Faking love with ceo

The crystal flute slid from Lina Carter's fingers, slick with condensation from the ice bucket. She did not have to be carrying the bottle of vintage champagne. That was reserved for the senior staff. But Marco had called in sick and the manager's gaze had fallen upon her. "Don't drop it", he had said.

The ballroom was a dreamland of light and whispered power. A thousand candles, reflected in mirrors, and gowns flowing past her, each costing more than a year's rent. She straightened her back, keeping a sharp eye on the sparkling path between the guests, counting her steps. Ten more laps with this tray. Then down to water. Then maybe her feet wouldn't feel like they were bleeding.

She saw him before he saw her.

Alexander Knight was at the center of a loose circle of old men with their backs to the grand piano. He was younger than them. They leaned in. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't waving. He was speaking. And the world bent right toward the sound of his voice. He was wearing a tuxedo that looked like it had been painted on him. Sculpture of midnight wool and white linen. His hair was dark. Swept back from a forehead that seemed to be permanently etched along the corner with an impatient line. Lina's tray shook. She held on tighter. She was walking close to the circle. She stared at a space of empty air beyond his shoulder. She was holding her breath. She was a ghost. That was the rule.

Three steps away a man in a tailcoat burst out laughing, loud booming laughter, throwing his head back. Three steps away he took a step, a step, his arm out to the side swinging.

The edge of his elbow struck Lina's tray with a soft horrid clink.

Time didn't slow. It burst.

The flutes weren't empty. Three of them were full. They were teetering on the edge of the polished silver with gold liquid sloshing over the rims.

She tried to yank the tray back, to steady it, but it was too late, her wrist was already turning, the weight shifting.

Silence. The fall sparkling with light.

The champagne shot into the light of the candles. The shower of water, a beautiful tragedy, caught Alexander Knight across the chest and shoulder as he was half turned talking, the cold expensive shock of it sent a full-body recoil that was more violent than a shout.

Silence.

The champagne ran down his chin. It made his white shirt see-through, clinging it to his skin. It stained the perfect wool of his jacket in ugly spreading blotches. A single lemon twist came to rest on his front and softly plopped on the polished parquet.

Lina stood with her hand still outstretched, holding the lopsided and now empty tray. Her heart was a bird that had gone mad and flown up her ribs. The cold from the ice bucket water ran up her sleeve.

He stared down at himself. Slowly. He stared at the stain and at the lemon twist at his feet. And when he looked up to meet hers, the storm in his eyes made her feel as if the air itself had been taken out of the room. They weren't angry. They were shocked. Then furious. Then... ice. Calculating deadly ice that could see every thread of her cheap uniform, every pound she needed to earn.

""You," he hushed. Not loudly. But with the kind of force that reaches every corner of the hushed ballroom.

The spell was broken. The room erupted in a chorus of high-pitched whispers. A woman gasped and began to clutch her pearls. The laughing man who'd done it had turned as white as a sheet, and had melted back into the crowd.

Her manager, Mr. Henderson, was there in a heartbeat, as if he'd been lurking in the shadows, a pale ghost of doom. "Mr. Kniht! My most deep-rooted, my most sincerest, this stupid girl, she's chopped..! "

"Get her out." Alexander's voice was husky, but he wasn't looking at the manager. He wasn't looking anywhere but at Lina. He held her gaze hostage. He snatched the soaked handkerchief from his breast pocket and laid it on the puddle at his feet. A final dismissal. "Now."

Henderson's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm, yanking her off-balance. The tray clattered to the floor. The sound was monstrous in the quiet. She was dragged, stumbling, her heels catching on the rug. The faces blurred as she passed, curious, amused, pitying. She was a spectacle. The clumsy waitress who had baptized the king.

The kitchen doors swung shut, cutting off the gala's light and heat. The sudden roar of the industrial fans, the shouts of the cooks, the clang of pots, it was all a deafening cacophony after that tomb-silence.

