Isla
I still remember the taste of him.
Not just his mouth the sweetness of champagne and sin, the weight of his stare when it pinned me against the velvet walls of that Paris hotel suite. The rough drag of his knuckles down my spine. The ache in my thighs. The warning in his voice when he said I wouldn't forget him.
God help me, I haven't.
That was two years ago. One reckless night. One mistake I promised myself I'd bury. He'd vanished by morning, and I swore I'd never chase shadows again. I didn't know then that Damien Valerius never lets go of what's his. I only found that out the moment I walked into the glass tower that bore his name and unknowingly stepped back into his trap.
But before that I was broke. Not a sad Instagram caption kind of broke. I'm talking landlord-banging-on-the-door, ramen-three-times-a-day, selling-my-last-designer-bag kind of broke and still I didn't regret quitting my last job. No amount of money could justify working under a man who thought "being professional" meant grabbing my waist at staff parties and brushing his dick against me while explaining spreadsheets.
So I walked out, head held high, bank account nearly empty and that's when the email came.
From: hr@valeriuscorp.com
Subject: Employment Opportunity – Personal Assistant Role
Body:
Dear Miss Moreau,
You've been shortlisted for a direct hire opportunity at Valerius Corp. Please report to our headquarters this Friday at 9:00 AM for final on boarding and contract signing. Compensation package is enclosed. Welcome to Valerius.
Sincerely,
HR Director
Valerius Corporation
I don't even remember applying. Maybe I clicked something by accident in one of those endless job site rabbit holes. Maybe it was a miracle. Or maybe, in hindsight, it was a noose disguised as a lifeline. Either way, I was desperate enough not to ask questions.
I showed up in the one blazer I hadn't sold, heels that pinched, and lipstick I hadn't touched since Paris. Stupid, right? But something in me something reckless and buried wanted to feel like that girl again. The one he undressed with a glance. The one he disappeared on.
The lobby of Valerius Corp was marble and menace. The receptionist didn't ask questions. Just handed me a sleek tablet and pointed me to a room labelled Private HR Session Executive Wing. Odd.
Most companies didn't on board you before an interview. But the pay was too good to argue six figures, benefits, travel allowances, plus a housing stipend in Manhattan?
I signed without reading every page. I know. Dumb. But the contract was dense, and my stomach was eating itself. I scrawled my signature on the screen like a girl signing for a package she didn't order. The door clicked open and that's when I saw him.
Damien Valerius.
Towering. Cold. Immaculate in black tailored Armani. The same cruel mouth. The same storm-grey eyes. The man I fucked in Paris. The man who walked out without a word. The man I now worked for. His gaze raked me slowly, like he was stripping me with his eyes and remembering how I tasted. My knees buckled. Just slightly. Enough for me to hate myself.
"Miss Moreau," he said, voice like velvet soaked in whiskey. "Welcome back."
"You."
It came out before I could stop it. I wasn't prepared. Not for him. Not for this. He stepped closer, and I swore the temperature in the room dropped.
"Two years," he murmured. "You haven't changed."
"I've changed," I snapped, lifting my chin. "I'm smarter now. I read contracts."
His smirk cut through me like a blade.
"No, Isla. You signed it blindly. Again."
My mouth dried. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He slid a folder across the table.
The first page was stamped:
CONFIDENTIAL AGREEMENT – PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT CONTRACT
Effective: Immediately
Parties: Damien Alexander Valerius & Isla Camille Moreau
Purpose: Public Partnership / Fiancée Representation
"What is this?" I whispered.
He leaned in. I caught the scent of him dark wood, clean linen, danger.
"That, Isla," he said softly, "is your job title. My fiancée."
Fiancée?
The word detonated in my skull like a silent bomb, reverberating louder with every second I stared at him.
"No," I breathed, half to him, half to the invisible panic crushing my ribs. "No. That's not—You said personal assistant."
"I said you'd be assisting me personally." Damien remained still as a statue behind his desk. That infuriating calm, that quiet dominance—it made the room feel even smaller than it was. "I never lied."
"You manipulated me." I pushed away from the chair so fast it scraped across the floor. "You tricked me into signing something I didn't read!"
