Darkly His: The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Twelve days before Christmas, she lay beside him, back against his chest, his arms around her-warm, safe, perfect. Snow fell against the window.

His heart was racing. She felt it.

"Baby, are you okay?" she whispered.

"Yeah." Too fast.

His eyes stayed on the ceiling, jaw tight.

"You vomited. Talk to me."

"I'm fine. Just a fever."

She touched his chest. He caught her hand, then let it fall.

"We should talk-" She began.

"Don't."

"I shouldn't care?"

"I have too much going on."

"About me?"

"No."

But she knew.

The silence hurt.

"Do you still love me? Like you said? " She asked.

He turned to the window, staring at the snow.

****

****

The next night, she went to his off-campus apartment. He was packing.

"You're leaving?"

"Going home for Christmas."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I didn't want reactions."

"I'm your girlfriend."

"You're making this hard. You always want more than I can give?"

"So you're ending it?"

"I need space. You want more than I can give."

"So you don't want a future with me?"

"I don't know. Not like this."

Her voice broke. He didn't move.

"Say it," she whispered. "Say you don't want me."

"I think it's better if we stop."

She nodded and walked out into the cold.

She blocked his number an hour later.

Life didn't wait. Her father's health worsened. Rent was overdue. Her sister panicked. There was no time, no way to reach him afterhe left, no space to cry well.

She packed and left.

The day before they moved, her father asked from his wheelchair, "Where's that campus boy? He's not been visiting."

"We're not together anymore."

"He left?" he asked gently.

She broke. "Yes.... I hate him, Dad."

He held her as she cried. "Don't lose yourself."

But she already had.

****

****

Late that night, she stood behind the kitchen door and dialed his number.

Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty.

It went straight to voicemail. Every single time.

"Please pick up," she whispered into the phone. "Please... just tell me you didn't mean it."

Nothing.

She tried again. Again. Again.

Still nothing.

Her heart cracked slowly.

Fine, she told herself hours later. If he didn't want her anymore... she would not beg.

She blocked the number with trembling fingers. Deleted their chats. Deleted their pictures. Deleted herself from every app he could find her on.

Then she wiped her little tears with the back of her hand and lied to herself:

"There was no future for us. We needed to let go."

But the truth burned inside her like salt in a wound. She was breaking and she didn't want him to leave. She didn't want to leave either but she couldn't wait for someone like him.

****

****

He called her back weeks later.

No answer.

Again. Nothing.

He checked her socials. Gone. Blocked.

No one at the university could reach her.

Anger burned through him-at her, at himself, at every word he didn't say when she asked if they were okay.

He slammed the steering wheel once and whispered, "I'm so fucking sorry... You didn't even let me try again."

He told himself she should've waited.

But he knew the truth.

He had pushed her away first.

****

****

On Christmas Day, he returned with wrapped gifts, a letter, and rehearsed apologies. Snow covered the street as he stood at her door and knocked.

Silence.

Again. Nothing.

He turned the knob. The door opened.

The house was empty. Furniture gone. Curtains gone. Dead like she'd never existed.

He stood there holding gifts that suddenly felt foolish. A snowflake drifted in and landed on his hair. He didn't move. He just stared at the hollow space where her life had been.

He whispered her name once.

Then he closed the door gently, drove to his grandparents' home, and said nothing.

He didn't cry.

But something inside him broke.

****

****

The cold came first. His teeth chattered, hands shook, chest burned. Sweat soaked his skin despite the freezing wind. Dizziness followed. Nausea. Pain.

When his grandparents tried to help, he shouted and pushed them away, proud and terrified. His body gave out anyway. He vomited on the floor, vision blurring.

His father's voice barked through the phone, ordering him to the hospital. Damon refused-until he couldn't.

Too weak to stand, too cold to argue, he was carried outside. The wind burned into his lungs as they eased him into the car, holding him steady while his father's angry words echoed in the night.

****

****

He only heard the sirens and felt unbelievably cold.

He heard nothing at first only the strange beep that came when pain was too much for the body to understand. His head had hit the car window. Hard.

He could taste blood now.

So much blood in his mouth.

Someone was shouting, but the sound was beginning to drift away, like it was sounding from another far world.

Then his dream opened.

A soft, feminine laugh.

Snowflakes in the beautiful girl's hair.

Her mouth on his.

Sex.

Countless orgasms, the arguments, the reconciliations, her sweetness, her kindness.

Their breaths tangled.

Her body clinging to him in a warmth that made his body ache and love.

Then, the memories came too fast - the way she whispered his name when she came, the way he looked at and felt about her like she was the only safe thing he had ever held. Her tears and her worry.

