lovin' a PLAYBOY

Chapter 3

The court felt hushed, scanty. It was a testament to the relationship I chose, to the man I chose—me, Damon, his secretary, Lily, the judge, the judge's aide, a cameraman, and a reporter.

Lily, in a tiny white dress, scattered rose petals with a five-year-old’s enthusiastic abandon, creating a trail of pink and red on the marble floor.

Damon stood tall and impossibly handsome in a dark suit, his hand finding mine. The judge, a kind-faced woman with a stern gaze, read the vows. Our answers were simple and clipped.

“You may now kiss the bride,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet.

He turned to me, his hazel eyes locking on mine. It wasn’t a perfunctory peck, as I had expected. It was a deep, deliberate kiss that sent a jolt of electricity straight through me. I leaned into it, feeling a dizzying rush I hadn't expected.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the judge said, and with a smile, Lily rushed to us, her small arms wrapping around Damon’s legs.

He gave me a quick, tight hug. “My first promise to you as a husband,” he murmured in my ear as he held my waist. I looked into his face.

His secretary walked up to him and handed him a folder. He passed it to me. “I had the documents drawn up. You’ll find the deed to a new office space inside, with a fully funded account for a team. Your firm, Vance Investigations. There’s a car, too. A car you won’t feel embarrassed to park outside my club.”

I stared at the folder, speechless. He had just handed me back my career, not as a lifeline, but as a weapon.

***

Late that night, the sound of waves lapping against the shore was the only thing that broke the silence. We were in the York Isles, in a secluded villa on a private beach. While Damon was making calls in the room, I was on the veranda, the screen of my laptop illuminating my face in the dark.

The internet, as planned, was in full meltdown.

“Damon Sterling marries disgraced journalist Eleanor Vance?! What is he thinking?!” read one headline.

“The Prince and the Pauper: Did Sterling buy himself a bride?” another screamed.

The comments section was a savage, glorious mess.

User1: "He’s doing this to distract from the murder charges. It’s a classic PR move."

User2: "Marrying an investigative journalist? He’s either a genius or completely insane. She'll either save him or destroy him."

User3: "Eleanor Vance? The one who was just disgraced? That girl has nothing to lose. I wonder what her price was."

The media storm wasn't just a distraction; it was a firestorm. And I was standing right in the middle of it. It was no longer just a case. It was a spectacle.

My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. My stomach sank.

Vivian: "You've walked into a lion's den, Eleanor. He's a monster. Get out while you still can."

I stared at the message, a cold, hard resolve settling in my gut. I typed my reply without hesitation.

Eleanor: "I'm quite familiar with betrayal and heartbreak, Vivian. Thanks to you. A lion's den is a step up from being a snake's prey."

My finger hovered over the send button. I wanted to add more, but it wasn’t worth the words. I hit send, a satisfying sense of finality washing over me.

She made me plot vengeance. Now I have the power.

Suddenly, a voice from behind me startled me. "Who are you messaging at this hour?"

I whipped around. Damon stood in the doorway, a towel slung low around his waist. Water dripped from his hair and ran down the chiseled lines of his chest.

My eyes widened, taking in the full, stunning view. A blush crept up my neck, and a traitorous heat bloomed in my stomach. The primal, visceral attraction was back, a rush of blood that made my mouth go dry.

“You're my wife now, you can't just message anybody anytime,” he added.

I scoffed. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you were asleep."

He took a step forward. "How would I see when my wife is not by my side?”

I shook my head. “It's not that serious, Damon.”

“It's more than serious. We should consummate our marriage," he said simply.

“What?” My mind raced. We hadn’t talked about this. Not once. We had agreed on a business arrangement. A contract. "I don't think that's part of the deal," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

As if he knew, his other hand that had been folded behind him revealed a duplicate of the contract. He flipped through the pages and placed it in front of me, his finger tapping a specific clause.

"Read this," he said.

I leaned in, my eyes darting over the legal jargon. There it was, in black and white. A line I had somehow glossed over in my desperation.

"The exclusive physical and s****l intimacy between Damon Sterling and his contracted spouse, Eleanor Vance, for the duration of this agreement."

I looked up at him, my mind trying to make sense of the words. “What the f**k is this?”

“A copy of the contract and the terms.”

“I never agreed to this!”

“You did. You signed.”

“For partnership,” my voice rose. “Not sex.”

“I’m a man who loves s*x, Eleanor,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “A lot. The media called me a Nymphomaniac and you know. I’m a man who needs passion, and a lot of it. It is what calms me. And what makes me worry less. Once I c*m, everything comes back to normal.”

As he spoke, my stomach churned. I needed no mirror to be sure that my face contorted in anger. I wanted to slap him.

He saw it. Only enough for him to pause, and not stop. He continued.

“We are in the midst of chaos and I can’t afford to be caught with another model or a senator’s daughter or a hoe. It’s too much drama. Everyone is a setup, baby girl, except you. This…” He pointed at me. “This is the cleanest, most legal way for me to have a private, exclusive life. With my wife.”

I stared at him.

He stared back. As though it were that simple and that by merely looking at me, I would concur.

It was crazy. However, something, a faint thought, flickered within me. They call him a god of s*x, well, how good is he?

"f**k," I breathed. Now my anger was for me. How could I possibly imagine him?