Chapter 3 CH. 3

Luc's driver, a stoic man who seems impervious to awkward silences, starts the car. I sit in the backseat beside Luc, fidgeting with my phone. The silence between us is thick, not quite uncomfortable, but not exactly warm either. I sneak a glance at him. He's scrolling through his own phone, his jaw set in a way that screams I have important billionaire things to do.

Maybe I should say something. Thank him for the ride? No, that's lame. Bring up the whole fake girlfriend thing again? Also lame.

"Here," he says suddenly, his voice startling in the quiet. He hands me a business card with his number written in precise, clean handwriting.

I stare at it for a second before taking it. "Fancy. Do all your fake girlfriends get a card?"

He doesn't look up, but I catch the faintest smirk. "You're the first."

I don't know why that makes my stomach flip, but I shove the feeling down. "Wow, what an honor. Do I get a trophy or something too?"

"Only if you survive the press." He finally looks at me, his gaze steady. "Call me if they bother you, or if you have any questions about... this arrangement."

"This arrangement," I echo, slipping the card into my purse. It feels weirdly transactional, but then again, that's exactly what this is.

The car ride continues in silence, but my brain refuses to cooperate. Instead, it's a riot of thoughts, each louder and more obnoxious than the last.

What are the perks of being Lucian Caldera's girlfriend? Fancy restaurants? Designer clothes? The kind of lifestyle I've only ever seen on TV? My inner realist scoffs at the idea, but another, quieter voice whispers something more insidious: Maybe this is your chance to turn your life around.

For years, I've dreamed of opening my own restaurant in New York. A cozy little place with dim lighting, good food, and better wine. But dreams like that need money-money I've never had.

I glance at the card in my purse again, the weight of it suddenly heavier. Lucian must have made this offer thinking I'd refuse, expecting me to be like the girls in movies who spout some nonsense about pride and independence. But I'm not one of those girls.

I need help. And I'm not too proud to take it.

The car pulls up to my house, modest and worn but cozy enough. I share it with Violet, and though it's far from glamorous, it's home.

Luc glances at the house, his face unreadable. "This it?"

"Yep," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride, boss."

"Boss?" he repeats, one brow arching.

I grin. "Well, you're calling the shots now, aren't you?"

He shakes his head, the faintest hint of amusement softening his features. "Take care, Sera."

"You too, Luc," I reply, deliberately using the nickname.

I step out of the car, his eyes lingering on me for a second before the door shuts and the limo pulls away.

Inside, Violet is listening to music, her playlist alternating between'80s rock and bubblegum pop as she scrubs the kitchen counter. When she spots me, her eyes light up, and she practically sprints over, towel still in hand.

"Oh my God, Sera! Spill! What was it like?" she gushes, grabbing my arms.

"Uh, what was what like?" I ask, playing dumb.

"What was what like?" she parrots mockingly. "You spent the night at Lucian Caldera's, and you're asking me what was what like? Are you serious? I want details. All the juicy ones. Especially about-" She gestures downward with an exaggerated wink.

"Oh my God, Violet," I groan, pushing past her.

"What? It's a valid question!" she argues, trailing after me. "Is he... you know, big?"

I stop and turn to face her, deadpan. "I wouldn't know. I didn't sleep with him."

Her face falls in disappointment, and she throws her towel onto the counter. "Well, that's boring. What were you doing all night then? Playing chess?"

"Not exactly," I say, sitting on the couch. My mind drifts again, thinking of the potential things I could ask for in this arrangement. Money for the restaurant. A nice little startup fund. Maybe even-

"Sera!" Violet snaps, waving her hand in front of my face. "Don't zone out on me. If you didn't sleep with him, what did you do?"

I smirk, leaning back. "I got something better."

Her eyes widen. "Better than sex with Lucian Caldera? Is that even possible?"

"Yep," I say, drawing it out for dramatic effect. I take a deep breath, preparing for the bomb I'm about to drop.

"I'm his girlfriend."

Her jaw literally drops.

"You're what?!" she shrieks, clutching her chest like I've just told her I won the lottery.

"Fake girlfriend," I clarify, though it does little to temper her reaction.

"Fake or not, holy crap, Sera!" she squeals, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "How did this even happen? Oh my God, are you going to get, like, a wardrobe makeover montage? Are there going to be diamonds? Private jets? Tell me everything!"

I laugh, shaking my head at her excitement. "It's not like that. He needs me to keep the press off his back, and... well, let's just say I have a few ideas about what I want out of this deal."

Violet narrows her eyes, leaning in like she's trying to read my mind. "You're scheming, aren't you?"

