Chapter 2 THE PENTHOUSE

"You can't wear that."

Ivy looked down at her jeans and sweater-the nicest clothes she owned then back at the woman scrutinizing her with barely concealed horror. Margot Chen, Damien's personal assistant, was a petite Asian woman in her early forties with a sharp black bob and sharper eyes. She'd been waiting in the penthouse lobby when Ivy arrived with her two suitcases and a garbage bag of additional belongings that had made the doorman's eyebrows rise.

"I'm sorry?" Ivy said, exhaustion making her voice flat. It was eight p.m., and she'd spent the day packing her life, moving her mother to Mount Sinai, and trying not to have a complete breakdown.

"The press conference is tomorrow at ten." Margot was already typing on her phone. "Mr. Blackwood is announcing your engagement. You need appropriate clothing. I'm sending up the stylist."

"Tonight?"

"Unless you want to appear on the front page of every major publication looking like-" Margot caught herself, but the damage was done. Like hired help. Like what you are.

Ivy's jaw tightened. "Fine. Send up the stylist."

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse, and Ivy stepped into a different universe. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline. The space was enormous,probably five thousand square feet decorated in sleek minimalism that screamed money so old it didn't need to prove anything. White walls, dark hardwood floors, modern furniture in shades of gray and black. Abstract art that Ivy suspected was legitimate, not prints. Everything perfect, everything cold, everything looking like no one actually lived here.

"Your quarters are this way." Margot's heels clicked across the floor as she led Ivy down a hallway past several closed doors. "This is Mr. Blackwood's private wing." She gestured vaguely. "You won't need to enter it. Your rooms are on the opposite side."

Separate wings. Separate lives. Exactly as Damien had promised.

Margot opened double doors onto a bedroom suite that was larger than Ivy's entire previous apartment. A California king bed with white linens, a sitting area with a view of the park, a walk-in closet currently empty except for a few hangers. An en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub and a shower that looked like it belonged in a spa.

"The stylist will be here in an hour," Margot said. "Dinner will be served at nine in the dining room. Mr. Blackwood expects you to join him."

"Where is he?"

"Working." As if that explained everything. As if Damien Blackwood's world revolved so entirely around his empire that even acquiring a wife was just another item on a to-do list.

After Margot left, Ivy sank onto the bed, her hands shaking. This was real. This was happening. In less than twenty-four hours, the world would know her as Damien Blackwood's fiancée. In two weeks, she'd be his wife.

She pulled out her phone, checking the messages from the hospital. Her mother had been settled into a private room at Mount Sinai. The oncologist had already reviewed her case. Treatment would begin Monday morning. Three days away.

Ivy pressed her palm to her stomach, feeling nothing yet, no movement, no sign of the life growing inside her. "We're going to be okay," she whispered. "Your grandmother is going to be okay. That's all that matters."

But she felt like a liar even talking to the baby. Nothing about this was okay.

The stylist arrived in a whirlwind of fabric and judgment. Lydia was a severe woman in her fifties who looked at Ivy the way a sculptor might look at particularly challenging marble. "Well," she said after a long, uncomfortable silence. "We have our work cut out for us."

For the next three hours, Ivy was transformed. Lydia brought racks of designer clothing:Dior, Chanel, Valentino, names Ivy recognized from magazines she'd flipped through in waiting rooms. Day wear, evening wear, cocktail dresses, and business casual. Shoes that cost more than she'd made in a month. Lingerie that made her blush, though Lydia assured her it was for appearances-Mr. Blackwood's bedroom eyes only, naturally.

Naturally. As if this were a real marriage. As if Damien would ever look at her with anything approaching desire.

Ivy thought of that moment in his office when their fingers had touched, the unexpected jolt of electricity. She shoved the memory away. That was her exhausted brain playing tricks. Damien Blackwood looked at her like she was a particularly useful spreadsheet, nothing more.

"For tomorrow," Lydia said, pulling out an ivory sheath dress, simple but elegant, with a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. "Sophisticated. Appropriate. It says 'worthy of a Blackwood' without trying too hard." She held up nude Louboutin pumps. "With these. And minimal jewelry-Mr. Blackwood's assistant will provide the engagement ring in the morning."

