Married to Damiete Torres

"No! No! No!" Hazel reached for her phone lying in the drawer. Her hands trembled as she scrolled through her contacts until she found his number-Mr. Rodgers.

It rang until it dropped. No answer.

"Pick up, please." She wiped away the tears blurring her vision. On the second call, he answered.

"Good morning, sir-"

"Is there a problem, Miss Hazel?" Mr. Rodgers sounded irritated. "Didn't you get the email?"

"I did, sir. But the fashion line-you loved it."

"I did. But I'm no longer interested in funding your project. Good day." The call ended.

His words pierced her heart like a double-edged sword. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor. She had hoped to reason with him, but he had already made up his mind.

Hazel dropped to her knees, her body shaking with silent sobs. What was she going to do now? Her lease had expired. The landlord would throw her out any day.

"Mum!" a little girl with chestnut brown pigtails ran into the room. Hazel quickly wiped her tears, but Pearl had already seen them.

"Mum," her daughter called gently, "you're crying."

"Oh," Hazel said, forcing a smile. "Some dust got in my eyes while I was cleaning."

"Sorry, Mummy." Pearl hugged her. "When are we leaving?"

Hazel had completely forgotten about the fashion show she was supposed to attend.

"Come on," she stood up, brushing herself off. "Let's get going."

ROWEN'S FASHION HOUSE

The building buzzed with classical music that echoed through the night. Luxury cars pulled up at the entrance, where valets waited to collect the keys. Paparazzi lined the red carpet, their cameras flashing relentlessly.

Hazel stepped out of the taxi, straightened her dress, and began making her way through the crowd. She almost bumped into a couple who had paused to take pictures.

"I'm so sorr-" Her voice trailed off as soon as her eyes met his.

Anger and bitterness surged through her.

"Hello there," he said, smiling wide enough to show off his pearly whites. "Hazel, right?"

She clenched her fists by her side. This was the last man she wanted to see tonight.

Damiete Torres. The city's most eligible bachelor. Famous for his playboy lifestyle. A new woman on his arm every week.

Tall, short, dark, light, curvy, slim-he didn't discriminate.

"Excuse me." Her voice was tight and cold as she brushed past him into the building.

"How rude!" the woman with him hissed.

"Forget her," Damiete said, wrapping his arm around the lady's waist. He grabbed her behind, making her giggle.

Calm down, Hazel, she told herself. She forced a smile as she stepped into the room where Mr. Alexander, the stylists, and the models were gathered.

"Not too much makeup, mademoiselle," Mr. Alexander said in his thick French accent.

"Mr. Alexander!" Hazel called, walking toward him. "Traffic was hectic. I'm sorry I'm late."

He turned sharply. "What are you doing here?"

She looked around, wondering if someone else was behind her. No one.

"I'm talking to you." He pointed. "You're not on my model list. Why are you here?"

"Sir, I didn't receive any call or message." Her voice shook slightly.

Mr. Alexander sighed. His incompetent P.A. had clearly failed again. He'd have to fire her.

"Your slot has been taken by her," he said, gesturing toward Anika, Hazel's long-time rival in the industry.

"Sir, please." Hazel dropped to her knees. "I've worked hard for this."

"You were good. Anika is better." He walked away, wiping his trousers with a handkerchief before tossing it into the trash can.

"Mr. Alexander!" she called after him, but he didn't turn around.

Hazel didn't cry. She couldn't. Her emotions were frozen. In the span of three hours, her life had crumbled-her sponsor had pulled out, her lease had expired, and now her modeling slot had been taken.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Theresa, one of the models. "You can't give up now."

"Theresa, there's no way out of this."

"Says who?" Theresa crouched and whispered into her ear. "This is your chance to get a sponsor." Then she stood and walked off.

Hazel blinked. She was right. This was an elite fashion show filled with wealthy people-investors, designers, business moguls. If she could just talk to the right one...

"Thank you, Theresa." She got up, fixed her hair and makeup, and blended into the crowd. She headed toward the makeshift bar and sat down, her eyes scanning the room.

Damiete, on the other hand, was bored out of his mind. He watched as models walked the runway in expensive fabric, but none of it excited him. He'd rather be at a club, letting women grind against him. But his PR team insisted appearances like this made him look "stable."

His eyes wandered-and landed on her.

He smirked. Perfect. His ticket out of boredom. He got up and walked toward her.

