Rent A Girlfriend

Chapter 3

The air inside The Vault didn't feel like oxygen alone, it felt like pressurized luxury, filtered and chilled to the exact temperature of a diamond vault. Elara stepped through the heavy glass doors at exactly 2:05 PM, her heart hammering rapidly. She was wearing her comfortable outfit, a faded pair of jeans, and a simple black tee but standing in that foyer, she felt like a smudge of grease on a masterpiece.

She had spent years watching this place on holographic billboards from the window of a crowded bus. It had always been a dream behind a screen. Now, the marble floor was a cold, unforgiving reality beneath the soles of her sneakers.

A sound cut through her surprise.

Damian Stark stood ten feet away. Beside him was a petite woman with sharp glasses and a briefcase, looking like she lived on a diet of spreadsheets and pure ambition.

"You’re five minutes late," Damian said. He didn't look up from the gold watch on his wrist. His voice was a low hum that vibrated in Elara’s stomach, making her feel small in a way she hated.

"I... I’m sorry," Elara stammered. The apology felt pathetic in the massive, echoing space.

"You look beautiful," the woman beside him said. Her voice was surprisingly kind, a soft contrast to Damian’s steel.

Damian finally looked up. His gaze swept over Elara with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon. "Elara, this is Chloe Wilson, my PA. Chloe, meet Elara."

Introduction finished and no wasted breath. Damian turned on his heel, his movements were so precise. "Follow me. We’re behind schedule."

As they moved deeper into the boutique, Elara noticed three men in suits trailing at a respectful distance. Security shadows. They led her into a designer wing that looked more like an art gallery than a*****e, where waiters appeared instantly with crystal flutes of amber wine. Elara took one, holding the delicate glass as if it were made of ancient, brittle ice. She didn't drink. She couldn't because she was too busy watching the Stylist.

The man approached them with a practiced grace, his eyes categorizing Elara’s entire existence in a single glance. "Whose beauty are we refining today?"

"Hers," Damian said, with just a simple gesture of his hand effectively handing her over.

The next hour was a sensory blur of silk, cashmere, and the sharp, expensive scent of new leather. Elara was ushered into a private suite where the Stylist began pulling pieces from the racks with speed. "This for the lines of her neck... this for the color of her eyes..."

He didn't stop until the rack was overflowing. Elara stared at the mountain of fabric, they were at least a hundred pieces. It was more clothing than she had owned in her entire life. She looked at Damian, waiting for him to say enough, to tell the man to slow down.

But Damian was looking at his watch again. "I have an important meeting in less than an hour," he said, his voice clipped and cold. He glanced at the Stylist. "Will they fit? Will she look the part?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Stark. I guarantee it."

"Pack it all," Damian commanded.

Elara’s heart skipped a beat. "Damian, wait... this is too much. I don't need…"

He turned to her, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. "You’re my girlfriend now, Elara. You need to be treated like one. A Stark woman doesn't repeat outfits."

Beside him, Chloe offered a small, encouraging smile, but Elara felt nauseated. The CEO had spoken and the transaction was moving forward.

They walked to the counter. Adrenaline surged through her, the act had to start somewhere. As they reached the register, she reached out and slid her hand into Damian’s. His skin was warm, his hand massive compared to hers. She felt him stiffen for a microsecond before his fingers closed around hers in a firm, possessive grip. He understood. This was for the cameras, for the staff, for the lie.

"That will be three hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Stark," the cashier said, her voice as casual as if she were asking if he wanted a bag.

Elara’s grip on Damian’s hand tightened involuntarily. Three hundred thousand? She wanted to scream, to tell them they’d made a mistake, that she wasn't worth the price of a small country's GDP. But Damian didn't even flinch. He didn't ask for a breakdown. He simply pulled a sleek black card from his wallet and swiped it.

In one second, he had spent enough to pay off Rachel, buy a mansion, and change Elara’s life ten times over and he didn't even care.

The security guards moved in, gathering the bags like a silent army. The footwear store was the same, everything moved fast, leather and heels where Damian simply bought everything in her size as if he were checking off a grocery list.

Finally, they stood on the sidewalk, the cold wind whipping Elara’s hair across her face.

"The clothes are already in your car," Damian said, pointing to a sleek, black SUV parked at the curb. "And your personal driver. He’ll be taking you to the apartment I’ve secured for you downtown."

"An apartment and a car?" Elara whispered. The world felt like it was spinning on its axis. "Damian, I have a place."

"You had a place," he corrected, his voice leaving no room for argument. "My girlfriend doesn't live in a walk-up with a broken buzzer. Text me your Venmo. I’ll send a stipend to keep you comfortable." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And start posting. Build a social presence. It doesn't look right if my girlfriend is invisible."

Elara was stunned but all she could do was to only nod. "I... I’ll text you."

Chloe stepped forward, handing Damian a small shopping bag. He handed it to Elara without a word. Inside was a brand new, top-of-the-line phone, it was the final piece of her new identity.

"The real task begins in two days," Damian said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously serious. "Get yourself ready. We’re going to my parents' estate for a family dinner."

Elara froze. Before she could find her voice, Damian had turned and walked toward a massive black limousine. Chloe followed, and the security guards disappeared into a separate SUV. As the limo pulled away, its tinted windows reflecting the grey, heavy sky, Elara felt the weight of the new phone in her hand.

A black Jeep pulled up beside her, the driver stepping out to open the door with a practiced bow.

"Ready to go home, Miss?"

Elara looked at the car, then back at the street where Damian had vanished. She stepped into the leather-scented interior, the door closing with a heavy, expensive thud.

Her life wasn't just changing. The old Elara was being erased, one three hundred thousand swipe at a time.