"I don't get a say in my own engagement ring?"

Lydia looked at her like she'd suggested showing up naked. "Mr. Blackwood has a family ring. It's expected."

Of course he did. Everything about this was expected, predetermined, a script Ivy was just learning her lines for.

At nine sharp, Margot reappeared to escort Ivy to dinner. The dining room was all dark wood and dimmed lighting, a table that could seat twelve currently set for two at one end. Damien sat at the head, still in his suit from that morning, though he'd loosened his tie. He was reading something on his tablet, and he didn't look up when Ivy entered.

She stood awkwardly until Margot cleared her throat. Damien glanced up, his eyes sweeping over her with the same emotion he might give a quarterly report. "Sit."

Ivy sat at the place set to his right, her spine rigid. A staff member she hadn't met-a middle-aged woman in a black uniform-immediately appeared with the first course. Some kind of soup with foam on top, the kind of food that was more art than sustenance.

They ate in silence. Ivy was acutely aware of every sound:her spoon against the bowl, her breathing, the faint classical music playing from hidden speakers. Damien continued reading his tablet between bites, as if she weren't there at all.

"Are we going to discuss tomorrow?" Ivy finally asked, her voice too loud in the quiet room.

Damien set down his spoon with deliberate precision. "The press conference begins at ten. We'll arrive together, unified front. I'll make a brief statement announcing our engagement. You'll smile, say nothing, and look appropriately smitten. There will be a photo opportunity. Then we'll leave. Margot has briefed you on the details?"

"She mentioned a stylist."

"Good." He picked up his tablet again. "Don't deviate from the script. Don't answer questions. The less you say, the better."

Anger flared in Ivy's chest. "I'm not an idiot, Mr. Blackwood. I understand how to play a part."

His eyes snapped to hers, and for the first time since she'd entered, she had his full attention. "Do you, Miss Monroe?" The question was soft but laced with challenge. "Because playing a part in private is very different from playing one in front of the entire world. Tomorrow, you become a public figure. Every word you say, every expression on your face, every outfit you wear will be analyzed and judged. You'll be compared to every woman I've ever been seen with, especially Serena. The press will dig into your background, looking for scandal. One mistake, one slip, and this entire arrangement falls apart."

"I know about scrutiny," Ivy said quietly. "I know what it's like to have your life destroyed in public."

Something flickered in Damien's expression-curiosity, maybe, or recognition. "Your father."

"Yes." She met his gaze steadily. "So don't lecture me about playing parts, Mr. Blackwood. I've been playing one for five years."

The silence stretched between them, charged with an intensity Ivy didn't understand. Then Damien nodded once, almost respectfully. "Fair enough." He returned to his tablet, but there was something different in the air now, a grudging acknowledgment.

They finished dinner in silence, but it felt less hostile, more... aware. Ivy caught herself watching him-the way his jaw tightened when he read something displeasing, the elegant brutality of his hands, the sheer physical presence he commanded even sitting still. He was attractive in a way that felt dangerous, like admiring a caged predator and forgetting it could kill you.

"You'll need to call me Damien in public," he said as dessert arrived,something chocolate and architectural. "We're engaged. Formality will seem strange."

"And in private?"

"Whatever you prefer." He didn't look up. "We won't be spending enough time together for it to matter."

The dismissal stung more than it should have. Ivy forced herself to eat the dessert, which tasted like ash in her mouth despite probably costing more than she'd earned in a week of housekeeping.

When dinner ended, Damien stood. "I have work to finish. Margot will brief you on tomorrow's schedule at eight a.m. Be ready by nine-thirty."

"That's it? No preparation? No discussion about our story?"

"Our story is simple." Damien's voice was clipped, efficient. "We met at a charity event three months ago. I was struck by your intelligence and grace. We've been seeing each other privately, keeping the relationship quiet until we were certain. The baby was a surprise but a welcome one. We're deeply in love." The last words were delivered with such clinical detachment they could have been a weather report. "Memorize it. Believe it. Live it."

