Camille Aragon stood at the entrance to Rue Saint-Honoré's most exclusive atelier, her breath visible in the morning chill. Less than six hours after accepting Damien Laurent's proposition, she found herself here—another invitation, another summons, this time from one of the fashion houses that only whispered Laurent's name.
The message had been clear. Fittings. Wardrobe. No refusals.
Camille exhaled slowly and stepped inside.
The space was a cathedral of quiet luxury: white marble floors, soaring windows, mannequins draped in garments of impossible beauty. Seamstresses moved with silent efficiency. And at the center of it all, a tall, silver-haired man approached, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed.
"Welcome, Mademoiselle Aragon," he said in a voice that wrapped around her like velvet. "I am Marc Delacroix. Monsieur Laurent has arranged everything. This way, please."
Without waiting for consent, he led her into a private suite. Racks of garments lined the walls—couture, of course, not a label in sight, but each piece more exquisite than the last.
"Your measurements are already on file," Marc continued, pulling several gowns from the collection. "Monsieur Laurent is... precise in such matters."
Camille's spine stiffened. Of course he was.
She allowed Marc's team to work, stripping to her slip as fabrics whispered over her skin—silk, velvet, cashmere. No detail spared. Each selection crafted to project effortless elegance, subtle sensuality, and unspoken power.
As they adjusted a crimson evening gown, Camille caught her reflection in the mirror.
Gone was the corporate attorney. In her place stood the future fiancée of Europe's most formidable billionaire.
The transformation unsettled her—and yet beneath the wariness, something else stirred. A flicker of purpose. A dangerous, heady thrill.
For the first time in years, Camille was stepping into a game she had chosen to play.
By late afternoon, she stood once again before the Laurent Tower.
This time, no rain masked her approach. Paris gleamed beneath a cold winter sun. Camille entered the penthouse lift alone, her heart steady.
Damien awaited her in the main salon, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, crisp shirt open at the collar. He studied her entrance with that same unreadable gaze.
"You've been fitted," he remarked, rising. "Good."
She held his gaze. "You arrange things quickly."
"I dislike inefficiency," he replied. "And appearances matter. Our first public engagement is tomorrow night."
Camille blinked. "Already?"
Damien's smile was faint, almost amused. "Time, Mademoiselle Aragon, is the one thing I refuse to waste. Nor should you."
He motioned toward a low table set with fine porcelain and a spread of delicate amuse-bouches. Tea service. The civility of the gesture clashed with the nature of their arrangement.
Camille sat, folding her legs gracefully, her posture composed.
"This... engagement," she began, "will follow whose terms, precisely?"
"Ours," Damien said. "Jointly negotiated. You are no one's puppet, Camille. I expect discretion, intelligence, and presence. In return, I offer influence, protection, and the settlement of your rightful claims."
He poured her tea, his movements deliberate. "But make no mistake—this is not merely a performance. The media, our adversaries... they will be watching for any weakness."
Camille's gaze sharpened. "And your enemies are... numerous."
"Indeed." His eyes glinted. "Which is why you, of all people, intrigue me. You know how to navigate shadows."
She sipped her tea, refusing to let him read too deeply. "Flattery, Monsieur Laurent, will not make me complacent."
"Good." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "I prefer a partner who can match me."
A long pause stretched between them, layered with unspoken currents.
Camille set her cup down. "You said six months. And afterward, my patents are mine—without contest."
"Yes." He held her gaze. "That is non-negotiable. You will have written confirmation before the week is out."
Another beat. Her fingers rested lightly on the porcelain.
"And if at any point I choose to end the arrangement?" she asked.
Damien leaned back, regarding her thoughtfully. "Then you walk away. No penalty. No retaliation."
He tilted his head slightly. "But you won't."
Camille arched a brow. "So sure of yourself?"
"No," Damien said softly. "Sure of you."
The words landed with more weight than she expected. Beneath his composed exterior, there was something else—something watchful, almost predatory. Not desire, not yet. But recognition. A dangerous kind of respect.
She felt it pulse in the air between them.
And in that moment, Camille realized—this was not simply a contract to be fulfilled. It was a war of wills. One she fully intended to win.
---
Later that evening, alone in her apartment, Camille unrolled the legal draft Damien's team had sent.
Sixty pages. Ironclad.
Public engagement schedule. Confidentiality clauses. Appearance stipulations. Even provisions for personal security.
And beneath the clinical language, the unspoken undercurrent: danger.
Damien Laurent's world was not merely one of power dinners and galas. It was a battlefield—political, financial, and darker still. And by accepting his offer, Camille was stepping straight into its heart.
But she had her own reasons.
Not only for the patents. Not only for the power this arrangement would afford her.
The Laurent family was entwined in the same corporate web that had led to her brother Mateo's death. Too many unanswered questions. Too many buried truths.
Damien Laurent might be the key.
And Camille had waited long enough for answers.
---
Just before midnight, her phone buzzed—a message from Damien.
Be ready. The first test comes tomorrow.
No details. No location.
Camille smiled faintly.
So be it.
She sent a single reply.
I always am.