Chapter 2 CH. 2

The elevator doors slide shut, trapping us together in a glass box that feels too small for the weight of his presence.

The mirrored walls throw our reflections back at us-a study in contrasts. He stands composed, his sharp suit unmarred by the chaos of the night. Meanwhile, I'm leaning against the back wall, my smirk carefully in place to mask the fact that my heart is racing.

Lucian-or Luc, as I've christened him in my head-has his hands casually in his pockets, the picture of effortless control. His eyes flick to mine in the glass, a subtle acknowledgment of my presence that feels heavier than it should.

"What's it like?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He doesn't turn, but his reflection shifts, a brow lifting slightly. "What's what like?"

I tip my head back against the mirrored wall, the champagne making me bold. "Being you. All the power, the money. The headlines calling you a soulless genius."

His mouth twitches at the edge-close to a smirk, but not quite. "You tell me. You seem to have me figured out already."

"Hmm." I tap my chin, pretending to deliberate. "If I had to guess? Exhausting."

That word lands, heavier than I expect. Lucian exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping momentarily. "Astute."

The way he said it-a single word loaded with something I couldn't quite place-sent a ripple down my spine.

I cover it with a grin. "Well, if it's so hard being the villain, you could always soften your image. Rescue puppies, feed the pigeons in Central Park-good PR, you know?"

"Puppies?" He finally looks at me, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "That's your solution?"

I shrug, playing along. "Everyone needs someone to believe they're not as terrible as they think they are. Even you."

He steps closer, the soft whir of the elevator the only sound between us and I swear the elevator gets smaller. "And what makes you think I need saving?" His voice is the kind that hums along your skin and makes it impossible to breathe evenly.

I force myself to hold his eyes, though his intensity threatens to unravel me. "Because no one looks that put-together without a storm underneath."

His head tilts, and for a fraction of a second, something unguarded flickers in his expression. "Interesting theory."

The elevator shudders to a halt, and the doors slide open, breaking the spell. He gestures toward the hallway with a sweep of his hand. "After you."

My legs feel like they might betray me, but I manage to saunter past him with my pride intact.

Luc lingers at the door as it clicks shut, his presence as commanding as the cityscape behind him. "Do you always analyze strangers in elevators?"

"Only the ones who look like they eat stock markets for breakfast," I reply.

"Careful," he says, "You're starting to sound curious."

I spin to face him, my grin sharpening. "Curious is harmless."

"Not always," he counters, stepping closer.

My breath catches as he tilts his head, his eyes searching mine. "What now, Sera?" he asks, his voice deep enough to make my knees weak.

The question hangs there, daring me to answer. And for once, I don't have a clever retort.

The penthouse is everything I'd imagined and more: sleek, modern, and unapologetically luxurious. The kind of place you'd see in a magazine spread titled The Height of Opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one wall, framing a dazzling view of the city. Below, the skyline sprawls out like a glittering sea of stars, every light a pulse in the heart of Manhattan.

"This is... excessive," I say, spinning slowly to take it all in. My flats click against the polished marble floor, the sound impossibly loud in the hush of the space. I wander farther in, fingers brushing the sleek marble counters as if touching them might ground me. But it doesn't. Everything about this place feels unreal, like stepping into someone else's fantasy life.

Luc closes the door behind us with a soft snick. "Should I apologize for being successful?" His question carries the faintest edge of amusement, like he's enjoying my awe.

"Only if you're actually sorry," I counter, glancing back at him. He's leaning casually against the door, but there's nothing casual about the way his eyes track me, every move I make measured and cataloged.

His lips curve, just slightly. "Not even a little."

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the space-or lack thereof-between us as he pushes off the door and crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps. The teasing banter dissolves into something heavier, thickening like a storm about to break. My head swims, and I can't tell if it's from the alcohol, the altitude, or him.

"Sera," he says softly, his ocean blue eyes catching mine and holding them like a vice. There's something in his gaze-magnetic, almost dangerous-and I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something I can't name.

This world-his world-feels as untouchable as he does. Yet here I am, a mess of nerves and champagne, pretending I belong.

"Luc," I manage, though the word feels fragile, like it might shatter if I breathe too hard.

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek, and my breath hitches. He's so close now I can feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the faintest scent of his cologne-smoky, rich, and devastatingly intoxicating.

The world narrows to just him. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and silver behind him, distant and irrelevant. His eyes search mine, dark and unyielding, as though he's trying to find something buried deep within me.

And then he leans in.

His lips hover a whisper away from mine, his breath ghosting over my skin. Time slows, every heartbeat reverberating in my chest like thunder.

But before the moment can break, before the distance can close, the world tilts, his hand catching my arm just as the darkness pulls me under. Somewhere, I hear him curse-a low, sharp sound that feels like a promise.

