Early the next morning, Arielle woke up in silk.
Not just the sheets but everything around her whispered luxury. The pillowcases were butter-soft against her skin, cool and weightless. Silk curtains fluttered gently at the windows, catching the golden morning light like liquid gold.
Even the robe draped over the nearby chair looked untouched, pristine, like it belonged in a glass case instead of on a person. Even the air felt different. Expensive as if it had been filtered through money and chilled in a designer vent before reaching her lungs.
For a split second, she sank into it and let herself believe she was just a woman waking up after a good night's sleep in a dream hotel suite. Safe, content and normal.
Then it all came flooding back. How her boyfriend, Jason, had betrayed her in the presence of everyone by kissing another lady.....the way her heart had shattered.
And then… him.... The mysterious guy who had come to her rescue. Leon Mikhailov.
Her eyes flew open. She bolted upright too quickly, and the duvet slipped off her body like water, pooling around her waist in a soft, soundless heap.
This wasn't her bed ,nor her room, nor her life.
The suite was massive, bathed in the quiet elegance of charcoal and ivory tones that looked like they'd been lifted from a luxury magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view of Central Park, the trees below painted in early morning mist. Across the room, a sleek fireplace crackled to life, though there was no wood, no smoke—just a low hum of technology simulating comfort.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting plush carpet. It was the kind of space that didn't just belong to someone rich but someone powerful.
Arielle pressed a hand to her chest, steadying her breath.
She didn't need a mirror to know she looked like a stranger in this world.
But it was too late. The deal had already begun.
She looked down. The dress was gone and replaced by a long satin nightgown she didn't remember putting on.
She panicked until she saw the note on the bedside table.
"No need to panic....you're safe. Nothing transpired last night.– Leon"
A second line, in sharper penmanship, added... "There's breakfast and a decision waiting."
----
The breakfast tray was already waiting in the sitting room, timed perfectly to her waking. Silver-domed and pristine, it looked like something from a five-star photoshoot. Fresh berries glistened in a crystal bowl beside thick slices of French toast dusted with powdered sugar. A porcelain teapot sat beside a matching cup, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. And beside it all was a tall glass of something murky and green that looked far too healthy to trust.
Her stomach turned,not from hunger.....She wasn't hungry. She was angry,confused and anxious. Her emotions fought for dominance beneath her skin, a quiet storm threatening to crack her calm facade.
And yet....She was curious.
Who laid this out for her? Leon? His staff? Was this how the powerful courted obedience....with luxury, silence, and tea?
She sipped the tea anyway. It was warm, floral, faintly spiced with something comforting in an unfamiliar way, but not enough to settle the unease in her gut.
Her gaze drifted to the envelope placed neatly beside the tray. Heavy ivory paper, her name scrawled across the front in bold, elegant calligraphy that didn't try to hide its authority.
Arielle. No title.....nothing dramatic...Just her.
She picked it up slowly, her fingers brushing the embossed seal on the back. She hesitated, then broke it.
Inside was a three paged contract stapled at the top with the writeups in black ink. Everything spoke business. Nothing romantic and no assumptions.
In clean and final tone ,the terms read;
Three months.
Public appearances.
Private discretion.
Zero emotional entanglement.
Her eyes scanned lower. The language was deliberate, professional like a legal armor dressed in politeness. No flourish nor sweet words to dull the edges.
There was a clause about gifts—acceptable within reason. Another about physical boundaries which was clearly marked as negotiable but optional. She paused there. It sounded like a warning and a temptation wrapped into one.
A third clause covered non-disclosure protections.
Everything stayed sealed,locked down tighter than her past. And finally, one about the eventual separation—a pre-written script for the media. Terms of the public breakup. Nothing messy. No interviews.
And at the very bottom, underlined as if it mattered most:
Payment: None.
Value: Mutually strategic benefit.
Arielle exhaled slowly, barely realizing she'd been holding her breath. It was all just.....a deal. Nothing more nothing less. Just… a deal.
She read it again and again. Every word carefully crafted, as if Leon Mikhailov had taken great pains to prove one thing...this wasn't about emotion. It was about control. And honestly she wasn't sure if that scared her or maybe intrigued her more.
---
Leon was waiting downstairs.
Of course he was. No text. No call. No knock on the door or polite inquiry asking if she was awake.