He left without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hallway to his private wing. Ivy sat alone in the cavernous dining room, surrounded by abstract art and uncomfortable silence, trying not to feel like she'd just been dismissed by her employer.

Which, technically, she had been.

She couldn't sleep. At two a.m., Ivy gave up trying and wandered out of her bedroom, drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glittering expanse of Manhattan below. The city never truly slept-even at this hour, lights blazed in towers full of people chasing their own desperate dreams.

"Can't sleep either?"

Ivy spun around. Damien stood in the shadows near the hallway, wearing black pajama pants and nothing else. Her breath caught. Without the armor of his suit, he was somehow more devastating-lean muscle and hard edges, a body that spoke of disciplined hours in a private gym. A scar ran along his left ribcage, white against tanned skin.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she managed.

"You didn't." He moved into the moonlight streaming through the windows, and Ivy saw the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Scotch, probably. Something expensive and old. "I rarely sleep well."

"Bad conscience?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Damien's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Something like that." He studied her, and Ivy was suddenly aware that she wore only the silk nightgown Lydia had insisted she needed-cream-colored, modest by lingerie standards but still intimate. "You're nervous about tomorrow."

"Aren't you?"

"No." He moved to the windows, standing a few feet from her, both of them staring out at the conquered city. "I've been preparing for this my entire life. Public scrutiny, media manipulation, maintaining an image. It's second nature."

"Must be lonely," Ivy said quietly. "Never being yourself."

Damien looked at her sharply, and she saw something crack in that controlled facade-surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Who says there's a self beneath the image? Maybe the performance is all there is."

"I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm the same," Ivy admitted. "I've been someone else for so long, sometimes I forget who I was before. But she's still there, underneath. Buried, maybe. Broken. But there."

The silence between them felt heavy with things unsaid. Damien took a long drink, his throat working, and Ivy found herself watching the movement, fascinated despite herself.

"Serena used to say I had no heart," he said finally, his voice distant. "That I was a machine in a suit. She said it was like loving a ghost;I was there, physically present, but emotionally absent. That's why she left. Or one of the reasons."

Ivy heard the pain beneath the clinical words, carefully hidden but there nonetheless. "How long were you together?"

"Five years. We were engaged for one before she called it off." Damien's jaw tightened. "Three days before the wedding, actually. She sent a text. 'I can't marry someone who doesn't know how to feel.' Then she was photographed in St. Barts with Marcus, my former best friend and COO. They're married now. He runs a competing hedge fund."

"Jesus," Ivy breathed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Damien's voice hardened. "She was right. I don't know how to feel, not the way normal people do. I know strategy and transactions and how to win. Emotions are liabilities. Weaknesses to exploit."

"Is that why you chose this arrangement? A marriage without feelings?"

"Exactly why." He turned to face her fully, and the moonlight cast his features in sharp relief-beautiful and brutal. "I won't be betrayed again. I won't trust someone enough to give them that power. This way, we both know where we stand. Clean. Honest. Safe."

But Ivy saw the lie in his words. There was nothing safe about standing here with him in the darkness, the air between them charged with something neither acknowledged. Nothing clean about the way her body responded to his presence, aware of every inch of distance separating them.

"What about you?" Damien asked. "Why did you really run five years ago? It wasn't just your father's crimes."

Ivy's hands clenched. She'd never told anyone the whole truth. But something about the darkness, the late hour, the strange intimacy of this moment made the words spill out.

"There was a boy," she said. "Reese Winters. We'd been together since high school-first love, you know? Planning to get married after college. His family was society-old money, impeccable connections. My father was a congressman, respected. We seemed perfect together." She laughed bitterly. "When the scandal broke, when the evidence of my father's embezzlement became public, Reese's family held a press conference. They denounced my entire family as frauds and criminals. Reese stood beside his mother and said... he said being with me was the biggest mistake of his life. That he'd been trying to end things for months but I'd been too pathetic and clingy to let him go."

"He was lying," Damien said flatly.

"Of course he was lying." Ivy's voice cracked. "But it didn't matter. The damage was done. I became the gold-digging daughter of a criminal, desperately clinging to my social-climbing relationship. Columbia withdrew my scholarship. My friends vanished. I got death threats. And Reese got engaged to someone more 'appropriate' three months later."