-------

The morning light hits me like an interrogation lamp. I groan, shielding my eyes as a headache pulses through my skull. The bed is too big, too pristine, and smells like cedar and... Lucian.

Oh no.

Memories of last night flicker: the bar, the game, his face close to mine, his lips almost-

I sit up, shaking the thoughts away. What did I do?

Sliding out of bed, I wince at the chill of the hardwood floor. The room is sleek and impersonal, like its owner. My eyes land on a bottle of water and two painkillers neatly placed on the nightstand. Thoughtful-or a routine?

"Good morning."

I jump at the sound of his voice. Lucian stands in the doorway, impeccably dressed in gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, his expression unreadable. This isn't the teasing man from last night. This is the infamous Lucian Caldera-cold, composed, untouchable.

"Morning," I reply, forcing myself to sound normal.

"You should hydrate," he says, already turning toward the kitchen.

I follow, clutching the bottle. The kitchen is just as intimidating as the rest of his penthouse, all sharp lines and cold steel. Lucian is at the counter, typing on his phone with the precision of someone conducting a hostile takeover.

"So, about last night..." I start hesitantly.

"Nothing happened," he says, his tone clipped.

"Right." I exhale, relieved and slightly deflated. "That's good. I mean, not that it would've been bad, but-"

He glances up, one brow arched. "Do you always ramble in the morning?"

"Do you always wake up like a corporate assassin?" I counter, crossing my arms.

His lips twitch, almost forming a smirk, but it's gone in an instant. "You're welcome to leave whenever you're ready."

"Wow." I laugh dryly. "You sure know how to make a girl feel special."

His fingers pause on his phone, his jaw tightening. "Sera, let's not complicate this."

"Complicate what? Nothing happened, remember? Just two adults who had a fun night and an awkward morning."

"Exactly." His voice is cool, final. "Let's keep it simple."

The words feel colder than they should. This isn't the man who laughed with me last night. This is someone else entirely.

"You really are two different people, aren't you?" I say, shaking my head.

He doesn't answer, his focus back on his phone.

"The guy from last night-that guy was fun. This guy? Insufferable."

"I don't do'fun,'" he replies flatly.

"No kidding." I lean against the counter. "Let me guess: all business, no distractions, billionaire cliché?"

"Are you done?" His tone is sharp, but there's a crack in his composure-barely visible, but there.

I grin. "Not yet. You're not as scary as you think, you know."

"Noted." He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

For a second, the tension shifts, softens. It's almost like I see the man from last night again, but then he straightens, the moment gone.

"I'll have my driver take you home," he says.

"Don't bother." I head for the door, tossing a cheeky smile over my shoulder. "Thanks for the hospitality, Luc."

His eyes narrow at the nickname, but he says quietly, "Take care of yourself, Sera."

"Always do."

I step out of Luc's penthouse, my head pounding and my stomach pleading for coffee and carbs. The hallway is eerily quiet, pristine in a way that makes me feel like even breathing too loud might break something.

Then it happens.

The first camera flash nearly blinds me.

"Can you tell us your name, Ms.?"

"What's your relationship with Lucian Caldera?"

"Are you his new girlfriend?"

The voices come in rapid-fire, overlapping and drilling into my skull. My pulse spikes, and I freeze mid-step, staring at the sea of cameras and microphones like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding semi-truck.

"Uh-" I stammer, my throat suddenly dry. My eyes dart around, searching for an escape route, but there's no end to the wall of people surrounding me.

"Miss, over here! Just one comment!"

"Lucian! Is this your new flame?"

"What were you doing in his penthouse?"

I try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, "I-"

The flashes come faster, the questions sharper. My stomach twists with a mix of panic and disbelief. How did they even know I was here? Do they camp outside his place like vultures? Who lives like this?

"Move," a low, commanding voice cuts through the chaos, and suddenly, Luc is there.

His hand clamps around my wrist-not painfully, but firm enough to ground me. My heart stutters, but I don't have time to process it. He's pulling me forward with a single-minded determination, carving a path through the throng like Moses parting the Red Sea.

"Lucian! Who's the mystery woman?"

"Is she why you left the gala early last night?"

The questions follow us, relentless, but I can barely hear them over the rush of blood in my ears. My hand aches in his grip, but I clutch it like a lifeline. Without him, I'd be swallowed whole.

"Lucian, what the hell-?" I start, but he doesn't answer. His jaw is set, his eyes locked on the elevator ahead like it's the only thing that exists.

The elevator doors slide open just as someone shoves a camera too close. Luc yanks me inside and slams the button to close the doors. A loud thunk echoes as the lens hits the metal, and the last thing I see is the bewildered face of a photographer before the doors seal shut.

Silence. My pulse is deafening in my ears.

