try to change the subject. You just... listened."
"And then?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about you. I called the next day, asked you to dinner. You said yes, but only if I promised not to talk business all night."
"Did you keep that promise?"
"No," I admit, smiling slightly. "I talked about work for twenty minutes before you threw a dinner roll at me."
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "I threw a dinner roll at a billionaire?"
"You have excellent aim. Hit me right in the forehead." I'm making this up as I go, but somehow it feels real. Like these are actual memories instead of fabricated details for my grandfather's benefit.
"What happened next?"
"I laughed. Really laughed, for the first time since my mother died. And I knew I was in trouble."
"Trouble how?"
"Because you made me forget that I don't do relationships. Don't do messy emotions or complicated feelings. You made me want things I'd given up on."
The air between us is charged with something electric. Lina's lips part slightly, and I realize I'm leaning closer, drawn by some gravitational pull I can't resist.
"Rio," she breathes.
"Yes?"
"This is still just pretend, right?"
The question should be easy to answer. Should be automatic. But looking into her eyes—dark and wide and trusting—I find myself struggling with the response.
"Right," I say finally, but the word feels like a lie.
My phone buzzes, breaking the spell. Patricia's name flashes on the screen, and I reluctantly step back to answer.
"Sir, I have the background information you requested on Ms. Salvacion."
I glance at Lina, who's moved to examine the clothes on the bed, giving me privacy for the call. "Go ahead."
"She's exactly who she appears to be. Marketing coordinator at Brennan & Associates, graduated summa cum laude from UC Berkeley, no criminal record, no red flags. Her ex-fiancé Marcus Villareal works at Goldman Sachs, comes from old money. There was some kind of scandal at her previous job five years ago—accusations of corporate espionage that were later dropped, but it damaged her reputation."
I frown. "What kind of accusations?"
"Stealing client strategies and selling them to competitors. Like I said, the charges were dropped and she was cleared of wrongdoing, but it forced her to take a step down career-wise."
Interesting. And potentially problematic if it comes to light during Teodoro's vetting process.
"Anything else?"
"Her social media shows a pretty normal life. Work events, dinners with friends, family gatherings. She's close to her parents—they immigrated from the Philippines in the eighties, built a small construction business. Very wholesome, very authentic."
Authentic. The word hits me harder than it should.
"Thank you, Patricia. That's all I need."
I hang up and turn back to Lina, who's holding up a red dress with an expression of disbelief.
"This has a four-figure price tag," she says. "For a dress I'll wear once."
"You'll wear it well."
She looks at me over the dress, and something in her expression has changed. More guarded, more uncertain.
"So," she says carefully. "Did you have me investigated?"
Shit. "Patricia ran a standard background check. For both our protection."
"And what did you find?" Her voice is steady, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Nothing concerning." I watch her face carefully. "Though there was mention of some workplace trouble a few years ago."
Her face goes pale, then flushes red. "I see."
"Lina—"
"It's fine." She hangs the dress back up with sharp, precise movements. "You're right to be cautious. This is a business arrangement, after all. Due diligence and all that."
But it doesn't feel fine. The easy intimacy we'd built in the last hour seems to evaporate, replaced by the careful distance of strangers conducting a transaction.
"The charges were dropped," I say. "You were cleared."
"I was." Her chin lifts in that gesture of defiance I'm beginning to recognize. "But mud sticks, doesn't it? Even when you're innocent."
There's pain in her voice, old hurt that makes me want to find whoever damaged her and make them pay. But before I can respond, she's moving toward the door.
"I should let you get some rest," she says politely. "Big day tomorrow, right? Our first official appearance as a couple."
"Lina, wait—"
But she's already gone, leaving me alone in the guest room surrounded by expensive clothes and the lingering scent of her perfume.
I've made a mistake. Somehow, in the space of one evening, this woman has gotten under my skin in a way I never expected. And now I've reminded both of us that this is business, not pleasure.
The problem is, I'm no longer sure I believe that.
And judging by the way she kissed me tonight, neither does she.