Chapter Three: Terms, Temptations and the one wearing Gold
1544 Words
Chapter Three: Terms, Temptations and the one wearing Gold
I stood in the center of Damien Carter’s penthouse like an imposter at a masquerade ball except I wasn’t even wearing a mask. Everything around me gleamed: glass walls offering a dizzying view of the city skyline, marble floors that echoed with every uncertain step I took, sleek designer furniture that belonged in a museum, not a home.
It was the kind of place that didn’t just whisper wealth, it screamed it in your face, unapologetic and cold.
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t mine. None of it was.
But I’d signed the contract.
Three hours in a pristine, clinical boardroom with Damien’s lawyer, flipping through pages of legal language that might as well have been written in a different tongue. But I understood the important parts live here, attend events, act like we’re in love. Sell the illusion. Breathe it. Be it.
And underneath all that glittered one line I couldn’t forget:
Maintain emotional discretion.
Don’t fall in love.
How tragically ironic.
The sound of the door opening pulled me from my daze. I turned just as Damien stepped inside.
He looked like sin in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark slacks hanging perfectly on those long legs. No tie. No jacket. Just raw, effortless masculinity that made my breath hitch.
“You moved in,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah,” I murmured, folding my arms around myself. “This place is… a lot.”
He walked past me, heading for the kitchen. “You’ll get used to it.”
I doubted that.
He opened a bottle of water, poured two glasses. “Your room’s on the left. Closet’s stocked. If anything doesn’t fit, Ava will handle it.”
“Ava?”
“My house manager. She runs the place.”
Of course he had someone who "ran" his home. Of course.
“Do you usually bring women here?” I asked, immediately regretting how small and exposed I sounded.
His eyes found mine. “No. You’re the first.”
My heart flipped. Damn it.
He handed me a glass of water. His fingers brushed mine for only a second—but it was enough. A spark shot through me, hot and immediate.
“We’ve got the Carter Foundation Gala on Saturday,” he said. “It’s big. Press, investors. Everyone.”
“Sounds... fun,” I said, dry as dust.
“You’ll have a stylist, a driver, security. . I’ll send over your lookbook tomorrow, Pick a gown. We’ll coordinate.”
I took a sip of the water and studied him over the rim. “You really planned this out.”
“I always do,” he replied. Then, his tone shifted….softer, but firm. “I’m not asking you to pretend to be someone you’re not, Isla. But I need you to hold up your end.”
I nodded slowly. “And you’ll hold up yours?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You have my word.”
Something passed between us in that moment—sharp and heavy and real. It coiled around my ribs like a tether, warning and pulling all at once.
Then he looked away. “I have a dinner meeting. Ava will check in. Make yourself at home.”
Home. Right.
He walked out the door, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I made my way to the guest suite. The closet alone made me dizzy….gowns that dripped luxury, rows of heels I’d never dare dream about, coats softer than anything I’d ever touched. I ran my fingers along a crimson silk dress. It shimmered under my hand like temptation itself.
Was this a dream? Or a gilded cage wrapped in velvet and lies?
Two days later, I stood in front of the mirror, twirling in an emerald gown that hugged my hips too perfectly to be accidental. The fabric swished like whispered promises every time I moved.
A knock.
“Come in,” I called.
The woman who entered looked like she’d stepped off a runway. High cheekbones, effortless confidence.
“Liv,” she said crisply. “Damien’s stylist.” Her eyes raked over me with calculated approval. “You’re better looking than the photos. He wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Uh... thanks?” I offered.
“You’re not just arm candy,” she said, smirking. “You’re the fantasy. Damien doesn’t show off women. If you’re on his arm, the press will assume you’re someone.”
“I’m not,” I whispered.
“You will be,” Liv said, like a prophecy. “Now, let’s get to work.”
By Saturday night, I barely recognized myself.
Gold silk clung to every curve like it was made for me. My hair was pinned in a chignon so elegant it felt royal. My lips deep, wine red—tasted like danger.
I descended the staircase slowly, heart pounding like it might betray me.
Then I saw him.
Damien. Standing by the door, tuxedo tailored to perfection. Dark, magnetic, devastating.
When his eyes met mine, something in him flickered almost a c***k in the armor.
“You look…” He exhaled. “Like a goddess.”
Heat bloomed in my chest. “And you look like… money.”
He chuckled, offering his arm. “Then we’re a perfect match.”
We rode to the gala in silence, the kind that thrummed with everything neither of us dared say.
When the car pulled up, the world exploded into flashes. Cameras. Voices. Lights.
Damien stepped out first, then turned to me with an open hand. I placed mine in his, and the moment our skin touched, the air shifted….like we were meant to fit together, despite everything screaming that we shouldn’t.
He leaned in, brushing his lips close to my ear. “Smile, Isla. Tonight, you’re mine.”
And I did.
Because in that moment contract be damned. I almost wanted to be hi….. Nevermind.
The ballroom was something out of a fantasy. Light spilled from chandeliers like stardust. Silver and white roses decorated every surface. Laughter sparkled like champagne bubbles in the air.
Damien’s hand never left the small of my back. He introduced me over and over.
“This is Isla Monroe,” he said, every time. “My partner.”
Not girlfriend. Not fake. Not contract.
Partner.
The word bloomed inside me, warm and dangerous.
Then I saw her.
Across the room, sapphire gown, long legs, ice-blue eyes that pierced straight through Damien like a blade.
Bianca Hale.
Someone murmured the name behind me like a curse. “Back from Milan.”
Damien’s body went stiff beside mine.
I leaned in. “That your ex?”
His jaw clenched. “Yes.”
Bianca began to move toward us, elegant and lethal.
Damien shifted closer to me. “Whatever she says, remember this, you’re the one wearing gold tonight.”
And just like that, the real game began.
She walked like a memory.
Bianca Hale. Tall, elegant, dangerously composed—closed the distance between us with the confidence of someone who once belonged to the man at my side. And maybe, in some twisted corner of his heart, still did.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she stopped in front of us.
“Damien,” she purred, like his name was something expensive she once owned.
“Bianca,” he said, voice tight but polite. “Didn’t know you were back in New York.”
“I landed this morning,” she replied smoothly, then let her gaze slide over to me. “And who’s this?”
I held her stare, straightened my shoulders. “Isla Monroe.”
Bianca’s lips curled. “Lovely. And what do you do, Isla?”
It was a trap, perfectly baited. My jaw clenched before I forced a sweet smile. “I make people regret underestimating me.”
Damien let out a low chuckle beside me. Bianca’s expression didn’t flicker, but her eyes narrowed just a touch.
“A bold one,” she mused, eyes drifting back to Damien. “She reminds me of me. Before you ruined me, of course.”
Tension snapped tight like piano wire between us.
“Bianca,” Damien said, his voice dropping to something cool and cutting, “you came to this event to stir things up or to drink champagne?”
She smiled—deadly, delicate. “Just came to see if you were still pretending you could love someone.”
And then, like smoke, she vanished into the crowd, leaving the scent of old wars and broken promises in her wake.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I felt Damien’s hand slide down my spine, grounding me.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She never plays fair.”
“Is that what I’m in, Damien?” I asked, turning toward him. “A game?”
His eyes darkened. “No. But people will treat it like one. Especially her.”
I wanted to believe him. But my heart didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at her or the way he didn’t stop looking until long after she was gone.
- Writer
