Discarded Bride, Billionaire's Obsession

I didn't sleep that night.

How could I? I'd just agreed to fake-date a man I'd met two hours ago, all to destroy my ex-husband who technically wasn't even my ex yet because we were still legally married even though we never actually had a wedding.

My head hurt.

At 6 AM, my phone rang. Unknown number. I already knew who it was.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, darling." Damien's voice was way too cheerful for this hour. "Hope I didn't wake you."

"I've been awake since three," I admitted.

"Good. That means you're taking this seriously." I could hear the smile in his voice. "My driver will pick you up at nine. We have shopping to do."

"Shopping?"

"Emma, you can't be seen with me wearing... whatever it is you're wearing right now."

I looked down at my ratty NYU t-shirt and pajama shorts. "How do you know what I'm wearing?"

He hung up.

I stared at my phone. Was he watching me? How did he even get my number?

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

The driver arrived at exactly 9 AM in a black Mercedes that probably cost more than my yearly salary used to be. He opened the door without a word, and I climbed in feeling completely out of place.

Damien was already inside.

He looked impossibly good in daylight—charcoal suit, no tie, hair slightly messy like he'd run his hands through it. He was scrolling through his phone, barely glancing at me.

"Seatbelt," he said.

I buckled up. The car started moving.

"Where are we going?"

"Marcus Atelier. They're holding the boutique for us."

"The entire boutique?"

"I don't like crowds." He finally looked at me, and those blue eyes scanned me from head to toe. Not sexual. Clinical. Like I was a project. "You'll need everything. Dresses, shoes, jewelry, lingerie—"

"I'm not wearing lingerie for you," I said quickly.

His eyebrow quirked. "It's not for me. It's for the photographers who will inevitably catch glimpses when you move, sit, dance. Every detail matters, Emma. If we're going to sell this, you need to look like you belong with me."

"And what does that look like?" I said with curiosity.

"Expensive. Confident. Untouchable." He turned back to his phone. "Right now, you look like a woman who's been crying for three months."

Jeez!!..I looked at myself. The words stung because they were true.

"I can pull this off," I said, lifting my chin.

"I know you can." His voice softened slightly. "That's why I chose you."

Marcus Atelier was the kind of place I used to walk past and dream about. Now I was being ushered inside like royalty, with an entire team of stylists waiting.

"Mr. Cross!" Marcus himself—a thin man with sharp features and an even sharper accent—air-kissed both of Damien's cheeks. "And this must be the lovely Emma."

"She needs everything," Damien said. "Evening wear, casual, business. I want her wardrobe completely rebuilt by end of day."

Marcus's eyes lit up. "Consider it done."

For the next four hours, I was poked, measured, dressed and undressed more times than I could count. Gowns in every color. Shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. Jewelry that required security guards to bring out.

Damien sat in a leather chair the entire time, watching. Occasionally he'd shake his head—no. Sometimes he'd nod—yes. Most of the time he just stared at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Try the red one," he said when I was exhausted and ready to collapse.

"I've tried on thirty dresses"

"Try it."

I sighed and let Marcus's team squeeze me into a red silk gown that hugged every curve. It was backless, sophisticated, and made me look like someone else entirely.

Someone powerful.

I stepped out of the dressing room, and for the first time all day, Damien's expression changed.

He stood up.

Walked toward me slowly.

Stopped just inches away.

"This one," he said quietly. His eyes hadn't left mine. "You'll wear this tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Adrian's hosting a charity gala. We're going."

My stomach dropped. "Tonight? Damien, I can't—"

"Yes, you can." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was gentle, but his eyes were calculating. "This is what you signed up for, Emma. Tonight, we make our first public appearance. Together."

"He'll lose his mind," I whispered.

Damien smiled. "That's the point."

By seven PM, I was standing in front of my mirror and didn't recognize myself.

The red dress felt like it was made for me—because it was. My hair was styled in loose waves, makeup done by professionals who knew exactly how to make my eyes look bigger, my lips fuller. The diamond necklace Damien had insisted on felt cold against my skin.