Henderson didn't stop. He marched her past the steaming dish pits, past the line cooks who didn't bother to look up, down a narrow, greasy corridor to a door marked 'Private.'

He shoved her inside his tiny, cluttered office. "You stupid girl," he hissed, spittle landing on his chin. "Do you have any idea what you've done? That man owns the building this restaurant is in! He could have us closed with a phone call!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words ash in her mouth. "He bumped into me"

"Don't you dare!" he roared, slamming his hand on the desk. "Your tips are gone. Your wages for tonight are gone. Consider it a donation to the dry-cleaning bill he'll send us, which will probably be more than you're worth." He ripped a form from a pad. "Sign this. Termination for gross misconduct."

With numb fingers, she signed. He snatched the paper, then opened a small, battered safe. He pulled out a single twenty-pound note and threw it onto the desk. It fluttered, then lay still. "Get out. And if I see you near this place again, I'll call the police."

The service entrance door was heavy steel. She had to shove her whole weight against it to get out. The cold night air hit her like a slap. The door clanged shut behind her, the final sound of her old life ending.

The alley was dark, reeking of rotten produce and diesel. The distant sound of the gala's string quartet floated over the wall, a cruel, beautiful mockery.

She leaned her forehead against the cold brick. The single twenty-pound note was crumpled in her white-knuckled fist. The rent was due tomorrow. Her mother's prescription needed refilling. The hospital had called just yesterday.

A sob climbed her throat, raw and tearing. She choked it back, swallowing the salt and the shame. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't afford the weakness.

From the other side of the high wall, she heard the smooth purr of engines starting. The guests were leaving. She pushed herself upright, turning to go.

At the mouth of the alley, where the streetlights began, a long, black car idled silently. The rear window was tinted, impenetrable. But as she watched, frozen, the window slid down.

Inside the dim interior, she saw the profile of a man, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a phone screen. It was him. Alexander Knight. He had changed his jacket and shirt.

He turned his head. Slowly. His eyes met hers across the distance, through the dirty London night.

He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just stared. As if she were an ugly, unwelcome equation he had made an impromptu decision to solve.

Then the window pulled up, and the car became a dark, mortified block. The note of the engine deepened, and it pulled back, smooth, quietly, out of the flow of other cars.

Lina was cold, dark, alone, the echo of that staring colder than the wind. It was not over. She could feel it in the marrow of her bones. To him, it had only just begun.

The flat was dark, and cold, and smelled like the chicken soup she'd made three days ago. Lina shut the door gently and leaned against it as if she were shielding herself from the world outside. Her mother's faint breathing came from the little bedroom. Asleep, thank God. She couldn't deal with her tonight.

She eased herself down the door until she settled on the little hallway carpet, the last of her strength spent. The lone twenty-pound note lay on the floor beside her as if accusing her. The memory of the champagne avalanched behind her eyes. The shock on his face. The ice in his eyes. The total, complete annihilation of her life in five seconds.

She jumped. A vibration against her thigh. Her phone. A number she didn't know was flashing on the screen. Telemarketer. Debt collector. Who cared? She muted it and rolled her head back into the wood.

It buzzed again. The same number. Again. Persistent. Relentless.

A cold trickle of fear, not shame, slid down her gut. She swiped the button to answer and fingered the phone to her ear but said nothing.

Lina Carter. The voice was a clean, calm baritone. What she was saying wasn't a question. It was an identification. It was the same voice that had said "You" in the ballroom.

Her blood turned to slush. She couldn't speak.

"I believe you're at home," said Alexander Knight. No anger. This was not angry. This was fact. "A vehicle will be at your address in twenty minutes. Be downstairs."

"W-wh-y?" The word was a dry croak.

"We have a business to discuss. Otherwise I will sue for gross negligence and intentional tort of property of great value. Decision," then the line went dead.