"His sister," Damien said slowly. "Serena Winters. Reese is Marcus's brother-in-law."

Ivy's head snapped up. She'd known the name Winters had sounded familiar, but she'd been too overwhelmed by everything to make the connection. "Your ex-fiancée is-"

"The sister of the man who destroyed your reputation. Yes." Damien's expression had gone cold, calculating. "Small world, Manhattan society. Everyone connected, everyone with secrets."

"Does she know? About me?"

"I doubt it. You changed your name, disappeared. And Serena doesn't pay attention to people she considers beneath her." His voice held contempt. "But if she finds out, she'll use it. She's been trying to convince me to reconcile ever since the will reading made my marriage requirement public."

Ivy felt sick. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Not if we control the narrative." Damien moved closer, and Ivy's breath caught. He was inches away now, close enough that she could smell his cologne,something expensive and masculine, cedar and smoke. "Listen to me, Ivy. Tomorrow, we present a united front. We sell the fairy tale. Poor girl meets ruthless CEO, he falls for her because of her humble circumstances. It's a story people want to believe. Romance, transformation, love conquering social boundaries. Give them that."

"And what do we do when they dig into my past and discover I'm not a poor girl at all? That I'm the disgraced Ivy Sutton?"

"Then we control that narrative too." Damien's hand came up, and for a shocking moment, Ivy thought he might touch her face. Instead, he gripped the window frame beside her, effectively caging her against the glass. "We say you rebuilt yourself through determination and hard work. That you chose integrity over your father's corruption. That you're a survivor, not a victim. We turn your past into an asset, proof of your character."

His body heat radiated between them. Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs, and she wasn't sure if it was fear or something far more dangerous. This close, she could see flecks of blue in his gray eyes, could trace the hard line of his jaw, could feel the leashed power in his frame.

"You've thought about this," she whispered.

"I think about everything." His gaze dropped to her mouth for just a second, so fast she might have imagined it. Then he pushed away, putting distance between them, and the moment shattered. "Get some sleep, Ivy. Tomorrow, we change both our lives."

He disappeared down the hallway to his wing, leaving her alone with her racing heart and the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, this arrangement was more complicated than a simple business transaction.

Because the way Damien had looked at her just now;cold and calculating, yes, but something else underneath, something hungry-suggested that keeping emotions out of this marriage might be harder than either of them anticipated.

The press conference was a circus.

Ivy stood beside Damien on a small platform in the lobby of Blackwood Industries, camera flashes exploding like a strobe light, reporters shouting questions over each other. She wore the ivory dress Lydia had chosen, her hair styled in loose waves, minimal makeup that made her look fresh and natural. On her left hand, a stunning emerald-cut diamond caught the light-the Blackwood family ring, five carats of old money and older expectations.

Damien's hand rested on the small of her back, possessive and warm through the thin fabric. He wore a navy suit that made his eyes look more blue than gray, and he faced the crowd with the confidence of a man who owned not just the building but the entire moment.

"Thank you all for coming," Damien's voice cut through the chaos, instantly commanding silence. "I have a brief announcement. Three months ago, I met an extraordinary woman at the Children's Hospital charity gala. Ivy Monroe captured my attention immediately not because of her beauty, though that was undeniable, but because of her compassion, her intelligence, and her dedication to helping others despite her own challenges."

Ivy forced herself to smile adoringly at him, the way a woman in love would. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her waist, a signal that she was doing well.

"We've been seeing each other privately since that night," Damien continued. "Keeping our relationship quiet until we were certain this was real. Ivy has shown me what truly matters in life not just building empires, but building a future with someone who challenges you, grounds you, and makes you want to be better than you are."

The lies rolled off his tongue with perfect sincerity. Ivy wondered if anything he said was ever entirely true, or if his whole life was performance.

"Last week, I asked Ivy to marry me. She's agreed to be my wife." Damien smiled:an expression Ivy had never seen on his face before, warm and genuine-looking, completely manufactured. "We're also thrilled to announce that we're expecting our first child. We couldn't be happier."