Hazel spotted him approaching. Her instinct was to flee, but she held her ground. No more running. Not after five years.

"It's been five years, and you still catch my eye," he said, eyes scanning her body.

"That line expired a long time ago." She sipped from her glass.

"But it worked once." He winked.

Hazel glared. Yes, it had worked. He had charmed her, flattered her, seduced her-and left her to face the stigma alone. She had ended up in his bed, branded by the media as just another one of his flings. Her business collapsed. Her reputation was shredded.

She fled the city with nothing but shame... and his child growing in her womb.

"Aren't you bored?" he leaned closer. "I can help with that."

She stepped back. "Damiete Torres, don't make me do something we'll both regret."

"You still want me. I can see it." He grinned. "This time, I'll keep it off the record."

Hazel scoffed. "Eat shit."

He leaned in further, lowering his voice. "You enjoyed it the first time. I still remember how you-"

SLAP.

Her hand met his cheek with a resounding slap, that made his head turn to the side.

The room went silent. Heads turned in their directions. Paparazzi cameras clicked and turned, capturing every moment.

Not again. Hazel shielded her face with her hands, and fled the room.

Her life was crumbling again-and this time, the world was watching.

It was all over the news-every channel, every social media platform, shared by thousands.

Damiete was trending-for all the wrong reasons.

"Trouble in paradise as the city's hot stuff gets slapped by one of his many flings." That was the headline.

Damiete leaned back in his chair, a lit cigarette between his fingers. His cheek no longer ached, but his ego sure did.

Who the hell did she think she was?

"This is bad, sir," Nick, the head of his PR team, muttered as he paced the room with a tablet in hand. He acted like he was the one who got slapped in front of cameras.

"We need to fix this," said Agnes, his personal assistant. "Your reputation is on the line."

He tapped the cigar against the ashtray, letting ashes fall. "This is why I pay you. So... what do we do?"

The two exchanged a glance, racking their brains for a solution. After a long moment, Agnes' face lit up.

"Marriage," she blurted out. "You need to get married, sir."

Damiete and Nick looked at her like she'd just uttered an abominable word.

Marriage?

He was the last man on earth you'd expect to walk down an aisle.

Commitment? Never heard of it.

Why settle for one when he could have them all? That was his motto.

"Are you insane?" Nick stared her down. "You want him to get married? That's absurd."

"Yes," Agnes said firmly. "Just hear me out before you drive a stake through my heart ."

She turned to Damiete. He gave her a nod to go ahead.

"Mr. Damiete, forgive me for being blunt," she began. "But you can only inherit your late father's properties if you maintain a clean, stable image, right?"

He nodded once.

"And everyone knows you can't stick to one woman. What better way to clean up your image than marriage?"

He exhaled a stream of smoke, considering her words. Time was running out. He had one year to prove he was worthy of the empire his father left behind.

"A contract marriage?" he asked slowly. "Is that what you're suggesting?

"Yes, sir," Agnes smiled. He was catching on. "Just pretend for a few months, secure the inheritance, then you can go back to living however you please."

"We'll need someone suitable," Nick added. "Not one of those clingy types that follow the boss around." He hated those shameless ladies.

Damiete smirked. He already knew the perfect woman for the job.

Back at Hazel's apartment...

"Calm down, Hazel," said Beatrice, her best friend. Hazel had been crying non-stop since the fashion show ended in disaster.

Hazel turned toward her, eyes swollen and red. "My life is ruined. All because of that bastard!"

Beatrice pulled her into a hug, stroking her back. "It's not the end of the world. You're strong. You'll get through this."

"How, Beatrice?" Hazel sobbed, her body shaking with heart wrenching sobs. "He destroyed my image. My career's over!"

Her phone rang. She ignored it.

It rang again. And again.

"You should answer," Beatrice urged.

Hazel sighed and picked it up. It was an unknown number. "Hello?" she answered, her voice flat.

"Have I reached Miss Hazel?" A soft, feminine voice asked. It was Agnes.

"Yes. Who's this?"

"No need to worry," Agnes replied. "We've reviewed your work and we're interested in sponsoring your fashion brand."

The tears stopped immediately. Hazel blinked. "Could you... repeat that?"

"We want to fully sponsor your brand-with all the funds you need to launch." Agnes repeated once more.

Hazel shot up, trembling with excitement. Beatrice watched her nervously. What was happening again?

"We'd love to meet in person to discuss the terms of our partnership," Agnes added. "Only if you're interested."