She did not move for a whole minute. A lawsuit. He will sue her. They will sue her. They will take what little she has. They will take this flat. She will have nowhere to go. Her mother had nowhere to go.

Panic was a live thing. It was working its way up her throat. She pushed her body up. Her legs were shaking like a leaf in the wind. She got out of her stained uniform in the dark. She put on jeans and a loose sweater. She wrote a quick note, telling her mother she had to run out to cover a shift and would be back soon, love you, and she put it on the kitchen table. Her hands were shaking hard. She could barely read her own hand.

Nineteen minutes later she was standing on the wet curb outside her building.

The streets were empty

The curtains were drawn shut

A black sedan glided to a stop on time, quiet as a shadow.

It opened the rear door.

She paused

The cold wind was cutting her face.

"Get in, Miss Carter." A deeper voice, rough as gravel. The driver. He didn't say thank you.

She got in.

The door closed with a soft, expensive click.

It smelled of leather and something sharp and citrus. The privacy glass between the seats was down.

She was in a capsule of silence and rich. Someone was taking her away, against her will, from the life she had known.

They didn't go to an office.

The car meandered around the city

Past the towers of light and glass

Into an older, grander part of the city, where the white-stone mansions had black iron gates.

It stopped in front of a harsh, modern structure, a slab of glass and steel.

A subtle plaque identified the building, The Aegis Club.

The driver opened her door.

"Penthouse suite. You're expected."

The lobby was a cavern of muted marble. A man in a tailored suit stood waiting. He gave her a single, assessing glance that took in her scuffed trainers and made his lips thin, but he said nothing. He simply led her to a private elevator, used a key, and stepped back as the doors closed.

Her reflection in the brass walls was a ghost: pale, wide-eyed, drowning in her old clothes.

The elevator opened directly into a room. It was not an office. It was a living space, but one so minimalist, it felt like a museum. A wall of glass looked out over the endless sparkle of the city. There were no photos, no books, no signs of life. Only a large steel desk, a single chair, and a low sofa of black leather.

Alexander Knight stood by the window, his back to her. He had changed into a dark grey sweater and trousers. He looked less like a gala statue and more like a predator at rest.

"Sit," he said, without turning.

She moved to the sofa, perching on the very edge. The leather was cold.

He finally turned. In the city's dim, ambient light his face was all harsh planes and shadow. He walked to the desk, took a single sheet of paper, and set it on the short table on the other side of her. Then he sat in the chair across from her, steepling his fingers. He looked at her. His gaze was a physical weight.

"Read it."

Her eyes swept the page. The first words blurred, then snapped into terrible, clear focus.

CONFIDENTIALITY AND SERVICES AGREEMENT

Three calendar months.The Undersigned (Lina Carter) shall function in the capacity of the romantic partner of Alexander Knight for all public and private functions as may be required. This includes, but is not limited to, attendance at social events, business functions, and family engagements. Appearance, behavior, and affection shall be maintained as directed.

Compensation: Upon successfully achieving the Term, the sum of £250,000, payable in full tax-adjusted.

Conditions: Extremely strict confidentiality must be observed. No emotional or physical attachment beyond the fulfillment of the Services is permissible. All terms of this agreement must be adhered to. Breach will result in immediate termination and forfeiture of entire compensation, plus awarding compensatory damages.

She read it twice. The numbers swayed. A quarter of a million pounds. It would pay off the debt. It would get her mother the best care. It would be a future.

It was insane.

"This is a joke," she whispered.

"It is not."

"You want to pay me... to be your girlfriend?"

"A public companion," he corrected, his voice inflectionless. "My corporate image requires stability. Certain rumours have been... inconvenient. Your little performance tonight, witnessed by half the city's influencers, has made the need more immediate. You are unknown. You are unconnected. And you are, currently, in a position of significant need."

He laid out her desperation like items on a spreadsheet. Shame burned her cheeks.

"And if I say no? You sue me?"

