Rent A Girlfriend

Chapter 4

Damian stood in the doorway of the new apartment, a silhouette against the sterile, white-streaked hallway. He didn't come in. He didn't comment on the decor. He simply stood there like a statue while Elara scrambled.

She was fumbling with a gold bracelet, her fingers slick with a nervous sweat that made the expensive metal feel greasy. She caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The dress was a masterpiece of silk, hugging her curves in a way that made her feel exposed despite being fully covered.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning toward him. She hated herself for asking and she hated the tiny, desperate part of her that wanted a crumb of validation from the man who had bought her wardrobe.

Damian didn't look at her face. He looked at the gold Patek Philippe on his wrist. "You’re done," he stated, his voice flat. "Let’s go."

The rejection hit her like a physical slap, but she forced a smile into the mirror. What did you expect, Elara?

She grabbed her purse and followed him, her new heels clicking steadily against the pristine floors. Outside, a limousine waited. Not the black one from before, but a long, predatory white one that glowed under the streetlights. The driver opened the door with a silent bow. Damian waited for her to slide in first, but the gesture felt less like courtesy and more like he was ushering a valuable piece of luggage into storage.

Inside, the car smelled of new leather and chilled air. As the partition slid up, Damian handed her a thick, leather-bound file.

"Read this," he commanded. "It’s the dossier on my family. Their likes, their dislikes, the political leanings of my mother’s firm, and the specific vintage of scotch my father prefers. You have forty minutes until we reach the estate."

Elara opened the file. It felt heavy, like a textbook for a life she hadn't studied for. She tried to focus on the words, but they blurred. She had already used the stipend Damian sent to pay Rachel back, even doubling it just to buy back a piece of her dignity. She had sent money home to her mother. She had the car, the house, the clothes.

She had everything she’d ever craved, yet she felt like she was being strangled by silk. Luxury, she realized, wasn't peace. It was a different kind of war, one where the weapons were etiquette and the casualties were your own identity.

"Was it a good read?"

Damian’s voice broke through her spiral. She realized the car had stopped. He was looking at her, his hand reaching out to tap her arm. She flinched instinctively before catching herself and nodding.

"Yes," she lied, offering a bright, practiced smile. "Very informative."

"Good," Damian said, his eyes darkening. "Get the act ready. From this moment on, we are in love."

He stepped out and reached back for her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely fake. As Elara stepped out, she nearly lost her footing. The mansion in front of her wasn't a house; it was a monument to the Stark ego, an extensive estate of limestone and light.

"Oh, you are absolutely gorgeous!"

A young woman, likely Elara’s age, hurried toward them, her face flushed with genuine excitement. She looked like a softer, more human version of Damian.

"Thank you," Elara said, her heart softening.

"I’m Caroline, and you are?" the girl said, reaching out for a handshake.

“Elara….”

"Enough of the introductions," Damian cut in, his voice like a blade. He didn't let go of Elara’s hand, pulling her toward the entrance.

"Have a heart, brother!" Caroline called out behind them, her tone playful but laced with a hint of truth.

Inside, the house was a museum. Everything was made of wood and gold. Swords were displayed, waiting to be used, waiting to feast on blood, hunting guns were displayed on the walls, Elara tried counting the weapons but lost count. There was a huge moose, displayed above the dining room, overseeing everything in the house. But what was more interesting was the chronological order of pictures from generation to generation, it was easy to spot the order, as each picture changed in fashion, style, and confidence.

A maid appeared with warmed face towels, and Elara watched Damian clean his face with the practiced ease of royalty. She tried to mimic him, her movements stiff. She had to look like she belonged here. She had to look like she hadn't spent her life counting pennies for the subway.

"Where’s Dad?" Damian asked as they entered the grand living room.

"Golf course," Caroline replied, trailing behind them. "And before you ask, Mom is at the library. Business as usual."

Damian nodded, his jaw tight. "I’m going to find him. You stay here with Caroline." He turned to Elara, his eyes lingering on hers just long enough to maintain the lie.

"I'll be fine, Love," Elara responded. The word Love felt like ash in her mouth, but she delivered it with a sweetness that made Caroline beam.

As Damian walked away, Caroline immediately grabbed Elara’s arm. "Let me show you around the grounds, Elara! It’s much better than staring at this stuffy paintings."

They walked out into the gardens, the scent of blooming jasmine filling the air. Elara tried to relax, tried to enjoy the beauty of the greenery, but the peace was shattered by the roar of an engine.

A power bike tore through the estate gates, screaming across the gravel at a suicidal speed. It swerved to a halt inches from them, kicking up a cloud of dust that coated Elara’s new shoes.

"Don't mind Julian," Caroline sighed, waving the dust away. "He’s always been the family’s resident disaster."

The rider pulled off his helmet, shaking out dark, messy hair. He looked up, a cocky, dangerous smirk playing on his lips, until his eyes landed on Elara.

The smirk died.

Elara felt the blood drain from her face. Her vision tunneled. She knew that face. She knew the way those eyes looked when they were clouded with drink and desperation.

He wasn't just Damian’s brother. He was a client from her past, a man who knew exactly what she was.