Amara had always imagined moving in with a man would be exciting.
Maybe messy. Maybe romantic. Maybe both.
But she never imagined it would feel like moving into a museum curated by a ghost.
Damon's penthouse was cold. Sleek. Glass and chrome and angles. The kind of place that looked amazing on magazine covers but felt hollow the second the doors closed behind you.
As she dragged her small suitcase inside, she looked around.
No photos. No clutter. No evidence a human being lived here.
Just like him.
"You'll take the guest room down the hall," Damon said without looking up from his tablet. "Unless you want the primary suite for appearances."
"I'll stay where I don't feel like I'm trespassing," she muttered, brushing past him.
He paused. "You live here now, Amara."
She looked over her shoulder. "Doesn't feel like it."
---
The next morning, Amara found Damon in the kitchen. Shirtless.
She froze in the hallway, toothbrush hanging from her mouth, brain buffering like a broken signal.
His back was broad, his hair tousled from sleep, and a thin silver chain rested against his collarbone like a secret.
He looked up.
She immediately darted back into the hallway.
"Oh my god," she whispered to herself. "Why is he built like temptation?"
Behind her, she heard him call out casually, "Coffee's fresh."
She nearly choked.
---
Later that day, they sat across from each other at the dining table as their public relations team briefed them on their next moves.
"You two need to be seen more. Post more photos. Go out in public. Look like you're falling in love," the lead rep, Clarissa, said, flipping pages on a clipboard. "The more organic it looks, the less they dig."
"We're not actors," Damon said flatly.
"You are now," Clarissa replied, not missing a beat. "Your first couple's post goes up today. Amara, maybe something candid?"
She blinked. "Candid how?"
"Try standing near a window with his shirt on and a coffee mug. Natural light. Intimacy."
Amara turned to Damon, unsure if she wanted to laugh or hide.
He just nodded once. "Fine. Get it over with."
---
An hour later, Amara stood in Damon's shirt—which was very much too big—and leaned casually near his floor-to-ceiling window. Coffee mug in hand. Shirt draped down one shoulder. The whole thing felt ridiculous.
Damon leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
"You look... real."
She raised an eyebrow. "That sounded almost like a compliment."
He smirked. "Don't get used to it."
Sienna FaceTimed her five minutes after the post went live. "Girl. You broke the internet."
---
Meanwhile, across town, Eli was in his office pretending to work while absolutely stalking Damon's profile.
When Sienna's name popped up on his phone, he rolled his eyes and answered. "Let me guess. You're here to mock me."
"Always. But also—Damon's girlfriend? Real or fake?"
"Definitely fake."
"She's way too soft for him," Sienna said. "And you're watching way too closely."
He ignored the dig. "You're not concerned?"
She paused. "I'm concerned about Amara. But Damon? No. He's too icy to fall."
Eli looked at the photo again—Amara in Damon's shirt, coffee in hand, sun in her eyes—and wasn't so sure.
---
That night, Amara stood in the quiet hallway of the penthouse, brushing her fingers along the edge of a framed mirror. Damon stepped out of his room, still buttoning his shirt.
They both stopped. Just looked at each other.
The silence stretched.
Then he asked, voice low, "Are you regretting it yet?"
She thought about it. Then shook her head. "Not yet."
And for the first time, he smiled like it meant something.
---
End of Chapter Three
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