Chapter 7 How To Win The Law

Ciara's POV

The office was too quiet.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of his office emits the room in cool, late-afternoon light. Luckily, he gave me food which made up for the fact that I did not eat anything for my breakfast.

The skyline was a blurry silhouette of gold and gray, and his desk sat like an altar between us. He leaned back in his leather chair, jacket off, tie loose, sleeves rolled.

I was perched on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, feeling slightly ridiculous in this still-too-fancy dress and absolutely illegal lingerie underneath it. I was also gripping a file folder labeled "Migration Interview Prep."

Romantic, really.

Lysander glanced at the file. "You ready?"

"I think so," I said, biting my lip. "You probably don't need to answer anything. I know your bio by heart. Every damn interview, article, Wikipedia edit, charity gala... trust me. I did my homework long before this fake ring landed on my finger."

He gave a slow, knowing smirk. "Obsessed?"

"Prepared," I corrected, not looking at him. "There's a difference."

"After all, I need to know every single damn detail about my boss, right? I wouldn't be working for a weirdo." I laughed just by the thought of it.

A beat passed. Then he said, softer, "Alright. Let's hear it."

So I took a breath.

"My name is Ciara Dela Cruz. I'm twenty-five. Height, five-five without heels-though right now I feel like five-one with all the nerves I've got in my stomach." I gave a breathy laugh, then pushed on. "I was born in Lyon, France. Never knew my parents. I was left at the steps of an old cathedral with a note, and that was it."

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't interrupt. His attention was quiet and steady-something that, strangely, made it easier to keep going.

"I grew up in Sainte-Marie orphanage. It's run by the sweetest, most stubborn nun you'll ever meet. Sister Kate. She practically raised me. If I have anyone I could ever call family, it's her." My fingers twisted around the hem of my dress. "She's the kind of person who calls me on my birthday at midnight exactly, every year, just to say she loves me in two languages."

Lysander was still. Listening.

"I moved to the U.S. when I was eighteen," I continued. "Got a student visa. Studied business at a community college in New Jersey. Transferred, worked my butt off. Took night shifts. Applied for every internship that would give me coffee money. Then I got hired here."

I looked up. "You probably didn't even notice me until I got promoted."

He didn't deny it.

"I never dated. Not seriously. No first love to cry about. No broken heart stories. Just work, study, survive." My voice dropped. "I guess I didn't have the luxury to be anyone's something when I barely felt like I was even someone."

His eyes narrowed slightly-not cold, but curious.

"Oh," I added with a wince, "this part is weird, but if they ask me about scars or marks, there's a red mole on the side of my right boob. Unique. You probably didn't need to know that."

"I probably did," he said, his tone unreadable.

I glared. "Don't get smug."

He held up his hands, mock surrender. "Just saying. It might come up."

I blew out a breath and leaned back on the couch, exhausted. "That's me. In a nutshell. A tired, overworked French orphan with a fake ring and expensive underwear I didn't ask for."

Silence stretched. Not awkward. I just want to humor it all down since I don't know what else to say.

Then Lysander stood, slowly walking around his desk until he was beside me. He didn't sit. Just looked down at me with an expression I couldn't quite name.

"You think you're no one," he murmured. "But you're the only one who's ever made me do something this insane."

I looked up at him, heart knocking against my ribs. "What, marriage?"

"No." He leaned down slightly. "Trust."

The air thickened.

I forced myself to laugh, awkward and breathless. "God, Lysander. That was almost romantic. You okay? Need a glass of water?"

He smirked and took the file from my lap. "We'll survive the interview. You're a better actress than I expected."

"I'm not acting," I muttered. "I'm just trying not to puke."

"You're doing a hell of a job."

As he walked back to his desk, I watched him with narrowed eyes.

This man. My boss. My fake fiancé. The most infuriating, unreadable billionaire I'd ever met.

And somehow, the one person who made me feel like maybe I was more than just a file in someone's drawer.

"Don't you want to see how much I know about you?" I leaned over the table as I made an eye contact with him.

"Why aren't you asking me about you?"

Lysander didn't look up. "Because I already know me."

"Well, I know you too," I said, smirking. "Better than you think."

That made him glance up. Sharp blue eyes. "Is that so?"

I leaned back in my chair, smug. "Test me."

A pause.

Then Lysander dropped the pen and crossed his arms. "Alright, Ms. Dela Cruz. What's my height?"

I didn't even blink. "Six foot six. You're basically a damn tree."

His brows lifted in faint amusement. "Eye color?"

I tilted my head. "Trick question. Everyone says blue, but that's just what shows under artificial light. In sunlight, they shift to green-and when you're really tired or pissed, they look brown."

That earned a slow, impressed nod.

"Favorite sport?" he asked.

"Archery," I said instantly. "And don't even pretend that gold Olympic trophy in your third-floor penthouse doesn't exist. 2016, Rio. You hit the final bullseye like a dramatic bastard."

He blinked.

"Oh, and your form?" I grinned. "Textbook. Left foot forward, back straight, exhale before the release. You practice every Sunday morning on your rooftop. The one with the glass rails."

He stared.

"Pork stew," I added before he could speak. "With actual pork fat in it. None of that lean crap. You hate when chefs try to make it healthy. You nearly fired the chef at the Hilton gala last year because he used-what was it-almond milk?"

He blinked again. "You were at that gala?"

"I wasn't." I smirked. "But I read the gossip column, and you did fire him. Quietly."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Favorite book?"

I tilted my head. "You pretend to love Kafka, but I've seen the dog-eared copy of The Little Prince in your drawer. French edition. First print."

His mouth parted slightly.

"Don't look so shocked," I said, crossing my arms. "You're not hard to read when people bother to actually look."

He slowly stood and walked over to me, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"You've been watching me," he murmured, voice low.

"Observing," I corrected.

"Same thing."

"No," I said. "One is creepy. The other is survival when you work under someone like you."

A slow, almost dangerous smile played on his lips. "Anything else you know, Secretary Dela Cruz?"

I stood too. Met him eye to eye, or, well, eye to collarbone, because this man was annoyingly tall.

"I know you don't sleep unless it's after 2 a.m.," I whispered. "That your left wrist has a scar from breaking it when you were thirteen-skating accident, wasn't it? And that you wear two different brands of cologne depending on the meeting. One for clients. One for people you want to manipulate."

He blinked, not smiling anymore. "Which one are you wearing now?"

I stepped closer. "You tell me."

Silence fell like gravity between us.

Then Lysander exhaled slowly, a sound like a fuse burning low.

"You're dangerous," he said.

"You have no idea," I murmured.

Another beat passed.

Then he turned, sharp and sudden, grabbing the pen again.

"Tomorrow," he said, voice clipped. "Mock interview. I'm going to make it hell."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

"And wear something less...distracting."

"No promises." I laughed. "Unless you'd buy me another lavish seductive dress, Mr. Eryx."