"What the hell was that?" I manage, my voice trembling as I whirl on him.

He doesn't answer immediately, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve as though this is just another Tuesday for him. "Paparazzi," he says finally, his tone maddeningly calm.

"No kidding!" I snap, my hands flying to my hips. "Why were they outside your place? Do they live there? Is this some kind of VIP zoo?"

His lips twitch-barely. "I've been told I'm quite the attraction."

I groan, leaning back against the elevator wall. "Seriously? That's your answer? I just got flash-bombed by an army of cameras, and you're cracking jokes?"

His expression softens-just a fraction-as his eyes meet mine. "They won't stop," he says, quieter now. "Not until they get what they want."

"Which is what? A soundbite? A selfie?" I throw my hands up, exasperated. "I didn't ask for this. I don't even like being tagged in group photos!"

For the first time, something like guilt flickers in his gaze, but it's gone before I can latch onto it. "This is my life, Sera. And for better or worse, you're in it now."

I stare at him, my anger simmering under the surface. "Oh, fantastic. Welcome to the circus, starring me as the clueless idiot who thought last night was just a game."

The elevator doors open to a private garage, and before I can process what's happening, Luc is guiding me toward a sleek black limousine. The driver steps out to open the door, and Luc practically shoves me inside.

"Rude much?" I snap as he slides in beside me.

"Would you prefer to go back and explain yourself to the press?" he counters, arching an eyebrow.

I huff, crossing my arms as the limo pulls out of the garage. "Fine. But I want answers. Why are they so interested in you? Do you owe them money or something?"

He lets out a soft chuckle, the first sign of amusement I've seen from him all morning. "Not quite. My name alone is enough to sell headlines."

"Wow, modest too," I mutter.

Luc leans back, his expression turning serious. "They won't stop, Sera. Not until they find out who you are and what you were doing in my penthouse."

"Well, that's just great," I say, throwing my hands up. "So what am I supposed to do? Go into hiding? Change my name?"

"There's only one solution," he says calmly.

I narrow my eyes. "And what's that?"

"We fake date."

"Fake date?" I repeat, my voice laced with incredulity. "You can't be serious."

Lucian's eyes don't waver. "Dead serious."

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. But none comes. Instead, he sits back calmly like he's already decided for me.

"Do you realize how insane that sounds?" I say, throwing my hands up. "This isn't a rom-com."

"No, it's real life," he says, his tone clipped. "And in real life, controlling the narrative is everything."

I cross my arms, trying to process his words. The idea is absurd-fake-dating a man like him? A man I barely know? A man who is infuriatingly handsome and yet emotionally constipated?

And yet...

The thought of facing the paparazzi again sends a shiver down my spine. Their questions, their flashes-it felt like being dissected under a microscope. If agreeing to this charade would make them back off...

No. I can't.

But then I think of my future. If pictures of me stumbling out of Lucian Caldera's penthouse make it to the tabloids, it'll be a PR nightmare. This isn't just about me-it's about my career.

Still, I can't let him see me waver.

"Let's say I agree," I begin cautiously. His brow lifts slightly, a flicker of interest breaking through his stoic mask. "What exactly does this 'arrangement'look like? Dinner dates? Hand-holding? A red carpet kiss?"

"All of the above," he replies smoothly. "Enough to convince them we're serious."

"And when they start digging for wedding plans?" I counter, folding my arms.

"They won't get that far," he says, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "By then, we'll stage a very public breakup."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, great. So I not only get to be your fake girlfriend but also your fake ex. Do I get a script for that, or should I improvise?"

"You're witty. Improvise," he says, his lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smirk.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, shaking my head.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze steady and piercing. "What's more unbelievable is that you're still considering it."

"Who says I am?" I shoot back, my tone sharp.

"You haven't left yet," he says simply.

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. "Think about it. No more photographers harassing you, no invasive questions about last night. And in return, I'll do whatever you want."

The limo goes silent.

"Anything?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

His lips curve into a slow, calculated smile. "Anything within reason."

My arms drop to my sides as I let out a long sigh. This isn't about him, I remind myself. This is about me-not becoming fodder for the tabloids, not letting my entire life be reduced to a cheap headline.

But agreeing to this means tethering myself to him. It means being drawn deeper into his world-a world that's clearly nothing like mine.

"Fine," I say at last, the word heavy on my tongue. "I'll do it."

A flicker of something-relief? satisfaction?-crosses his face before it vanishes.

"Good," he says, his tone as brisk as ever.

"But," I add sharply, holding up a finger. "We're doing this my way. No surprises, no unnecessary drama. And if you ever pull that ice-king routine in public, I'm out. Got it?"

His lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile. "Got it."

And just like that, I realize I've just made a deal with the devil.