The Witness
692 Words
The next morning began with a phone call.
Leona had barely opened her eyes when her new phone—a sleek black device Damian insisted she carry—buzzed sharply across the nightstand. She groaned and reached for it, voice husky with sleep.
"Hello?"
"You kissed him."
It wasn’t a question.
It was Caroline.
Leona sat up fast, heartbeat thudding. "What?"
"Don’t play dumb, Miss Ellis. We have a problem."
"I... I didn’t know anyone was watching."
"That’s the point. Someone always is."
The line went dead.
---
Twenty minutes later, Leona walked into the conference room of Lawson Global in jeans and a sweater, her curls tied into a loose bun. Damian was already there, seated at the head of the table, brows furrowed, phone in hand.
He didn’t look up when she entered.
"You knew?" she asked.
"It was posted to a gossip account at 6:14 a.m.," he said flatly. "A grainy image of us outside the penthouse. You kissed me. The caption reads, 'Lawson's mystery woman not so fake after all?'"
Her face burned. "I'm sorry. I didn’t know someone would be filming."
"Don’t apologize," he said. "You were brilliant. That kiss looked real. That’s good for us."
"But it wasn’t planned."
He finally looked up. His eyes were unreadable. "We adapt."
Caroline entered with a tablet. "Damage control suggestions, sir. Do we deny or lean into it?"
Leona looked between them. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Damian said calmly, "we might have to push up our timeline."
---
By noon, news outlets had picked up the story. Bloggers speculated about the girl from nowhere who had stolen one of the country’s most powerful bachelors. Fashion editors analyzed her dress from the charity event. An old college photo of Leona surfaced—blurry, but her face unmistakable. She wasn’t anonymous anymore.
And it was just the beginning.
---
Later that evening, they sat together in the private lounge at Vanta—the same rooftop bar that now served as the fabricated site of their first date. Damian sipped a neat scotch. Leona, a ginger ale. Her nerves wouldn’t allow anything stronger.
"So what now?" she asked.
"Now we give them a narrative," he said. "Controlled. Strategic. One we can sustain."
"Like an engagement?"
He didn’t flinch. "Exactly."
She set her drink down. "Is that really necessary?"
"The alternative is letting the media tell our story. And they won’t be kind."
Leona exhaled. "Then let’s do it. But if we fake an engagement, we have to make it feel real."
Damian nodded. "Which means public appearances. Couple interviews. Possibly a photoshoot."
"And maybe... we talk more."
His brow lifted slightly. "Talk?"
"Yes. Get to know each other. Real couples know each other. We can’t keep faking chemistry and praying no one notices."
Damian looked away. His voice was softer now. "Talking sounds... dangerous."
"Only if you're hiding something."
He didn’t answer.
---
That night, back at the penthouse, Damian surprised her.
He knocked on her door.
She opened it, wearing a hoodie and shorts, skin bare, face washed.
He held up two mugs. "Chamomile. It helps with anxiety."
Her mouth opened, then closed. She stepped aside.
They sat by the massive windows overlooking the skyline. He sipped quietly. She did too.
"I used to play piano," he said suddenly. "Before my father took over every hour of my day."
Leona blinked. "What happened?"
"I stopped. Because it didn’t make money."
She stared at him. Not the billionaire. Not the cold boss. Just the boy he used to be.
"I wrote poetry," she offered. "Until my mother called it useless."
He looked at her. "Do you still write?"
"Not really."
"That’s a shame. I’d like to read it."
She laughed softly. "You don’t strike me as the poetry type."
He smiled—and it was rare. Real.
"There are many things about me you don’t know, Leona."
Their eyes held for a moment too long.
She looked away. "Goodnight, Damian."
He nodded. "Goodnight."
And for the first time since this all began, she dreamed of more than survival.
She dreamed of music.
Of words.
Of maybe, just maybe... something real.
- Writer