"Always," I reply with a wink.

But even as I say it, I can't shake the severity of Lucian's offer. This isn't just a game or a scheme. This is my chance. And I'm not going to waste it.

The cab screeches to a stop in front of the Culinary Institute, and I step out, tightening my coat against the morning chill.

--------

The cab screeches to a stop in front of the Culinary Institute, and I step out, tightening my coat against the morning chill. The building looms over me, its sleek glass façade shimmering in the sunlight. Normally, walking in here feels like entering my safe space, but today, something feels... off.

As I stride toward the entrance, I can't shake the sensation of eyes on me. People are staring.

Not quick glances, not polite nods. Staring.

I glance down at myself, tugging at the hem of my sweater. "Is there shit on me?" I mutter, spinning around in an awkward attempt to inspect my back. Nothing. I'm clean.

But the stares don't stop.

I push through the doors, past the coffee cart and the bulletin board plastered with flyers. The whispers start next, hushed murmurs just loud enough to tickle my ears but too quiet to make out.

I catch snippets.

"...seriously her?"

"...couldn't be..."

"...look at her!"

The back of my neck prickles. Anxiety starts to coil in my stomach, but I swallow it down. I can deal with this. It's probably nothing. People are weird.

And then I see her.

Amara Whitmore. The queen bee of my program. The meanest bitch I've met since high school. She's lounging by her locker, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her phone. When she sees me, her lips curve into a cruel smile that sends my stomach plummeting.

"Well, well, if it isn't the escort of the hour," she purrs, loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear.

I freeze mid-step. Slowly, I turn to face her. "I'm sorry, what?"

Her grin widens, and she holds up her phone. The screen lights up with a picture-me and Lucian. From this morning. His hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me away from the paparazzi. The shot is grainy but unmistakable.

My stomach flips. So that's why people were staring.

"You heard me," Amara says, her tone sugary sweet but laced with venom. "What's it like being Lucian Caldera's little plaything? Or is 'escort'the term we're using these days?"

The hallway falls silent. Everyone's watching now, waiting for my reaction.

I take a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. Amara wants a reaction, and I'll be damned if I give her the one she's expecting. "I'm sorry, Amara. Could you repeat that? I don't think I heard you right."

She doesn't falter. If anything, her smile grows sharper. "I said, it must be nice getting paid to pretend you matter. Is that what you're doing now? Selling yourself for a little attention? God, Sera, it's pathetic."

There's a split second where I consider walking away, letting it go. But then I remember how much I hate her smug face and decide, absolutely not.

"You know," I say, taking a deliberate step closer, "not everyone serves their pussy like it's a free sample tray."

A collective gasp echoes through the hallway.

Her smile falters for the first time, but she recovers quickly. "Oh, please. As if you're anything special. You're so desperate for attention, it's embarrassing. Do you really expect us to believe he's your boyfriend?"

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "Why do you care?"

She lets out a sharp laugh, her hand flying to her chest like I've just told the most outrageous joke. "Honey, if Lucian Caldera is your boyfriend, I'll shave my head."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely," she shoots back. "I'll even donate the hair to charity."

"Great." I step to the side, pulling my phone from my pocket. "Start picking a charity."

The crowd watches as I dial Lucian's number, my foot tapping impatiently as it rings. On the third ring, he picks up.

"Lucian speaking," he says, his voice bored, like he's already regretting answering.

"It's Sera," I say briskly. "Your girlfriend."

There's a beat of silence before he responds, and when he does, there's a hint of amusement in his tone. "Girlfriend, is it? Is this the part where you demand diamonds and a yacht?"

"Not quite," I reply. "But I do need a favor, and as your girlfriend, I expect you to deliver."

"Do you now?" He sounds intrigued, the boredom slipping away. "What kind of favor?"

"I need you to come pick me up," I say, glancing over at Amara, who's watching me like a hawk. "In two hours. Bring the car, the whole billionaire vibe. You know the drill."

There's a pause, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he says, "I hope this is worth my time, sweetheart. Should I bring a sword for your honor too?"

"Lucian," I hiss.

He sighs, but I can tell he's intrigued. "Send me the address. I'll be there."

"Good," I reply, hanging up before he can say anything else.

I hang up before he can say anything else, slipping the phone into my pocket. Turning back to Amara, I flash a smile that could cut glass. "You might want to book that appointment with your stylist. Clock's ticking."

The hallway erupts in whispers as I brush past her, keeping my steps measured even as my pulse thrums like a drumbeat. My head stays high, my resolve burning brighter with every step.

The game is on. And I play to win.