"That's not manipulation. That's negligence. You signed it of your own free will." He shrugged as if we were talking about dry cleaning, not a legal document that had just shackled me to a man I barely knew—for God knows how long.
I wanted to scream. Throw something. Snap his designer pen in half and storm out but my legs wouldn't move because underneath h the panic… was a whisper of him. Of that night. Of the taste of his mouth and the weight of his body pressing mine into hotel sheets and the truth clawed its way up my throat like poison: I hadn't really forgotten him. I had tried. Buried that night like a shameful secret. But now? It was back. In full colour.
"You planned this," I said hoarsely. "From the start."
His mouth curved just a little. Not a smile. Something colder.
"I had options," Damien said, rising slowly from behind his desk. "Dozens of women would've signed on to this with their eyes wide open. But none of them made me forget who I was for one fucking night."
My stomach flipped. He walked toward me with deliberate ease, stopping just inches away. The air shifted. Thickened.
"Tell me you don't remember," he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips. "Tell me your legs didn't tremble the way they're trembling now. Tell me you haven't thought about that night. About how I fucked you like I owned you."
My palm stung before I even realized I'd slapped him. Hard.
Silence thundered between us. His cheek had a faint flush where my hand landed, but his eyes God help me lit up. Not with anger. With satisfaction.
"Still got that spark," he said lowly.
"You're insane."
"No," Damien said, voice steady. "I'm strategic. And you—whether you like it or not—are mine."
I turned away, dizzy with rage and disbelief.
"This is fraud," I snapped. "You can't force someone to be your fiancée. You can't just—"
"You want out?" he interrupted. "Fine. You can walk. But you'll walk straight into a lawsuit for breach of contract. And I don't just sue I ruin."
I spun back, heart slamming against my chest. "You'd go that far?"
His gaze was granite. "Don't test me, Isla."
He was serious. Dead serious and suddenly I remembered the articles. The rumours. Damien Valerius didn't play games. He destroyed his enemies. Quietly. Efficiently. With a smile.
"I need a fiancée for the next six months," he continued. "Public appearances. Dinners. Trips. Photos. You wear the ring, look at me like I hung the moon, and when it's done, you walk away with half a million dollars. No strings."
"Why me?" I whispered.
"Because," he said, stepping closer again, voice dark and low, "you don't scare easy. You didn't fawn over me that night in Paris. You looked at me like a man, not a god. That pissed me off. And it intrigued me."
"So this is revenge?"
"This is opportunity."
"For who? You?"
"For both of us." He said.
He studied me for a beat. I hated that I could feel his gaze like a touch intimate and unrelenting.
"I know how this sounds," he said, softening just enough to make me falter. "But if you play this right, Isla, you won't just walk away with money. You'll walk away with options. Connections. Power."
"And if I say no?"
"I'll bury you in litigation. You'll never work in this city again."
I closed my eyes. The heat of humiliation climbed up my neck, past my ears. I'd been played. Trapped and the worst part? A sick, hidden part of me was… curious if one night with him had left this deep a mark what would six months do?
I opened my eyes and met his.
"I want conditions."
His jaw flexed. "I'm listening."
"No sex."
He raised a brow. "That's not what the contract says."
"I don't care. I want it added."
His expression darkened, the tension between us thickening. "You'd last a week."
"Try me."
He stepped so close I felt the heat of his breath. "You think I can't break that resolve?"
"I think you're arrogant enough to try."
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Fine. No sex unless you initiate."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"Fair's fair," he said with mock innocence. "If you want it—really want it—you'll have to ask."
"Dream on."
He extended a hand like this was just business. "Deal?"
I didn't take it. I stared at his hand, then up at his face. That perfect, cruel face that haunted me even when I slept.
"Six months?" I confirmed.
He nodded.
"And you leave me the hell alone after that?"
"Completely."
I swallowed hard.
Then placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine like a trap. "Welcome back, Miss Rae."
Just like that, I became his.
I sat in the back of the black SUV, staring at the enormous diamond glittering on my left hand like it belonged to someone else.
Correction: it did belong to someone else.
This entire engagement was a lie, and the ring a flawless, cushion cut monster set in platinum was the symbol of that lie. Gorgeous. Cold. Heavy with secrets. It weighed on my finger like a shackle.