"I'm available anytime," Hazel said quickly. "Even tonight, if that works for you."

"Perfect. The address will be sent to you shortly." The call ended.

"What just happened?" Beatrice asked, concerned.

Hazel screamed and threw her arms around her. "I've got a new sponsor!"

"Oh my God!" Beatrice shrieked. "I'm so happy for you!"

Hazel's phone pinged. The address had come through. She had to get ready!

DAMIETE PENTHOUSE

"Have a seat," Agnes gestured, and Hazel took a seat on one of the most comfortable couch.

"The boss will be with us shortly. Can I get you anything while we wait?"

"I'm good, thank you," Hazel replied with a polite smile.

She let her eyes wander around the lavish penthouse. It screamed wealth and power. Then came the sound of the door opening.

She adjusted her skirt out of habit. No wrinkles. No reason. Her eyes locked on the taller man of the two who were entering the room.

Damiete. With that smug smile on his face-the same smile that made her blood boil.

She stood up instantly. "What is this?! Haven't you done enough?" she demanded, trying to control the storm that was raging inside her.

"Please, ma'am," Agnes tried to calm her. "Just-"

Hazel raised a hand. "I don't want to hear anything." She grabbed her purse and stormed toward the door.

"Ten million dollars."

She froze, her back turned to them.

"Ten million," Damiete said again, "plus full sponsorship of any fashion line you're launching."

Hazel slowly turned to face him. "For what?"

Damiete sat, crossing one leg over the other. "Sit down, and I'll tell you more."

She returned to the seat, ready to rip him to pieces if he said anything foolish.

"A contract marriage," he said bluntly.

"What?!" she gasped. "What kind of sick joke is this?"

"If you agree to a one-year contract marriage with me," he said calmly, "the money and sponsorship are yours."

Hazel stared at him, stunned.

She needed help-but not from him.

A deal with Damiete Torres was like shaking hands with the devil, that was the last thing she wanted but the offer was enticing.

Ten million dollars and a sponsorship? She stayed silent weighing her choices. With that money, she could pearl,her daughter the life she deserves.

A year, just a year and she'd be rich. "I'll do it." She muttered. "On my own terms."

Agnes and Nick were elated. Damiete was happy, the pawn had taken the bait.

"No sex, no physical touch." She knew Damiete well enough.

"I have no objection, it's a contract marriage after all." He said. "you'll be moving in by tomorrow." He Informed her.

Agnes produced the contract, and she set it before the table, placing a pen on it.

"If you agree to the terms, please sign."

Hazel took her time to read the contract, when she was satisfied she signed and he did too. It was official, she was now Mrs Hazel Damiete Torres.

There was no going back now, Hazel exhaled deeply as the elevator arrived at Damiete's penthouse. She'd miss Pearl, who was now staying with Beatrice. It had taken everything not to cry when she left her behind.

Hazel let herself in with the key card that had been given to hrt, dragging her suitcases across the sleek marble floor. As per his terms, they'd be sharing the master bedroom. Something that greatly displeased her.

The only sign that someone was in the room was the crumpled sheets on the king-sized bed. Where was he?

The bathroom door creaked open, and he came out. A gasp escaped her lips, Good heavens! Her eyes took him whole in one glance, even though she told them not to.

Shirtless, hair tousled, grey joggers hanging dangerously low on his hips-and that bulge......She swallowed hard.

Damiete smirked, clearly catching her reaction. "Good morning, Mrs. Torres."

Hazel puckered her face in disgust and hissed. Even six months wouldn't be enough to get used to that name.

"You're here early." He yawned, stretching with a lazy confidence that made her insides twist.

"Punctuality is a habit of mine. You wouldn't understand."

He pointed toward the walk-in closet. "You can put your stuff in there."

"Okay." Hazel unzipped her bags and began placing her clothes in drawers while Damiete casually dropped into push-ups like it was nothing.

She tried to ignore him, hut occasionally her eyes betrayed her, watching the muscles on his back move, the tattoo that sprawled across his back, and the sweat that glistened on his back which made him look like a forbidden sin carved in stone.

What is wrong with you? Hazel mentally slapped herself.

"We have a shoot today," he said, standing to reach for his dumbbells.

"What shoot?"

"A cover for NUDE magazine," he replied without looking at her.

Hazel's eyes widened. NUDE?