The crowd erupted. Questions flew like bullets.

"Ivy, how does it feel to be engaged to one of New York's most eligible bachelors?"

"Mr. Blackwood, was this a response to your grandmother's will requirements?"

"When's the wedding?"

"How far along is the pregnancy?"

"What does Serena Winters think about this?"

Damien raised his hand, and silence fell again. His control was absolute. "We'll be married in a private ceremony two weeks from today. As for the rest-my personal life is exactly that. Personal. Ivy and I request privacy as we begin this journey together. Thank you."

He started to guide Ivy off the platform, but one reporter's voice cut through: "Miss Monroe, what was it like working as a housekeeper? Is it true you were employed by the Morrison family until recently?"

Ivy froze. Damien's hand tightened warningly on her waist, but she could feel the energy shift in the room. Blood in the water. The sharks circling.

She turned back to the microphones, ignoring Damien's sharp intake of breath. "Yes, I worked as a housekeeper," she said clearly. "I've worked several jobs to support my mother through her cancer treatment. I'm not ashamed of honest work." She looked directly at the reporter. "I'm proud of the woman I've become through those experiences. They taught me the value of hard work, humility, and gratitude;lessons I'll carry into my marriage and my future role as a mother."

The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then the cameras went crazy, flashes intensifying, reporters shouting follow-ups. But Damien was already moving, his hand firm on her back as he steered her toward the waiting elevator, security keeping the press at bay.

The elevator doors closed on the chaos. Damien rounded on her immediately.

"What the hell was that?" His voice was low, dangerous. "I told you not to answer questions."

"They already knew," Ivy shot back. "About my work, about the Morrisons. Ignoring it would have made it look shameful. At least now we control the narrative,exactly like you said."

"I control the narrative," Damien corrected coldly. "You follow the script. That's the arrangement."

"The arrangement is that I play your wife convincingly," Ivy said, her own temper rising. "A real wife wouldn't just smile mutely while reporters imply she's a gold digger. She'd defend herself. That's what I did."

They stared at each other, the small elevator space suddenly suffocating. Damien's jaw was tight, his eyes furious, but there was something else there too-a flicker of what might have been respect, quickly suppressed.

"You took a risk," he said finally.

"Yes."

"It could have backfired."

"But it didn't."

The elevator opened onto the penthouse. Damien strode out, pulling his phone from his pocket. Margot appeared instantly, tablet in hand.

"Initial responses?" Damien asked.

"Mixed but trending positive," Margot reported, scrolling rapidly. "Social media likes the Cinderella angle. 'Billionaire falls for honest working woman' is playing well. Several think pieces already being drafted about class and modern romance. TMZ called it 'surprisingly authentic.' The Atlantic wants an exclusive interview-"

"No interviews," Damien said sharply. "Monitor the coverage. Let me know if anything problematic surfaces. And find out who leaked Ivy's employment history."

Margot nodded and disappeared. Damien turned back to Ivy, his expression unreadable. "You should rest. Tomorrow we meet with the wedding planner. The following day, you'll visit your mother-accompanied by me. Public appearances of family devotion."

"You're going to meet my mother?" Ivy hadn't expected that.

"We're engaged. It's expected." Damien loosened his tie. "Besides, the optics are good-devoted fiancé, caring about his bride's sick mother. It reinforces the love story."

Everything was strategy with him. Every move calculated. Ivy wondered if he'd ever done anything spontaneous in his life.

"What if she asks questions?" Ivy said. "My mother isn't stupid. She'll know something's off."

"Then convince her otherwise." Damien's voice was flat. "That's what you're being paid for."

The words stung like a slap. Ivy's hands clenched at her sides. "Right. Of course. Silly of me to think you might actually care about meeting the woman who raised me."

"Caring is irrelevant," Damien said coldly. "We have a job to do. Do yours, and I'll do mine."

He walked away, leaving Ivy alone in the vast, empty space of the penthouse. She looked down at the massive diamond on her finger, catching the light, beautiful and hollow.

This was her life now. This was the choice she'd made.

And somehow, she had to survive it for twelve more months.