I looked expensive.

I looked confident.

I looked like someone who belonged with Damien Cross.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it to find Damien in a full tuxedo, and oh God, it wasn't fair. No one should look that good.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

"Good. If you were ready, you'd be overconfident. Nerves will make this more believable." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

I took it.

His arm was solid under my touch. Strong. Steady.

"Remember," he said as we walked to the car, "you're madly in love with me. You can't keep your hands off me. You look at me like I hung the moon."

"That's a lot of acting," I muttered.

"Then think of it this way—every smile you give me is a knife in Adrian's chest. Every touch is a reminder of what he lost. Every laugh is proof that you moved on."

I took a breath. "I can do that."

It's my chance to treat him bad the way he did to me so I have to put in all my best to do so.

"I know." He helped me into the car, then slid in beside me. "One more thing."

"What?"

He pulled out a small velvet box.

My heart stopped.

"Damien"

"Relax. It's not what you think." He opened it to reveal a stunning engagement ring. Emerald cut diamond, easily five carats, surrounded by smaller stones. "We're engaged, remember? You'll need to wear this."

He took my left hand—the same hand that used to wear Adrian's ring—and slid it on.

It fit perfectly.

"How did you know my size?" I asked.

"I know everything about you, Emma." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Your ring size. Your favorite coffee. The fact that you haven't eaten anything since this morning because you're too nervous."

He pulled out a protein bar from his jacket.

"Eat," he ordered. "You'll need your strength."

I took it, too shocked to argue.

This man had known me for less than twenty-four hours, and he already knew more about me than Adrian had learned in three years.

The gala was being held at the Castellan Hotel—of course it was. Adrian's family owned half the luxury hotels in the city.

Our car pulled up to the red carpet, and I could see the photographers already gathered. Flashes going off. People everywhere.

"Last chance to back out," Damien said.

I looked at the hotel. Somewhere inside, Adrian was probably laughing with Melissa. Probably celebrating how he'd dodged a bullet with me.

"Drive," I told the driver.

Damien's smile was pure satisfaction.

The car stopped. The door opened.

Damien stepped out first, and the cameras went insane. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the city—powerful, wealthy, mysterious. Everyone wanted to know who he was dating.

He turned back and offered his hand.

I took it.

The moment I stepped out in that red dress, the noise doubled. Questions shouted from every direction.

"Mr. Cross! Who's your date?"

"Are you two together?"

"Is this your girlfriend?"

Damien ignored them all. He pulled me close, his hand on the small of my back, and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"Smile like you own the world," he said.

So I did.

I smiled like I'd never been broken. Like I'd never cried myself to sleep. Like I was exactly where I belonged.

And then we walked inside.

---

The ballroom was stunning. Crystal chandeliers, live orchestra, champagne towers. Everyone who was anyone in the city was here.

Including Adrian.

I spotted him immediately. He was standing near the bar with Melissa hanging off his arm. She was wearing pink—soft, innocent, everything I wasn't in this red dress.

He hadn't seen us yet.

"There," I murmured to Damien.

"I see him." Damien's hand tightened on my waist. "Remember, you're with me. You're happy. You're in love."

"Right."

"And Emma?" He turned me to face him. "For the next few hours, I need you to pretend I'm the only man in this room. Can you do that?"

I looked up at him. At those impossibly blue eyes. At the sharp jawline and the way he was looking at me like I mattered.

"Yeah," I breathed. "I can do that."

"Good girl."

He led me onto the floor, and we started dancing.

I'd forgotten how good it felt to be held like this. Damien was an excellent dancer—smooth, confident, leading me effortlessly across the floor. His hand was warm on my back. His eyes never left mine.

"You're doing great," he murmured.

"He hasn't noticed us yet."

"He will." Damien spun me, and my dress flared out. "Three... two... one..."

I turned back into his arms.

And locked eyes with Adrian across the room.

His face went white.

Then red.

Then he started walking toward us, dragging Melissa behind him.

"Showtime," Damien whispered.