They flashed like lightning. Too bright. Too close. Too cute.

He tried to grab her.

But the scenes scattered immediately.

He saw himself at her door with gifts, hand lifting to knock. Snow falling behind him. His heart pounding.

The door opened.

Empty.

An endless, dark house swallowing him whole.

"-BP dropping! He's crashing!"

The doctor's voice cut through the dream, panicked and sharp.

But he wasn't even in the hospital.

He was too far away now.

The emptiness stretched into darkness, and out of the dark came faces he knew too well.

His grandmother. His grandfather.

Then when the light came, his grandmother's bloody head was pressed back against the crushed front seat, neck twisted at a wrong, impossible angle.

Blood ran down her temple. Her eyes were open in horror, mouth agape in her final moment of prayer. Staring. Staring at him.

"No...." Damon whispered inside the dream. But he had no voice.

He fought. He tried to scream but he was paralyzed.

His body convulsed.

A seizure shook him, and the world became white.

There was a loud beeping sound.

His pale, physical body was being pushed in a shiny hospital.

"Heartbeat is unstable!"

"He's not responding."

"He's in shock."

"He's gone- he's gone! Oh my god."

"Son! Son, open your eyes! No!"

Those last words were the only ones his dream-self understood.

Dead. He was dead.

A coldness swept through him, swallowing her smile, sweet memories with his grandparents, his grandmother's bloody face, the empty house, the loud scary noises, the snow.

Then everything went black.

SIX YEARS LATER

The smell of burnt sugar filled the kitchen.

Merry Steele coughed, jolting out of her deep thoughts and waving smoke away with one hand as she yanked the pan off the stove.

The caramel had gone too far again. Bitter, blackened, useless. Just like her mood.

"Damn it," she cursed.

Her apron was dusty with flour. Her hair was tied in a messy bun that had started slipping hours ago.

The clock on the wall read 5:47 a.m. She had been up since four, fighting a failing oven and ringing the plumber over a leaking pipe, trying to prepare pastries that barely sold enough to keep the lights on.

Outside, the early winter sky was pale and cold.

She scraped the ruined sugar into the trash and leaned both palms on the counter, breathing slowly.

Rent was overdue. Her father's medication cost more every month. Her sister's college tuition reminder sat unread on her phone. And the landlord had already hinted that his patience was running thin.

She closed her eyes shut.

History seems to be repeating itself. Don't think about him.

The thought came anyway.

Snow. A voice. A face that hardly softened.

Her chest tightened.

She turned up the mp3 player to drown it out.

****

****

Damon Blackwell stood in front of a wall of windows seventy three floors above the street, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler. The city woke far downstairs with cars horning and people moving.

He felt nothing.

Behind him, a voice cleared. "You were late yesterday."

Damon didn't turn. "I own my time."

Jeffery sighed. "You also own responsibilities."

"Spare me that, Jeff."

Silence.

Damon finally turned. His suit was immaculate. His face beautifully carved from discipline.

The man had no softness left in him. No warmth. Just control.

"Board meeting's in an hour," Jeffery said. "They're watching you closely."

"They always are."

"You're still unstable, man. Your father's going crazy about it."

Damon's jaw flexed. "I'm keeping their money safe. That should satisfy them."

"It doesn't. You need to clean up your image," Thomas added. "No scandals. No explosions. They enjoy your diligence but...."

Damon's eyes darkened.

"Say what you mean." He said.

"I mean," Jeffery said carefully, "you need a woman."

Silence slammed between them.

"A fiancée. A wife. A presence. Someone who makes you look human."

Damon let out a slow, humorless breath. "I don't pretend to love."

"You said you did it once."

"Fuck you, Jeffery. I was drunk."

Jeffery grinned. "Think about it. I can always help with the preparations."

When the door shut, Damon finally moved-one hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles whitened.

His chest burned.

A familiar pressure crawled up his throat.

Not now.

He reached for the drawer and pulled out the pill bottle. Shook it once. Twice.

Empty.

His breath hitched.

The memory came uninvited.

Snow. A door. Her voice saying his name like it meant something.

He slammed the drawer shut.

He buzzed the intercom.

"Mrs Harvey. Send my pills in now."

****

****

Merry dropped a tray of cupcakes onto the display shelf just as her phone buzzed.

A message from the bank.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

Her throat tightened.

She leaned against the counter, dizzy.

"Breathe," she whispered.

The bell above the door jingled as her waitress walked in late, offering a rushed greeting and apology. Merry nodded, barely hearing her.

