Chapter Three: Rules of the Game

The dressing room looked more like a miniature designer showroom than anything Elara had ever stepped into. Racks of clothes gleamed under soft golden lights—Versace, Dior, Alexander McQueen. Silks, sequins, and perfectly tailored pieces hung in curated arrangements, like a secret wardrobe meant for royalty.

Elara stood frozen in the center of it, wearing a plain cotton shirt and jeans that suddenly felt like rags.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” Lila said, her smile polished, her blonde bob sharp enough to cut glass. “But you’ll get used to it.”

“I doubt that,” Elara murmured, eyeing a red Valentino gown that probably cost more than her rent for the year.

Lila held up a gold notepad and stylus. “Tonight’s event is the Ashford Foundation’s annual charity fundraiser. The media will be there, along with a few high-profile board members. Damon wants to make a bold first impression.”

“Why do I feel like a human prop again?” Elara muttered.

Lila looked amused. “Because technically, you are.”

She sighed.

“Let’s try this,” Lila continued, lifting a sleek navy-blue evening gown from the rack. It was strapless, with a cinched waist and a long slit up the leg. Elegant, seductive—but not overdone.

Elara raised an eyebrow. “That looks like it belongs to a Bond girl.”

“Perfect. Because tonight, you’re playing one.”

As Lila ushered her into the dressing area, Elara couldn’t shake the butterflies swarming in her stomach. She had officially stepped into someone else’s life—someone who attended galas, posed for photographers, and didn’t flinch at wearing diamonds the size of marbles.

An hour later, she stood in front of a mirror she barely recognized herself in.

The navy dress clung to her in all the right places, the slit revealing just enough thigh to feel daring but not scandalous. Her hair was styled into soft waves, her makeup smoky and subtle. She looked like a woman who belonged in Damon Ashford’s world.

And she had no idea how to be her.

“Ready?” came a deep voice behind her.

She turned—and there he was.

Damon had swapped his tailored gray suit for a black tuxedo that fit his chiseled frame like it was sewn onto him. He looked devastatingly handsome. Unreachable. Untouchable. His eyes swept over her, just briefly, but the way they darkened made her skin tingle.

“You clean up well,” he said, his tone unreadable.

“You say that like I’m usually a mess.”

“You’re not. But this version of you will silence every rumor they throw at us tonight.”

She rolled her eyes. “Glad to know I’m part of your public relations campaign.”

He stepped closer, adjusting her bracelet. “You’re more than that, Elara. You’re my secret weapon.”

That did something strange to her chest—something warm, confusing, and utterly inconvenient.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s go over the rules.”

She followed him out of the wardrobe suite and into a private lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, and a low fire crackled in the modern hearth. Damon poured two glasses of champagne and handed her one.

She didn’t drink it.

“You’re making this sound like a war strategy,” she said, lowering herself onto the velvet couch.

“In a way, it is.” He sat across from her, every movement calm, controlled. “This world isn’t just about appearances—it’s about power, perception, leverage. The wrong word, the wrong glance, can be used against me. That means you have to know exactly who you are at all times.”

She frowned. “You mean who I’m pretending to be.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled out a tablet and handed it to her. On it was a document labeled: Elara Bennett – Official Girlfriend Profile.

“You made me a dossier?” she asked, half-laughing.

“Details,” he replied. “Your favorite color is forest green. You studied literature at NYU. We met two months ago at an art gallery downtown. We bonded over modern surrealism and a shared love for 80s movies.”

She blinked. “I hate 80s movies.”

“You love them now. Especially The Breakfast Club.”

She scowled. “You want me to lie about my favorite movies?”

“I want you to be consistent. Consistency equals believability.”

Elara scrolled further. “We went on three dates before our first kiss. You surprised me with a private rooftop dinner. I cried when you gave me a book of poems annotated with your favorite lines…”

“I did my research,” Damon said, sipping his champagne. “Romance sells. Especially the slow-burn kind.”

“You’re insane,” she muttered.

“Which is why I need someone sane to balance me out.”

Elara stared at the tablet again. Fake memories. Fake affection. Fake milestones. It was all meticulously crafted—and yet, the idea of pretending to love this man for the public made something flutter deep in her gut.

“We’ll have code words,” Damon continued. “If you feel overwhelmed at an event, say ‘white tulips.’ I’ll get you out. If you’re ever approached by the press, deflect. Keep answers vague, romantic, safe.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing it all.

“And physical affection?”

He paused. “I’ll follow your lead in public. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on the lower back, maybe a kiss on the lips if the cameras are out. But nothing that makes you uncomfortable. You dictate the boundary.”

That surprised her. She expected him to be all control.

“You really don’t plan on touching me unless I say so?” she asked, cautiously.

He met her gaze, his expression firm. “This may be a lie—but your comfort is not negotiable.”

She exhaled. “Okay. Good. Because I don’t want any blurred lines.”

“Then let’s make them clear.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rule number one: This is a business arrangement. Not a romance. No real feelings.”

“Rule number two,” she replied, “You stop treating me like an intern and talk to me like an equal.”

He smirked. “I’ll allow it.”

She grinned.

“Rule number three,” Damon added. “You move into the condo by the end of the week. We’ll need to be seen together in and out of the building. Casual appearances matter.”

She hesitated. “What about my apartment?”

“I’ll cover your rent there while you’re under contract. No strings. Just optics.”

“And rule number four?”

“No dating anyone else. You’re in a public relationship with me. That illusion doesn’t work if your face is plastered with someone else on Page Six.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then paused. It was fair. If she was going to fake being his girlfriend, she had to be his girlfriend.

Even if it was all pretend.

A silence fell between them, taut and layered.

“You really think we can pull this off?” she asked.

He stood and offered his hand. “Let’s find out.”

She took it.

His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and steady. Their eyes met. And for a second—just a second—the world outside their deal felt very far away.

“Are you ready for tonight?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted.

“Good.” He smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The best lies are told when there’s something real underneath.”

Elara didn’t know what that meant, but the way he looked at her then—like he saw right through every layer of her doubt—made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she was in more trouble than she realized.

Not because of the deal.

But because of him.