"Don't fidget," Damien said from beside me, voice calm, unreadable. "It draws attention."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I snapped, clutching my fingers tighter. "Forgive me for acting human in the middle of a con."
His gaze flicked over to me. "It's not a con. It's a contract."
"A contract built on deception."
"That you signed."
I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn't launch into another spiral. We were minutes from arriving at the Valerius Foundation gala a black-tie event packed with CEOs, political sharks, socialites, and half the press corps of New York. In other words: a feeding frenzy.
This would be our debut. Damien's grand reveal. The first appearance of Isla Camille Moreau, his elegant, mysterious, totally fake fiancée. My stomach twisted.
"I'm going to throw up," I muttered.
"You won't." He didn't say it like comfort. More like a command.
"Have you considered the possibility that I might not be good at this? That I might trip over my own heels and blurt out 'he kidnapped me' in front of a photographer?"
Damien leaned in, crowding my space, his breath warm against my jaw. "You won't trip. You won't blurt. Because you're not that girl. You're the girl who handled three VPs, a drunk CFO, and an embezzlement scandal in your last job and still walked out with her head high."
I blinked at him.
"You did a background check on me?"
"Of course I did." He said it like duh. "You don't think I just dragged you into this without knowing who you are?"
"Did you know I'd slap you?"
"I was hoping."
My lips twitched before I could stop them. Damn him. The car rolled to a stop outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, bathed in golden light and the flash of cameras. A valet opened the door. Damien stepped out first, then turned, offering me his hand. I hesitated. He didn't rush me.
Just stood there, tall and dark in his tux, like sin personified until I finally exhaled and slid my fingers into his. The moment I stood beside him, his arm curled around my waist like it belonged there. The photographers shouted our names well, his name and camera flashes exploded like fireworks.
"Smile," Damien said under his breath. "Look at me."
I looked up and that was a mistake because for a second, it wasn't fake. The way he looked at me… like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. Like I was his. And he was mine. My stomach dipped. Then he dipped his head and whispered, "Don't fall in love with me, Isla."
I laughed sharp and breathless. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not the one trembling."
"I'm cold."
"You're on fire."
He guided me up the steps and into the glittering chaos of the gala, where chandeliers hung like constellations and violins hummed through the air and every head turned.
There he is. That's Damien Valerius. Who the hell is she? I heard the whispers trail us like perfume. Damien's grip on my waist tightened slightly, like he could hear them too. Like he liked it. A silver-haired man in a tux broke from the crowd and approached us with a politician's smile.
"Damien," he said warmly. "You son of a bitch. You never told me you were engaged."
"Chairman Roth," Damien said smoothly. "I like to keep some secrets."
The man turned to me. "And this is the mystery woman, I assume?"
Damien didn't even glance at me. "This is Isla Camille Moreau. My future wife."
My throat went dry. Chairman Roth took my hand and kissed it, old-school. "Lucky man. She's stunning. Don't let her get away, Damien. You've got enough sharks circling your empire."
"Trust me," Damien said without blinking, "she's not going anywhere."
The way he said it made my skin prickle as soon as Roth walked off, I turned to him.
"What was that about sharks?"
"Rivals. People who'd love to see me vulnerable. The engagement makes me untouchable for now."
"Right. Because nothing says 'stable empire' like a trophy fiancée you seduced with blackmail."
He glanced at me sideways. "You're not a trophy, Isla."
"No?"
"You're the whole damn game."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
The night unfolded in slow motion. Toasts. Dances. Cameras. Hands shaken. Women's eyes sliding over Damien and then sizing me up like I was an uninvited guest at their private club but I didn't crumble. I held my head high, smiled like a queen, and played the role like my life depended on it because it did. When Damien led me onto the dance floor, I didn't flinch.
I let him pull me close. His hand was at my waist. His other hand held mine. Our bodies moved in perfect sync, like this was muscle memory. Like we'd danced together in another life.
"You're doing well," he murmured against my ear. "Better than I expected."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it."
The music slowed. The lights dimmed. We moved in a slow, sultry rhythm, the entire room watching us.
"You know they all think this is real," I whispered.
His voice was low. Dangerous. "It is real. For tonight."
I met his eyes. I didn't know whether to slap him again or kiss him.