The Fine Print of Us

Chapter six - Let's Play House

Damien didn’t lie. The next morning, she was summoned to his office, not the private, curated calm of his penthouse, but his downtown fortress of glass and steel. She knew exactly why.

Intimidation.

A subtle flex.

A message that he held the cards. But he underestimated her.

Again.

Mara wasn’t some wide-eyed intern anymore. She knew what she wanted, and she wouldn’t let him tower over her with his skyline views and thousand-dollar suits. Let him try. Let him pull every trick he thought would throw her off balance.

She’d already survived him once.

When the elevator doors parted with a soft chime, she stepped out like she owned the place. Her dress was tailored perfection—sleek, black, professional with just enough edge to draw stares. Her hair cascaded in loose, effortless curls. Her makeup was on point, neutral but sharp. The kind of look that said don’t test me unless you want to lose.

And people noticed.

Conversations stalled. Heads turned. A woman in reception dropped her pen. Mara’s heels clicked against the marble like a declaration.

Bring it on, Damien Blackthorn.

His assistant stood when she approached, looking more intrigued than polite. There was something behind the woman’s eyes, a flicker of recognition. Not just who Mara was, but what she was. A threat.

“This way,” the assistant said, gesturing toward the end of the hall.

Corner office.

Glass walls.

Unapologetic view of the entire damn city. Of course.

He was definitely trying to upstage her. Good. That meant he was nervous.

She stepped inside without waiting for permission, her gaze meeting his immediately. Damien stood behind his desk, blazer off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. The perfect balance of composed and lethal. He looked good—too good—but she didn’t let that show.

“Mara,” he said, voice like velvet stretched over steel.

She dropped her bag on one of the leather chairs opposite his desk and crossed her legs, calm and collected. “You summoned me. What’s the deal, Blackthorn? Is this where you slide the contract across the desk like it’s a thriller movie?”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was something amused in his eyes. “I thought it best we handle this professionally.”

“Right,” she said, scanning the room. “Nothing says professional like trying to psych me out with a view of the Empire State Building.”

He moved around the desk, laying a slim folder in front of her. “Here’s the contract. Clear terms. No surprises.”

She opened it, eyes scanning quickly, her lawyer father would be proud and then she looked up at him.

“Clause 12,” she said, tapping the page. “Regular public appearances, weekly dinner… a monthly weekend getaway?” Her brow lifted. “Trying to squeeze in a little fantasy, Damien?”

He leaned against the desk. “We both know the press needs consistency. If you’re going to be my girlfriend on paper, it has to look real.”

She met his gaze head-on. “Then I want a clause of my own.”

“I’m listening.”

“If Zoey pops up again, you tell me. First. No secrets. No damage control after the fact.”

There was a beat of silence before he nodded. “Done.”

When she reached for the pen he’d already placed beside the folder, he stopped her with a simple gesture—just two fingers pressing lightly against the top of the page.

“Are you sure you read everything carefully?”

Her eyes narrowed. That tone wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, serious, and for once, maybe the first time, he didn’t sound like he was playing a game.

Still, it didn’t mean she let her guard down.

She plucked the contract off the table again and went over the fine print. Slowly this time. Line by line. Until her eyes caught the clause halfway down the last page. Her breath caught. Not dramatically but just enough to betray her surprise.

Her fingers froze.

“You want me to move in with you?” she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with disbelief. She stared at the words like they’d rearranged themselves into a trap.

Damien stood tall on the other side of the desk, arms folded. Calm. Too calm.

“I’m selling a real relationship to the public,” he said. “What better way to do it than moving in together? My job takes up most of my time. Weekly dinners and carefully staged getaways won’t convince anyone. This has to look permanent. Tangible. Like I might actually put a ring on your finger, not like we’re circling an expiration date.”

Her heart knocked against her chest at the mention of a ring. She hated how easily words like that could twist something inside her.

But she kept her face smooth.

“Bold of you to assume I’d want to share a fridge with you, Blackthorn.”

He gave her a look that hovered somewhere between amused and impatient. “You don’t have to make room in the closet. There’s a guest wing. Separate bedroom, bathroom, your own space. I won’t get in your way unless we’re in front of a camera.”

Her brows lifted. “And when we’re not?”

His silence stretched just long enough to make something flicker in her chest again.

She hated that.

“I’ll behave,” he finally said. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Mara ignored the heat that crept up her neck. She flipped the contract closed and sat back.

“You really think cohabitation is going to fix your image?” she asked. “You think the public’s going to fall for the happy couple trope just because we share a zip code?”

He leaned forward, both hands on the desk. “I don’t care if they fall for it. I just need them confused enough to believe it’s possible.”

God, he was good. Always toeing the line between ruthless and sincere. She didn’t trust it. Not even a little.

But…

Her mother’s constant texts. Her smug, matchmaking tone. The guilt trips.

Damien’s reach went far. This could shut Clarissa down for good.

She stood, slowly. Her heels clicked softly against the polished wood as she crossed the office to the wall of glass behind him. The city stretched out below like it was begging to be rewritten. She could feel him watching her. Waiting for her answer.

When she turned, her decision was made.

“I want my own key,” she said. “And a clause that says I can walk out whenever I want—no strings, no damage control.”

She tapped the contract with a manicured finger, the sound crisp in the heavy silence. “I want it in there before I sign anything.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, lips tightening with resolve. “My job might not be as time-consuming as yours, but when I’m working on a project, that is my priority. Not your image. Not your court dates. Not your paparazzi panic attacks.”