He just was stationary and composed, as if time made room for him wherever he went. Like the world rearranged itself so he never had to wait.
He stood beside a sleek black car that matched his coat looking tailored, sharp, probably custom. One hand in his pocket, the other adjusting a discreet earpiece. He spoke into it calmly, like someone coordinating a merger rather than a morning pickup. Then, when he saw her approach, he ended the call with a single word.
"Ms. Vaughn." He said so without a smile,just with acknowledgement of her presence.
Arielle stopped a few feet away, arms crossing instinctively over her chest.
"You left me unconscious."
He raised a brow. "You fainted and I caught you. Technically heroic if you ask me. You should be thanking me". He smirked.
"I don't faint."
"You did last night," he replied, with maddening calm.
He stepped aside and opened the car door for her without another word. A smooth and automatic move like he'd already decided she was getting in but she didn't. Instead, she stayed rooted on the pavement, her heartbeat louder than the quiet hum of the engine.
"Three months is a long time," she said carefully.
He didn't blink. "You need a long time."
"Don't tell me what I need."
That got his attention. He turned his head fully now, studying her..not with condescension, but curiosity. Like a chess player surprised by a move he didn't expect. She wasn't the broken woman from the gala anymore,not entirely.
There was something alive in her now. Something fierce and defiant which sparked something in him and in his eyes, something shifted.
Interest? Respect?
Maybe both.
"Get in," Leon said quietly, his voice a velvet threat. "Or walk away. But if you walk, you go back to being the woman who got cheated on in front of donors and headlines. If you get in, you become someone no one dares to pity."
It landed like a punch wrapped in silk.
The truth of it stung. Not because it was cruel but because it was accurate.
Arielle hesitated for a breath. Her pride wrestled with her pain, both screaming in different directions.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"Where are we going?"
"Fitting." Leon's lips curved ever so slightly
Her eyes narrowed. "For?"
He gave a faint smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"You can't play the part," he said, "if you don't dress the part."
---
The fitting was in a showroom five floors above Madison Avenue, in a private loft filled with white roses, espresso, and the kind of people who could guess your measurements at a glance.
A stylist named Reva took one look at Arielle and said, "Soft edge. Controlled rebellion. You're fire in a dress."
Arielle blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means we're going to make Jason regret breathing."
For two hours, she was spun, zipped, tucked, pinned. Designer gowns. Luxury casual. Interview-ready heels. And then the jewelry. Subtle, expensive, curated like armor. She didn't recognize herself and that, oddly, felt good.
Leon never said much. He sat in the corner of the showroom, legs crossed, eyes unreadable. Occasionally, he nodded. Once, he smirked. But mostly, he observed.
Until Reva held up a ring box.
"No," Arielle said automatically. "That feels... too far."
Leon stood then.
"You're not wearing it for you."
She hesitated.
He stepped closer. "It's a symbol. People believe symbols. You want them to believe we're real, don't you?"
Her breath caught.
He opened the box. A diamond—oval cut, clean, elegant. Not flashy. Just… intentional.
He took her hand.
Paused.
Then slid it on.
"Three months," he said again like a vow.
She stared at her hand, heart thudding. And for the first time since Jason's betrayal… she felt seen. Maybe not safe...maybe not healed but visible,important,mostly...alive.
That night, Arielle sat alone in her new suite...no longer the hotel from the night before, but a private penthouse Leon had arranged. Apparently, she would live here during their arrangement, with full staff access, a driver, and a schedule that read more like a political itinerary than a social one.
She had a charity gala in two days, an Art event next week, a business retreat in the Hamptons next month and certainly, in between rehearsals. Because if she was going to fake love, she had to learn Leon Mikhailov inside and out.
The things he liked, what made him smile,what gave him the dangerous aura he exuded. He had left her a file. Not just about himself but about her.
Everything she'd done in the last five years. Her foundation work, her press features and even her volunteer project in Peru from two summers ago.
How did he find this?
The man had researched her like a chess opponent.
There were two sticky notes on the folder.
One:
"Know me as well as I know you."
The other:
"I won't lie to you. Don't lie to me."
She stared at them until the city lights outside blurred. She didn't know what this was becoming.
But it was no longer just an escape. This was reality, a game....
And she was officially playing.