Chapter 7
O ffers are being made as I get into the backseat of my SUV.
By the time I make it to the office, they’re done and signed.
My assistant, Vanessa, is up my ass as soon as I step foot in the lobby.
Contracts to review.
Schedules to confirm.
Pushing off a day and a half of meetings is catching up to me. But fine.
The day rushes by in a blur, and I’m thankful for the distraction. Though, as the afternoon wears on, I can’t stop looking at the time every ten fucking minutes.
Finally, I can’t handle it anymore, and I bark at my assistant to reschedule the rest of the evening and leave early. She rattles off something about her birthday, but I’m already moving to the SUV.
Within two minutes, I’m headed back to the Blackstone.
On a typical day, I’d just work at the office, change, and head to my event from there. But I have a fiancée now, and we need to arrive together.
It’s not a bother. I’ll just work in the car and take a quick shower when I get to the penthouse.
Elena is nowhere to be found, and I assume she’s putting the finishing touches on her outfit for the night.
Dinner is at The Scallop, another five-star restaurant in one of the world’s most top-rated hotels. Mine, of course.
Marcus, my best friend and business partner, will be there with his husband.
Mr. and Mrs. Calloway, our newest multibillion-dollar business takeover.
And me, with my blushing bride-to-be in tow.
Marcus and I both know tonight is a test—a big one. Which means Elena’s role will be that much more important.
I adjust the black-and-silver cufflinks and inspect my tux once more. Black on black. A spritz of cologne, and I head out of my bedroom to wait for Elena.
Elena doesn’t hear me approach, and when I step into view, she startles so hard she nearly jumps out of her heels.
Her hand flies to her chest, eyes wide. “Jesus, Damien,” she exhales, pressing a palm over her heart. “You scared me half to death.”
I arch a brow. “You didn’t hear me come up?”
She shakes her head, still catching her breath. “I thought I’d just meet you downstairs.”
I don’t answer right away, my attention snagging on something else—her hand. More specifically, the ring on her left finger.
My eyes narrow as I take it in. A simple, uninspired band with a modest stone. It barely catches the light, let alone commands it.
I frown. “What’s this?” I ask, reaching for her hand, lifting it between us.
Elena barely glances at it. “A prop,” she says, shrugging. “It’ll pass for real. I have others if you prefer something else.”
A prop. A placeholder. Something temporary and meaningless.
The thought irritates me more than it should.
Before she can react, I slide the ring off her finger, tossing it onto the counter behind me. Her brows pull together in confusion, but I’m already reaching into my pocket, pulling out a sleek black velvet box.
She notices, and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
I flick the box open with a sharp snap, revealing a real ring. One I purchased the moment I left the office after meeting her.
I hadn’t thought much of it at the time—just that my fiancée, fake or not, would wear nothing but the best. The idea of her walking around with a cheap imitation is unacceptable.
Ignoring the way the word fake sits like ash in my mouth, I say simply, “Making sure my fiancée looks the part.”
She blinks. “Damien?—”
She’s about to argue, but I cut her off. “I won’t have my fiancée walking around with a fake diamond.”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s weighing her next move, like she’s considering fighting me on this.
I don’t give her the chance.
“It’s only on loan, Elena.”
I take her left hand in mine, my thumb brushing over the delicate bones of her fingers. Her skin is warm, soft. Too soft. I shouldn’t be noticing that.
I slide the ring onto her finger.
Cool metal. Heavy. Perfect.
The moment it’s in place, I catch the way her breath hitches. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.
I should let go. I should step back.
Should.
I hold her hand for a second longer than necessary. My thumb moves without thinking, tracing along the band, as if testing how it feels there.
My gaze flicks up.
Not on the ring. On her.
“Perfect fit,” I murmur.
I release her hand and turn away, adjusting my cufflinks—again—ignoring the tension coiled in my gut.
“Let’s go,” I say, my voice steady.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I might start wondering why it matters so much that the ring fits.
T he Scallop is as polished and exclusive as it gets, a beacon of fine dining nestled in one of my top-rated hotels. Every detail, from the ambient lighting to the private sommelier service, is designed to impress. To remind people of their place in the hierarchy of power.
Elena fits here like she was carved for it.
She moves beside me with effortless grace, her posture impeccable, her presence impossible to ignore. Her gown—black silk—clings in all the right places, drapes in others. Just enough bare skin to tempt but never offer.
Elegant. Dangerous.
A walking contradiction of allure and restraint.
And every single man in this room notices.
The realization grates more than it should.
It’s instinctive, the way my hand settles low on her back as we’re led toward the private suite. A light touch. Possessive, but not obvious. Just enough to remind those watching who she belongs to.
She doesn’t react, doesn’t lean in, doesn’t cling like so many women before her.
She simply walks at my side, like she belongs there.
Inside, Marcus and his husband, James, are already waiting.
Marcus looks up first, standing as we enter. Not just my business partner—but my longest, most trusted friend.