She wiped her hands and checked her messages again.

A new message notification flashed across the screen.

From: BlackByte Corporate Affairs.

Her heart slammed.

She didn't open it.

Five years ago, she'd walked away from a boy who couldn't love her out loud.

Now the man he'become was suddenly knocking on her life again.

She stared at the unopened email, fingers trembling.

Don't.

She clicked it anyway.

"We would like to formally invite you to discuss a business proposition involving a private culinary contract..."

Her breath caught.

The name at the bottom burned through her eyes.

Damon Blackwell.

The room swam.

She closed her eyes-and for a split second, she could hear his voice again.

"I just need space."

Her hands shook.

"No," she whispered. "Not again."

Across the city, Damon stared at his reflection in the glass.

His phone buzzed.

A notification from his assistant.

"She opened the message. No reply yet."

His chest tightened painfully.

****

****

It was three days now and Merry Steele wasn't showing any sign of interest.

The phone buzzed.

Merry glanced at the screen, frowned at the unfamiliar number, then answered.

"Yes?"

A cold yet soothing tenor came in.

"Hello, Merry Steele. Damon Blackwell on the line. You're invited to BlackByte tomorrow...."

No greeting. No introduction.

She blinked once. "Pardon?"

A pause. Calm. Annoyingly sure of itself.

"You heard me, Steele."

Her mouth curved slightly - not a smile. More like disbelief.

"Ah...." she said. "Behold the audacity."

"Call it anything. You'll report to BlackByte by 12 today," he continued. "You'll be compensated well."

"You're calling a stranger and issuing commands. Is this how you usually introduce business?"

"I don't waste time."

"Sadly, you've wasted some today."

Controlled irritation slipped into his voice. Just a bit.

"Stop being difficult!"

Merry laughed softly. Dry. "No, I'm being sensible. There's a difference."

"You applied here...."

"Years ago," she corrected. "Stupidest attempt of my life."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I need someone competent," he said. "You'll do."

"You don't need me."

"You're overthinking this."

"And you're underthinking basic respect."

"You'll regret turning this down."

Her smile vanished.

"That line only works when I care. But, sadly, I don't."

A breath on the other end. Sharper now.

"Be at my office tomorrow."

"No."

Flat. Clean. Final.

She ended the call.

Her phone buzzed instantly.

She didn't look at it.

Merry exhaled slowly, irritation boiling all through her mind.

Not because he was intimidating.

But because he'd spoken like someone used to being obeyed, and she hated that it still made her spine straighten.

She won the local cooking competition again.

Merry Steele was still smiling as she finished thanking the townspeople for their support and for choosing her kitchen again.

She hoped this win would finally revive her failing Merry's Kitchen. Rumors had been killing her business, and she needed every set of eyes and mouths in that crowd.

She stepped down the wooden staircase behind the podium while her friend and co-host, Samantha, continued speaking in that forever-loud voice of hers.

She looked at her bank statement and frowned, pushing a hand into her hair with fear.

She needed fresh air.

Merry didn't make it past two steps when she froze.

Her breath died.

Holy Christ...

Standing right in front of her was Damon Blackwell. Dark, dangerous and devastatingly handsome. His sculpted face, his sharp jaw, those cold blue eyes that always saw too much.

Two bulky men in dark suits stood on either sides of him, though he looked like the only protection they needed.

Damon stood tall and proud, but he looked surprised too.

Of course, there was enough to surprise him.

By seeing how his eyes quickly flickered to her bosom and down, Merry knew he had also acknowledged that she'd gotten curvier through their years apart.

He didn't waste time.

Just gave a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes and said:

"Talk?"

Her voice had disappeared, but her body didn't. She nodded and followed him before her pride kicked in and she matched his long strides.

"We can talk here," she said sharply.

He stopped. Turned. Amused.

A single look and his guards retreated even though they didn't stand far.

Merry crossed her arms.

"What do you want, Mr... Blackwell?"

His face hardened.

Dauntless and angered at realizing he was trying to make her feel nervous, she looked him straight up in those deep blue eyes and for a moment, he was surprised she could dare. He continued.

"Miss Steele, I'm here with an offer."

He paused.

"Your kitchen is going down, I hear." he said lightly.

Silence.

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm glad to confirm you're good at what you do, so I want you as my cook. It comes with perks. You will also pretend to be my fiancée..." His eyes dipped to her mouth. "...and you'll be my fuckmate until December 31st."

The world went quiet.

Merry looked away from his face, her heart beating like a wardrum.

Her mind was going berserk with thoughts.

Crazy thoughts and then she realized....

