7. The Beginning Of Trouble
1950 Words
Emily
Thank God there was no traffic. It’s already evening and weekends in this city can be a nightmare.
I step out of the cab and freeze for a second.
The building looks insanely luxurious. Tall glass walls, polished marble entrance, sleek cars lined up like a car show. Even the doorman looks like he earns more than me.
What the hell am I doing here?
I pay the driver and walk in before I can overthink it.
The inside is even worse.
Crystal chandeliers, warm golden lighting, shiny floors, people dressed like money itself. Even the air smells expensive.
I glance around, trying to look normal while internally panicking.
Did I come too early?
He said seven and it’s already fifteen minutes past.
I’m just about to start spiraling when I hear my name.
“Emily.”
I turn. And there he is.
Damien is already standing near a table, one hand casually in his pocket. He’s wearing a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark trousers. Simple and clean.
And yeah. He looks hot. Annoyingly hot.
I walk toward him, trying not to trip over invisible air.
He goes still when I stop in front of him.
Then his gaze slowly drags over me. From my face… down to my shoulders… my waist… my legs.
What the f**k.
His eyes darken slightly and something about it sends a tiny shiver down my spine.
“You look beautiful,” he says, low and sure.
My brain completely short circuits.
I suddenly became very aware of the dress. It’s not even mine. It’s Nicole’s. Absolute lifesaver. A sleek wine colored gown that hugs just enough to look classy without screaming for attention. The kind of dress I would never own because I don’t exactly shop in rich people sections.
If not for her, I would have shown up here looking like a lost delivery girl.
I swallow and force a smile. “Uh… you too.”
Which is the dumbest response ever, but my brain is currently buffering.
He pulls out the chair for me and I sit, trying not to look like I’ve never been outside before.
He hands me the menu, sitting down. “What do you want to eat?”
I open it and instantly regret being born.
Everything has French names. Or Italian. Or something that requires a translator to pronounce. I scan the page like maybe normal food will magically appear.
He watches me for a second and then smirks. “Want me to choose for you?”
I look up immediately. “Yes. Please. Before I embarrass myself and order a decorative leaf.”
He chuckles and signals the waiter.
While he orders, I sit there trying not to fidget. I suddenly feel hyper aware of everything. My hands. My posture. My f*****g breathing. The fact that this guy is rich enough to probably buy my entire bloodline if he sneezes wrong.
The waiter leaves and suddenly it’s just us.
And I swear the table feels smaller now.
Relax Emily.
He’s sitting across from me looking relaxed as hell.
Meanwhile my hands are folded in my lap so I don’t accidentally knock over a glass and embarrass my entire ancestry.
He studies me for a second. “You found out something about me, didn’t you.”
It’s not even a question. It’s a statement.
I force a small laugh. “No.”
He just raises one eyebrow. God I hate that eyebrow.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe a little.”
His lips curve slightly. “And now you’re nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
I immediately grab my water and almost choke on it.
He watches me calmly. “Relax, Emily. Be yourself.”
That does not f*****g help. That makes it worse. Because now I’m hyper aware that I’m not being myself.
The food arrives and I’m grateful for the distraction. The plates look like art. Tiny, perfect portions placed carefully like someone measured them with a ruler or something.
He picks up his fork. And I don’t know why but I watch him.
The way he cuts his food is precise and controlled. Clean…no rush. He doesn’t hunch over or even spill. He looks refined.
Meanwhile I’m calculating the safest angle to stab my food without launching it into the chandelier.
I take a small bite, thankfully. It tastes amazing.
But I can barely focus because I’m too busy being aware of him.
His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his tattooed forearms. His fingers are long and steady. There’s something very controlled about him. Even the way he chews is calm.
Why am I noticing how this man chews.
I scoff internally at myself.
When I was with Jack I never cared about any of this. We’d eat fries out of paper bags and argue about nonsense and I never once felt like I needed to sit up straight or think about how I was holding my damn fork.
With Damien I suddenly feel like I’m being examined under a microscope.
And that pisses me off.
He catches me staring. “You’re not eating.”
“I am,” I lie, taking another small bite.
He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You’re acting like you’re in an interview.”
I exhale slowly. “So tell me then. What do you really want with me? It’s not like you actually want to date me.”
His mouth tilts into a slow smile. “What if I do?”
My heart does something stupid.
I roll my eyes quickly. “Please.”