He masks his amusement well, but I know him too well to miss it. The slight arch of his brow, the flicker of sharp curiosity in his eyes. He’s waiting to see how we play this.
I feel Elena’s inhale, feel the way she shifts slightly beside me before stepping forward—not waiting to be introduced.
She turns to James first, offering a warm smile.
“Elena,” she says, extending a hand with easy confidence. “I was looking forward to meeting you. Your photography portfolio is absolutely stunning.”
James blinks, momentarily thrown before his expression shifts into something surprised—genuinely pleased.
“You’ve seen my work?”
Elena nods. “Of course. The exhibit you did in Paris? Breathtaking. ”
Marcus steps closer to me, watching the two of them fall into effortless conversation.
“Oh, she’s good,” Marcus exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Only the best,” I answer thoughtlessly.
He lifts a brow. “Careful, Wolfe. Sounds like you almost believe it.”
I don’t answer.
Because Mr. and Mrs. Calloway enter the room, and everything shifts.
Elena slips her hand into the crook of my elbow, her posture straightening, her expression poised and polished.
She’s ready.
She takes Mrs. Calloway’s hand and smiles.
“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
The older woman studies her for a second longer, then glances at her ring.
“What a stunning ring.”
Elena glances at me, eyes softening with a look so devoted, so seamless, it should be illegal.
“It is,” she agrees smoothly. “Damien spoils me.”
I don’t correct her.
Because right now, in this moment, it doesn’t feel like a lie.
And that should fucking terrify me.
Mrs. Calloway studies Elena for a beat longer, her sharp gaze flicking between us as if weighing every detail.
Then, finally, she smiles.
Warm. Approving.
A critical win.
Dinner flows seamlessly, and Elena is flawless. Her conversation is effortless, her responses precise. She engages in just the right places—knowing when to be inquisitive, when to flatter, when to let a moment sit in silence.
She never overplays it. Never forces it. And it’s working.
Mr. Calloway watches her with appreciation, his demeanor warming.
His wife? She’s enthralled.
It should impress me. It does impress me.
But it also unsettles me.
Because for the first time tonight, I realize something.
She’s done this before.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
Some other fuckers before me paid for her time, for her to sell whatever fantasy they wanted, and all that practice is helping her deliver tonight’s performance.
I have to remind myself—again—who she is.
She’s an escort. A professional. This is what she does.
So why the fuck does it feel like she was mine first?
I shake the thought, forcing my focus back to the room.
Elena is deep in conversation with Mrs. Calloway, her tone warm, genuine, as they discuss charity work. It’s a stroke of fucking genius.
“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” Elena says, tilting her head as if just placing it. “You were featured in a piece about the Global Future Fund’s Gala for Children’s Education.”
Mrs. Calloway visibly glows at the mention. “You read that article?”
Elena nods. “Of course. Your work with at-risk children is incredible. I volunteer often at St. James Orphanage, so I hope you know how far your reach extends.”
Marcus and I exchange a look. Neither of us uncovered this in our research.
Mrs. Calloway places her hand over Elena’s in a compassionate squeeze. She looks at her like she’s found a kindred spirit.
Then she turns to me, her smile warm, her voice weighted. “Damien, you are one lucky man. A woman like this is one in a million. I hope you realize you’ve got quite a catch here.”
Elena’s hand rests on my thigh. A light touch. Measured. Controlled.
She tilts her head toward me slightly, her eyes holding mine just a beat too long.
My response is delayed.
I force myself to move, to react—my arm settling along the back of her chair, my fingers grazing the bare skin of her shoulder in a slow, deliberate stroke.
It’s for them.
For the audience.
For the performance.
But that doesn’t explain why my fucking heart is hammering in my chest.
I clear my throat, offering Mrs. Calloway a smooth smile. “Nonsense. She’s worth it a hundred times over.”
The older woman beams, her approval locked in.
Elena shifts closer, just enough that I catch the faint scent of vanilla and something warmer . Something I still can’t place.
Then—the question I’ve been waiting for.
“So, how did you two meet?”
Elena doesn’t hesitate.
She dives smoothly into our fabricated story, painting it in perfect strokes—how we met at an event, how I pursued her with single-minded determination, how she resisted at first—she smirks at this, the perfect touch of teasing—but I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Mrs. Calloway loves it.
“Elena, you must join me Thursday for doubles at the club,” she says warmly. “My old friend Sandra is bringing her daughter. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I fight the urge to smirk. Perfect.
“Thank you so much. I would love to.” Elena answers with a bright gleam in her eye.
It’s a masterpiece of deception, even Marcus was watching, impressed.
But something twists in my stomach.
Like she’s too good at this.
Like she’s done it before.
I school my reaction fast, smoothing my expression before anyone notices.
Because for the first time tonight, I realize something unsettling.
She has done this before.
Some other fuckers before me purchased her time to sell whatever fantasy they wanted, and all that practice helps her deliver tonight’s performance.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I have to repeat something I realized yesterday when we met at The Ledger.
She’s an escort. A professional.
This is what she does.
So why the fuck does it feel like she was mine first?