Chapter 3 The Lie We Wear

The first thing Lena noticed when she opened her eyes wasn't the sunlight.

It was the suit jacket.

Draped over her like a second skin. Midnight blue. Tailored. Damon's.

And it still smelled like him-amber and steel and things that should not make her stomach flutter.

He was gone again.

Like always.

Married but missing.

She sat up slowly, jacket slipping off her shoulder. Her silk nightdress clung like regret. Her side of the bed rumpled. His, untouched-except for the faintest imprint of his back, where he must have sat watching her before sleep stole him.

Or before something else pulled him away.

There were no footsteps. No notes. Only absence.

And Lena hated that she noticed.

---

Downstairs, the penthouse was bathed in that filtered London glow-half grey, half gold. Rain was threatening the sky, but the city below moved as if love and weather didn't exist.

Damon stood by the window with a phone to his ear, speaking in the clipped tones of a man who'd never begged for anything in his life.

"No. Move the meeting up. I don't care if they're flying in from Geneva."

A pause.

"Tell them my wife and I have dinner plans."

He turned slightly. Saw her. Didn't smile.

The call ended.

She folded her arms. "I didn't know we had plans."

"We do now."

---

The restaurant was the kind of place people booked three months in advance and still dressed like they were meeting royalty. Every corner whispered wealth. Every table glimmered with curated perfection.

And yet, all Lena could focus on was the way Damon pulled her chair out before sitting down.

The gesture shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

"Careful," she murmured. "You're acting like a gentleman."

He adjusted his cufflinks. "Try not to look so surprised."

Their menus arrived. Then wine. Then silence.

It wasn't awkward.

It was loaded.

Finally, he asked, "What are people saying?"

She blinked. "About us?"

"About the marriage."

Lena leaned back. "Well, according to Harper's Daily, I 'traded ambition for a billionaire in a tux'... and PageSix says your 'cold heart was melted by the PR-perfect Whitmore daughter.'"

He hummed. "That's generous. My heart remains unmelted."

"I'm sure," she said coolly, sipping her wine. "But keep playing nice, and they might just crown us Couple of the Year."

"And what would you get from that, Lena?"

She met his eyes. Calm. Calculated. "An image. Power. Maybe a headline that doesn't reduce me to a punchline."

He studied her for a long beat.

Then he said it.

"You used to mock me."

The words hung there.

Sharp. Uninvited.

Lena blinked. "Excuse me?"

"In interviews. At panels. You called my company a soulless tech cult."

She laughed-too fast. "Oh, that. Please, I mock a lot of billionaires. You were just alphabetically convenient."

"You said I was a machine in a man's suit."

"Well," she sipped, "were you offended... or flattered?"

Neither of them smiled.

His voice lowered. "What I don't understand is... if you hated me so much, why agree to marry me?"

Lena tilted her head. Her eyes shimmered like glass, but her smile was velvet-wrapped armor.

"Because you asked."

---

Back at the penthouse, he poured scotch. She peeled off her earrings.

There was no music. Just the quiet hum of unsaid things.

He leaned against the bar. "There's a gala next week. My father's memorial fundraiser."

She paused. "You want me there?"

"I need you there."

She turned to face him fully. "Then you'll owe me."

Damon walked toward her slowly. "I always pay my debts."

"Do you?" she asked, voice soft.

They stood inches apart now. Breaths almost touching.

The air was different. Not cold. Not heated.

Tense.

Deliberate.

His fingers reached up to touch a strand of her hair.

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

"Why did you mock me?" he asked again, but this time... it wasn't for the cameras.

Lena's throat tightened.

"Because," she whispered, "you were the one man I couldn't control."

---

That night, she dreamt of water and glass.

Of his hands on her waist-not as a performance, but as a question.

Of headlines that said too much.

Of headlines that didn't say enough.

And when she woke up-

She was in his arms.

His breath at her neck.

One hand curled around her wrist.

As if even in sleep...

He couldn't let her go.

---