It was one of the hottest magazines in the industry. She'd spent nights dreaming of being one of those daring women on its glossy pages.

"What?" he asked, catching her expression. "If you don't want-"

"I'll do it," Hazel cut in quickly, flattening her tone.

He grinned. "It's going to be fun."

THE SHOOT

The master bedroom had been transformed into a professional photo set. Lights, backdrops, and props filled the space. Hazel sat in the corner with a makeup artist, getting ready.

The stylist approached, flipping through photos of her outfits. Hazel blinked as she caught a glimpse of them-Red and black lingerie. Sultry, Bold and Dangerous. Her throat dried.

The first setup had Damiete handcuffed to a chair-shirtless, looking dangerous and sexy. Hazel was in red lace, holding a whip.

"One, two, action!" the director called.

Hazel walked toward him slowly, letting her silk robe slide off her shoulders. The red lingerie clung to her curves, every step drawing in the camera-and Damiete's gaze. His Adam's apple bobbed as his eyes devoured her.

She ran the whip slowly down his chest. The camera clicked, taking the first picture.

In the next pose, she cradled his face while they stared into each other's eyes. Her breath hitched.

"You're enjoying this more than I am," he said, voice low and teasing.

"No, I'm not," she replied quickly, trying to sound unaffected.

But her hardened nipples brushing against his chest betrayed her. She could the heat rising up her cheeks.

"Now," the director clapped, "let's make it spicier. You need to kiss, to put the icing on the cake. "

Hazel stiffened. Kiss? That was not in the plan, and it was the last thing she wanted.

"Is there a problem, Mrs. Torres?" the director asked.

Hazel shook her head. "No."

"I see you're shy," the director teased. "Just pretend we're not here. Imagine it's just the two of you." she winked.

"Yes, Mrs. Torres," Damiete smirked. "Just the two of us."

Hazel wanted to strangle him, then she remembered the money. But instead, she leaned in, heart pounding, and pressed her lips against his.

Damiete didn't hesitate-he kissed her like he meant it.

"You're a good kisser," he murmured against her mouth. "And your lips..."

"I'm just doing what the director asked," she snapped, pulling away.

The next scene was a bed shot.

Hazel changed into black lingerie. Damiete wasn't handcuffed again-he was very happy.

She straddled him, her hands on the red silk tie around his neck. His hands gripped her ass, his breath hot against her skin.

"I preferred the red," he whispered in her ear. "Black's still sexy though."

"No one asked for your opinion." She smiled for the camera, but her voice was sharp.

"You're one feisty woman," he growled, pulling her closer. "That's what makes you unforgettable... even after five years."

Her blood boiled. That did it. Any sensual thoughts she'd been having evaporated. She glared at him.

The director clapped. "Perfect look, Hazel. Hold that expression."

The cameras clicked taking more photos.

When it finally ended, the director promised to reach out to her with a copy of the magazine before launch. The team packed up and left.

An hour later, the door shut behind the last members of the crew. The penthouse was shrouded in a defeaning silence, heavy and electric.

Hazel exhaled. Her skin still tingled where his hands had been, her lips still burned from the kiss she wasn't supposed to enjoy.

"I'm taking a bath." she wrapped her robe tightly around her.

"Already running from me?" he asked, his voice calm and amused.

Hazel turned to face him. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," he got off the bed, stretching his arms lazily above his head. "you're in a hurry to escape."

"I was half-naked in front of people for half an hour, I need a bath."

"Strangers," he chuckled. "You kissed me like there was no one here aside us."

"You kissed me back too," she pointed out, chin raised.

He shrugged. "I never said I didn't want to."

She stepped back. "That wasn't real. We were working."

"Were we?" His tone was dark, playful. "Because your body said otherwise."

Hazel's cheeks burned red with embarrassment. She hated how right he was, and how her body had given her away so many times.

"Ten million dollars, Mr. Torres," she reminded him coldly. "That's what this is. Not a love story." she rolled her eyes.

Damiete moved very quickly, trapping her in between himself and the wall. His palm braced beside her head, his voice dropping.

"Then stop looking at me like I'm the only man who you've ever gone to bed with."

Their eyes locked for what felt like forever-heat, resentment, tension, something unspoken burning in the space between them.

"You're mine, hazel. For this one year, every inch of you belongs to me, and I'll make sure it stays so."

Hazel stepped closer, her eyes burned with hatred. "And I'm going to make sure you suffer just the same way I did."