"I will pursue full recompense for the damage to a Brioni tuxedo and a custom Thomas Mason shirt, valued at approximately twelve thousand pounds. The legal fees will exceed that. You will lose."

She stared at the paper. It was a rope thrown to a drowning woman. A rope that would tie her to him.

"Why me? You could hire an actress. A model."

"Models seek fame. Actresses seek attention. You," he said, his eyes cold and knowing, "seek survival. You will follow the rules. You will not develop... expectations."

The final word was a lash. She flinched.

He leaned forward slightly, the first real movement he'd made. "This is a business transaction, Miss Carter. You are a temporary solution to a public relations problem. In return, your financial problems disappear. Do you understand the offer?"

She looked from his impassive face to the contract. The figure £250,000 seemed to pulse on the page. She saw her mother's tired smile. She heard the hospital administrator's polite, relentless voice on the phone.

She saw herself in that alley forever, clutching a twenty-pound note.

Her voice, when it came, was hollow. "What do I have to do?"

A pen appeared in his hand, offered to her. "Sign. The car will take you home. You will be contacted tomorrow with instructions. Your first public appearance is in forty-eight hours."

Her fingers were numb as she took the pen. It was heavy, cold metal. She hovered it over the signature line. The silence in the room was absolute, waiting to be broken.

She thought of his eyes at the gala. The promise of annihilation.

Now, they promised something else. A gilded cage.

She signed her name. It looked small and strange on the pristine document.

He took the paper, glanced at the signature, and gave a single, slow nod. "The car is waiting." He turned back to the window, dismissing her.

She stood, her knees weak. The world had just been split into a before and an after. She walked back to the elevator, the man in the suit appearing silently to escort her out.

In the car, speeding back through the sleeping city, she pressed her forehead to the cool window. She had sold the next three months of her life. She had sold her name to be used as a shield for a man made of ice.

The car stopped at her curb. She got out. It drove away.

She looked up at the dark window of her flat. Her mother was sleeping inside, unaware that her daughter had just made a deal with the devil.

And the devil now had her signature.

The knock was ten in the morning.

Lina opened the door and a woman who was at least sharpened to a point looked out. She was maybe fifty, dressed in a severe charcoal suit, her blonde hair in a tight knot that was tearing the skin at her temples. A younger man was standing behind her with a large black garment bag and a shiny silver case.

Lina Carter. I am Colette. Mr. Knight has sent me. Her accent was sharp. Her eyes were a quick, crushing scan of Lina's flat. We have until four o'clock. Please be ready to leave.

Leave where for what? Lina's voice was still rough from a sleepless night and she was feeling a burning hole in her pillow from the signed contract.

Your first fitting and briefing. There is no time for questions. Colette stepped inside and the small living room seemed to shrink further. She glanced at the closed bedroom door. Your mother?

"she's Sleeping. Please, be quiet". A small flicker of something, not sympathy, maybe a professional courtesy, appeared in Colette's face. "The car is downstairs. Bring nothing. All is provided .";All. The words reverberated as Lina was escorted, not to a boutique, but rather into a large, white loft in a warehouse that had been converted into an office space. Racks of clothing covered one wall, all neutral shades, ivory, black, navy. No colour. A tall, thin man named Stefan, who had a pin cushion in his wrist and a measuring tape wrapped around his neck like a scarf, waited. "Stand here," Colette said, pointing to a low round platform in the center of the room. "Posture. Shoulders back. Chin level. You are not a waitress. You are an accessory to power. You must look as if you are a part of his world, but yet, just a little bit separate from it. Got it?"

Lina entered. Stefan started to take measurements, flicking through her body with swift, impersonal touches: the length of her inseam, the width of her waist, the span of her shoulders. He whispered the numbers, and an assistant tapped them into a tablet.

"Beauty is not the goal," Colette said while circling her like a sculptor around a block of marble. "It is appropriateness. Effortless elegance. Quiet without subservience. You have to be admired, but not remembered. You are a prop in his story. A prop that is calm and tasteful and silent."