She was heating up and sexual thoughts swamped her mind.

He'd only said the word FUCKMATE and....

Was it the way he said it or....?

Was it the whole idea of it?

She forced her voice steady.

"What made you think-?"

"You need the money," he cut in.

"Don't." She glared. "Go away from me."

"The pay is a hundred thousand dollars a week. I expect your answer at ten in the morning."

"Damon, I hate you."

"You'll need to decide on that also. But I don't give you leave to. If there's anyone who should be hating the fuck out of the other person...." His voice was beginning to increase but he paused and internally corrected himself.

He only sent her a humorless smile and stepped back, straightening.

He turned and walked away, ignoring the crowd, moving like a man no one dared touch.

Merry stood trembling, lips quivering, trying not to fall apart.

Samantha saw everything and stormed toward her, heels clacking, her chest banging.

"Holy hell, Merry! What.... what does Damon Blackwell want? How did he find you? Oh my god....I'm not very good at calming you down but that was your campus...."

Samantha couldn't even finish for her lips rounded in an 'O'.

Merry wiped her mouth and ran a shaky hand through her hair. Samantha guided her to the porch swing-her place of calm.

"Sam... Damon wants me to be his cook."

Samantha blinked. "Father lord- What does that even mean?"

Merry explained quickly, voice uneven.

Samantha shook her head and took Merry's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"This is insane, Merry. Fucking crazy but listen. Think with your heart and your brain. If you want it, you choose it. If not, walk away. You know who you are, girl."

"I'm ashamed to know I want to but.... Why did he find me? Why did he meet me in particular? What does he want with me?"

But Merry couldn't say what scared her most-the spark between them that came alive the second she saw him, or her fear that he didn't feel it too.

Dangerous chemistry rushed back. His hands. His mouth. The memories she had buried for years.

And then a slow smile curled on her lips.

"Of course," she whispered. "I'd love to find out."

****

****

Merry parked outside H-E-B, stomped out her cigarette, and walked in to the pharmacy aisle. She reached for three boxes of Durex condoms without shame, paid, and strutted out.

People stared. She didn't care.

Her dress was shorter. Her heels higher. Her mind set.

She couldn't stop imagining Damon naked.

She knew exactly what he was doing-but she could control her feelings. This was just a game.

And she would win.

She got into her car humming softly, adrenaline and lust mixing in her blood.

She was ready.

Merrillyn zoomed off.

Ready to face Damon Blackwell.

Ready to shock him.

Ready to drown him.

****

****

She gave small smiles to the staffs who stared at her. Only courtesy made them look away and mind their businesses.

Of course, she was breathtakingly hot.

Secretaries and receptionists were everywhere.

Merry stepped past the BLACKBYTE reception desk and caught a few lingering stares from the staff.

It was precisely 10:00am when the secretary finished recording Merry's information and calling Mr Blackwell.

The blonde lady then showed Merry the elevator that would take her to floor 67. She then informed Merry that the door opposite the elevator was where she would be directed to and an assistant would help her.

She explained that floor 67 was the waiting room for visitors and Mr Blackwell would pick her there.

Merry nodded and turned only to see Damon Blackwell casually striding past. Their eyes met and Damon stared her down like she was some unwanted air.

Merry didn't mind.

Taking the cue, Merry walked after him.

With the help of his personal key card, they were heading for executive floor 70.

Merry raised her chin and looked at him.

"You seem very eager for me."

"As I said, you're likely going to make a good cook."

"Likely." She said, dryly. "You came yesterday with more polished words. They caught me unawares."

Silence.

"You shouldn't have worn what you're wearing." Damon said and looked at her.

She looked him squarely on the face.

"You elaborated the nature of the business, didn't you?" She asked, softly and touched his arm.

He looked up at the dark, nearly-invisible elevator ceiling.

She knew she was scaring him and nostalgia hit her.

A memory of them talking about how they saw the future where she'd touched his arm, asked him if they'd be together after graduation-in that soft voice -and he'd stared up at nothing and she'd laughed it off.

Now, she had a gentle hand on his arm and it seemed to take same immediate effect which he clearly didn't like.

"Billionaire, you need a woman, huh?" She cooed. "What for?"

"And you shouldn't be touching me, Miss Steele."

"Why so?"

"We've not concluded. You need to keep the good impression."

"I meant, why do you keep everything so friggin' official, Blackwell? Yeah, you'll pay but I'd be happy if you dropped the whole "missy" thing."

He looked at her now and his eyes were dark with anger.

At that, he grabbed her hand off his arm and pinned her back to the wall.