Chapter 3
1302 Words
*Chapter 3: Coffee, Cameras, and Lies*
*Arielle’s POV*
Sunlight hit her face too early.
Arielle groaned and buried herself under the silk sheets. For one stupid second she forgot where she was. No debt. No gala. No red dress. Just a normal morning in her old apartment with instant coffee and deadlines.
Then she remembered. Mrs. Cortez. Penthouse. Contract.
She sat up. The dress from last night was draped over a chair like evidence. Her phone had 47 notifications. All headlines. All photos of her and Damian.
_“Cold CEO Ties the Knot Overnight”_
_“Who Is Arielle Reyes?”_
_“Reyes Industries Saved by Marriage?”_
Great. Bankruptcy was trending.
A knock. Soft, but there.
“Breakfast,” Damian’s voice came through the door. No emotion. “Media team arrives in 20. Don’t make me drag you downstairs.”
“I don’t do mornings,” she called back.
“Then learn.”
Ten minutes later she was downstairs in jeans and an oversized sweater. Hair still messy. She looked like a normal person. That was probably worse than the red dress.
Damian was already at the dining table. Three-piece suit at 8 AM. Who did that? Coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. He looked up once when she entered, eyes scanning her from messy bun to bare feet. No comment. Just that same unreadable stare.
“Coffee?” he asked, sliding a mug across the marble. Black. No sugar. Exactly how she drank it.
“How did you—”
“I have staff. They pay attention.” He took a sip like this was any other Tuesday. “Eat. Then we rehearse.”
“Rehearse what? Lying?”
“Acting,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. Liars get caught. Actors get awards.”
The eggs were perfect. The toast was perfect. The silence was not. Every scrape of her fork sounded like a gunshot. She could feel him watching her when she wasn’t looking.
“You stared,” she said finally, without looking up. “Last night. At the dress.”
“I assessed an asset,” he replied smoothly. “The dress got attention. Attention benefits the deal.”
“Right. Asset. Cold price.” She pushed her plate away. “You know what’s funny? For someone who doesn’t do feelings, you were very protective last night.”
“Clause 7,” he said, setting his cup down. “I don’t share what’s mine. That includes my last name. Tristan crossed a line.”
“And if it had been someone else?”
“Then I wouldn’t have married you.”
The words landed too hard. Too honest. Arielle forgot how to breathe for a second. She looked up and his gray eyes were already waiting. No flinch. No apology.
The doorbell rang. Media team. On time, as always.
---
*Damian’s POV*
He hated mornings.
Hated the way sunlight made everything look softer than it was. Hated how the penthouse felt less empty when she was in it.
He’d told himself this was business. 2.3 billion pesos. Reyes Industries had tech his company needed. Arielle Reyes came with the assets. A marriage was cheaper than a hostile takeover and cleaner than a lawsuit.
Then she walked down the stairs last night in that red dress.
Every man in that room looked. Every woman tried to copy her. But only he got to walk her out. Only he got to see her jaw tighten when Tristan showed up. Only he got to be the reason she didn’t break.
Clause 4. No romantic involvement.
He wrote that clause himself. Because feelings were liabilities. Feelings got people hurt. His father taught him that.
But when Tristan called her a charity case, something in his chest snapped. Cold, calculated Damian Cortez didn’t exist for three seconds. Just a brother who remembered how it felt to watch someone you should’ve protected get chewed up by people like them.
So he said “Mrs. Cortez. Say it.”
And held her hand under the table like it meant something.
Stupid. Reckless. Unprofessional.
Now she was sitting across from him in an old sweater, no makeup, hair a mess, and still the most distracting thing in his house. She drank coffee like it offended her. She ate eggs like she was mad at them.
She was infuriating. And he couldn’t stop looking.
The media team set up cameras in the living room. His PR director, Liza, clapped her hands. “Okay lovebirds. We need three minutes. How you met, why it was sudden, how in love you are. Smile. Touch. Sell it.”
Damian stood and held out his hand to Arielle. His palm was already warm. He told himself it was just body heat.
She took it. Her fingers were cold. He hated that.
The camera light blinked red. Live.
Liza: “Mr. and Mrs. Cortez, how did you two meet?”
Damian: “Business,” he said smoothly. “Reyes Industries approached Cortez Holdings for a merger. I met Arielle during negotiations. She convinced me she was worth more than the company.”
Arielle’s nails pinched his palm. He didn’t react.
Liza: “And the wedding was so sudden. What made you decide so fast?”
Arielle: “Because life is short,” she said, and her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “And when you find someone who matches your chaos, you don’t wait.”
The crew “awwed.” Damian nearly choked.
Liza: “One last shot. Mr. Cortez, say something sweet to your wife.”
The room went quiet. Thirty people waiting for him to perform.
Damian turned to Arielle. Really looked at her. Messy hair. No lipstick. Eyes tired but defiant. She was drowning and still pretending she could swim.
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. For the cameras, yes. But also for her.
“You don’t have to be brave all the time,” he said quietly. Too quiet for the mics to catch. Just for her. “Not with me.”
Arielle’s breath hitched. For a second the mask cracked. He saw it. The girl who lost her parents. The girl who signed away her name to save a building.
Then the light blinked off. Liza clapped. “Perfect. You’re trending number one.”
Damian let go of her hand like it burned.
Clause 4, he reminded himself. No romantic involvement.
But he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. Her… or himself.
---
*Arielle’s POV*
The moment the cameras stopped, the warmth in his hand vanished. Damian went back to CEO mode. Cold. Distant. Like the kiss on her knuckles never happened.
“You did fine,” he said, scrolling through his tablet. “Stick to the script if reporters call.”
“Right. The script.” She stood, legs shaky for reasons she refused to examine. “Thanks for the coffee. And the… knuckle thing.”
He didn’t look up. “Don’t read into it. Image control.”
“Of course,” she laughed, but it came out hollow. “Cold price.”
She made it halfway up the stairs before his voice stopped her.
“Arielle.”
She turned. Damian was still seated, but his eyes were on her now. Not the tablet. Not the deal. Her.
“The guest room is yours,” he said. “But if you can’t sleep again at 2 AM… the fireplace remote works in my room too. It’s warmer there.”
Then he went back to work like he hadn’t just cracked Clause 12 wide open.
Arielle stood frozen on the staircase, heart pounding.
The contract said 12 months.
Her pulse said she might not last 12 days.
- Writer