A prop. Lina shut her eyes as Stefan's fingers made their way around her neck.

"Other people must see through you. You have to learn to look without looking at. You have to learn to listen without listening. Your first assignment is a gallery opening tomorrow night. The artist is a client of Knight Global. You will be on his arm. You will smile when he smiles. You will answer when spoken to, and you will answer briefly and pleasantly. You will never offer opinions. You will never tell personal stories. You are a mystery. A pleasant mystery."

Colette snapped her fingers. Stefan brought over the garment bag, and opened it with a dramatic flourish.

Inside was a dress. The colour was simply midnight smoke, a single column of thick heavy silk. No glittering sequins, no frills, no daring cut-outs. The most beautiful and most intimidating thing Lina had ever seen.

"Try it on. We do alterations."

In a tiny white changing room, Lina removed her jeans and sweater. The silk was cool and heavy against her skin. It ran over her body, down to her ankles, a perfect, clean line. It was simple, but it changed her. The woman looking back was a stranger, she was still, she was distant, she was unapproachable. A clean, white canvas.

When she emerged, Colette gave a curt nod. "Okay. The cut is good. It says nothing, which is good. The problem is with the colours." She gestured to the silver case. "Shoes. Jewellery."

The shoes were heels, but not the towering wayward ones she'd imagined. They were short, low polished blocks, the same black silk. "You're going to have to be able to walk. To stand for a long time. Impulsiveness is not a feature."

The jewellery was a single strand of pearls, so perfect and so perfect that they were close to fake, and little stud of diamonds in her ears. "Understated. A family heirloom if anyone asks. You do not give information."

He drilled Lina for four hours. How to walk in the gown without swaying. How to hold a champagne flute without holding it like a rope. How to stand next to Alexander, always a little behind his left shoulder, a little too close to touch, but never to lean. How to rest her hand in the crook of his arm.

"He may touch the low of your back to give you direction. He may put his hand over yours. These are signals. You give signals, and he responds. You do not initiate."

"What if I want to say something?" Lina said, her head spinning.

"You don't." Colette shot a flat look at her. "If someone is addressing you, you smile and say, 'It's a fascinating piece,' or 'Alexander has great taste.' You redirect any substantive question to him. You are a mirror. You reflect the light that he puts on you. Nothing more."

At three-thirty the process was finished. The dress was pinned for final adjustments. Her hair had been curled into a soft, low chignon by Stefan's assistant. Her face was dusted with makeup products that felt like nothing by a talented makeup artist. She looked more finished and more pallid.

Colette handed her a small black clutch.

Inside was a lip colour for touch-ups, a compact, a breath mint and your phone on silent. That is all. You will be picked up tomorrow at six. Do not eat anything that could stain. Only water. Be ready.

The car brought her back to her flat. She went upstairs in her old clothes. The ghost of the silk dress brushed her skin. The phantom weight of the pearls on her neck.

Her mother was awake. She was in her armchair by the window. She turned as Lina walked in and her eyes softened with worry.

There you are, love. You were gone so early. A shift?

Lina's throat closed. The lie was a rock.

Yes, Mum. A... a private event. Might be regular work for a while. Better pay.

Her mother smiled, reaching out a thin hand. "That's my girl. I knew your luck would turn."

The guilt made her hand dance. She wasn't lucky anymore. She'd sold herself. She was a thing going to be packaged and go to the market.

And after that night, when Lina lay in bed, the instructions were humming in her head on repeat. A prop. A dummy. A mystery.

She could see the cold eyes of Alexander Knight. He was the man she would have to try to prove to everyone that she loved. The man who she would be a passing, mute fix for.

She wouldn't have to be her for the first test in twenty-four hours. She would have to be another.

And the worst part was that a small part of her was looking at the beautiful, mute woman in the mirror and thinking that maybe that was the one she wanted to be.