She watched him absorb her words, expression unreadable as usual, though she swore something flickered behind those eyes. That always-present calculation. That pull.

Then, she leaned forward slightly, voice low, measured.

“And let’s say—just for fun—that the worst-case scenario happens.” Her eyes locked with his, sharp and unblinking. “What if I meet someone else? What if this little performance of ours turns into collateral damage?”

Damien stayed quiet, but the shift in his posture was subtle and immediate. His jaw flexed. His fingers curled slightly over the edge of the desk.

She tilted her head, pushing. “Come on, Damien. You’ve probably already war-gamed it ten ways. So lay it on me. What happens if I walk first?”

For a beat, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he stepped around the desk and came to stand just a little too close. The kind of close that made her pulse pick up—annoyingly so.

His voice, when he finally answered, was even. Controlled. But it had an edge.

“If you meet someone else and this stops serving either of us… we walk away. No legal penalties. No spin.” He paused, gaze flicking down to her lips for the briefest second. “But just so we’re clear—this isn’t some high school pact, Mara. You’re not just a convenient name in a headline to me.”

She raised an eyebrow, unsure if she believed him or hated how much she wanted to believe him.

He went on, softer now. “And if anyone else thinks they can pull your attention away while you’re wearing my name in this contract?” His eyes darkened. “They’d better be ready to fight me for it.”

A pulse beat wildly in her throat, and she hated that he could see it.

“Wow,” she said, the sarcasm slipping in like armor. “That was almost romantic. Possessive, borderline threatening, but romantic.”

He smirked. “You bring out the best in me.”

She rolled her eyes, spun the contract around, and scribbled her initials next to the clause she’d just demanded. Then she signed at the bottom with a flourish.

“We play house,” she said. “We show the world you’re a committed, reformed man. I get peace and quiet from my matchmaking mother. Everyone wins.”

She stood, smoothing the front of her dress, and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“But let’s get one thing straight, just because I move in doesn’t mean you can touch me.”

Damien stepped closer. Not quite touching, but near enough that the air between them felt charged. Like static electricity waiting to spark.

“I’ll wait,” he murmured, voice like velvet and smoke. “But if you ever change your mind…”

“I won’t,” she cut in quickly.

He gave a lazy, infuriating smile. “We’ll see.”

Mara stood outside Damien Blackthorn’s penthouse door, suitcase in one hand, her pride in the other. She’d worn something strategic—jeans and a fitted cream top, just soft enough to look “girlfriend casual” but tailored enough to send a message: she didn’t belong here, not really. Not in his high-rise glass castle. But she was choosing to be here. That made all the difference.

Before she could knock, the door opened. Ivy stood there in power heels and crimson lipstick like a modern-day press general.

“You’re early,” Ivy said, stepping aside. “Good. Gives us time for light makeup touch-ups.”

Mara arched a brow. “I’m wearing makeup.”

Ivy gave her a once-over. “Yes. And now you’re wearing mine.”

Mara walked in, pretending not to be impressed by the sleek, modern design—the matte black finishes, the open layout, the skyline that looked fake from how perfect it framed the windows. She wasn’t going to swoon at a coffee table just because it cost more than her rent.

Damien emerged from the hallway, unbothered and devastating in a dark gray shirt and slacks.

Casual.

Effortless.

Dangerous.

“Mara,” he said like she hadn’t signed her name under a list of demands hours earlier.

“Blackthorn,” she replied smoothly, wheeling her suitcase inside. “Lovely home. Very ‘I might have secrets buried in the floorboards.’”

He smiled faintly. “Don’t go looking.”

Ivy cleared her throat and waved toward the large windows. “You two—go stand over there. Smile. Look like you’re not both imagining strangling each other.”

Mara raised a hand. “I’m not smiling unless there’s coffee involved.”

Damien disappeared briefly and returned with two mugs—hers had exactly the amount of sugar she liked. Damn him for paying attention.

The photographer arrived. Lights flashed. Mara stood in Damien’s orbit, her arm loosely around his waist. His hand rested gently on her lower back. Too casual. Too practiced.

The worst part? It felt natural. And she hated that.

After the last photo, Ivy nodded, satisfied. “It’ll hit the media tomorrow. Warm lighting, coupley vibe, very ‘she tamed the beast.’”

Mara took her coffee and slipped off to the guest wing—her wing, thank you very much. The room was spacious, beautifully decorated, and unmistakably impersonal. The sheets were perfect. The surfaces spotless.

Damien Blackthorn’s world had no space for mess.

No chaos.

No emotion.

She set her suitcase down and stared at the reflection of herself in the massive mirror. For a woman who didn’t do relationships, she was knee-deep in a fake one with the most emotionally unavailable man alive.

Fantastic.

A knock came at the door. Damien. Of course.

“Just checking to see if you need anything,” he said. “Room okay?”

She turned to him, arms crossed. “You mean the suite with better lighting than my entire apartment? Yes. It’s fine.”

He lingered at the door, watching her like he was trying to solve a puzzle he’d once built but forgot how.

“You did good today,” he said after a beat.

“You say that like I’m your intern.”

He smirked. “You say that like it’s not true.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can leave now.”

But he didn’t.

Not for a second.

Then, finally, he nodded once. “Goodnight, Mara.”

“Goodnight, Damien.”

She shut the door. And leaned her back against it. Heart thudding like this was all real.

Like she actually wanted it to be.