He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make me uncomfortable, then he says, “Actually… I need a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Yes. A favor.”
He places his fork down neatly before continuing. “My ex has been pestering me.”
There it is.
I sit back slightly. “Okay… and what does that have to do with me?”
He holds my gaze, steady and direct. “I need you to act as my girlfriend.”
I stare at him. “You want to use me to chase her away.”
“Exactly.”
Well at least he’s honest.
“If she sees us together and we can convince her it’s real, she’ll leave me alone,” he continues. “I know it’s f*****g messed up. But she’s not letting go. It’s affecting my training. And I don’t like that.”
There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes when he talks about hockey. That part clearly matters to him.
“Why me?” I ask. “There are probably countless girls dying to date you.”
He smiles faintly. “Probably. But I don’t actually want to date them.”
“And I’m different how?”
“If I fake date them, they’ll fall for me.”
I snort softly. “And I won’t.”
“You won’t,” he agrees calmly.
I cross my arms. “I think this whole thing is f*****g crazy.”
“Come on,” he says, leaning forward slightly. His voice drops a little. Persuasive. “Think about it.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I can pay you.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you.”
I laugh because what else am I supposed to do? “Wow. You rich people really think money solves everything.”
His expression shifts slightly. Less amused now. “I didn’t choose you because I think you’ll be moved by money,” he says evenly. “I chose you because you’re smart. You’re serious. You’re a go-getter. You don’t get distracted easily.”
That catches me off guard.
He continues, “You don’t look at me like I’m some f**k ass trophy. You look at me like I’m just another guy.”
That’s… not entirely true. Not when he looks like this…
I hum softly. “So what exactly are you proposing?”
“We’re not actually dating,” he says. “You’ll be my assistant. Officially.”
“Uh?”
“Five thousand dollars a month.”
I actually stop chewing.
“What the f**k?” I mutter before I can catch myself.
Five thousand.
That is close to Grandpa’s surgery fee if I grind for months and don’t breathe wrong. If nothing else goes wrong. If life suddenly decides to be kind for once.
I stare at him. “For how long?”
He doesn’t even blink. “For as long as necessary.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“My ex isn’t easy to convince,” he says calmly. “It’s going to take time.”
Of course she isn’t easy. No woman who dates a man like him is built simple.
He reaches for the wine bottle like this is just another normal business discussion. He pours into his glass first, smooth and steady, then pours one for me. The deep red liquid swirls under the light.
He slides my glass toward me. “We’ll need to make it convincing.”
I pick up the glass slowly. “Convincing how exactly?”
“Public appearances. Spending time together. Showing up to different places as a couple.”
That part I expected.
“And PDA,” he adds casually before taking a sip of his wine.
I almost choke on air. “I’m sorry, what?”
He lowers the glass. “Public displays of affection. It has to look real.”
My brain short circuits.
“This is insane,” I say under my breath.
He watches me over the rim of his glass, eyes steady, almost amused. “You’re going to love it.”
“You are out of your damn mind.”
“Most of the time you’ll be with me during training. Handling logistics. Scheduling. Making sure everything runs smoothly. Helping me recover after practice.”
“Recover how?”
He takes another sip before answering. “Massages.”
My heart trips over itself and heat rushes straight to my face.
“You’re f*****g crazy.”
He smiles, slow and confident. “Relax. It’s not going to be bad.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one being asked to fake date someone who looks like….him.
He leans forward slightly. “Five thousand a month, Emily. You could use it.”
And there it is.
Grandpa’s tired smile flashes in my head. The doctor’s voice saying eight months. The unpaid bills sitting in my email. The job I applied for that might pay half of this if I’m lucky.
Five thousand a month.
I hate that my mind is already calculating.
I want to tell him to go screw himself. I want to say I’m not for hire. But this is not just about me.
I inhale slowly and take a sip of the wine. It burns slightly going down.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Yes. Let’s do it.”
His expression shifts immediately…satisfied.
“You made the right decision,” he says smoothly. “Welcome, girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend,” I correct quickly.
He smirks and lifts his glass toward mine. “Sure.”
The way he says it sounds like he doesn’t believe in the word fake at all.
I hesitate for half a second, then lift my glass and clink it against his.
“Cheers,” he says.
The soft sound of the glasses touching feels way louder in my head than it should.
What the hell have I just agreed to?
Why does this feel like the beginning of something that’s going to wreck my peace completely?
- Writer
