Chapter 2 Moving In

I thought signing the contract was the hard part.

I was wrong.

The hard part was when Damien's driver pulled up in front of my crumbling apartment building in a black Maybach, and all my neighbors came out to stare.

"You have ten minutes," the driver said.

Ten minutes to pack my entire life.

I ran upstairs. My mom was asleep on the couch, her scarf wrapped around her head. The chemo had taken all her hair last month.

"Mom," I whispered, shaking her gently. "Mom, we're moving."

She opened her eyes. "Lila? What time is it?"

I had told her I got a new job. A live-in housekeeper job for a very rich family. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"It pays a lot, Mom. Enough for your treatment. Enough for everything. But I have to live there."

She touched my face. "Is it safe?"

I thought of cold grey eyes and a thumb on my lip.

"I think so," I lied.

I packed one small suitcase. That was all I had that was worth taking. Two pairs of jeans, three old tops, my bookstore uniform, and a photo of me and my mom.

When I came back down, the driver was holding the door open like I was someone important.

The penthouse at night was even more terrifying than during the day.

Damien was waiting for me in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had taken off his jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, showing strong, veined forearms.

He looked at my tiny, battered suitcase and his jaw tightened.

"That's all you have?"

"It's all I need."

He scoffed. "We have a problem then. My grandfather is coming for dinner tomorrow. He cannot see my wife dressing like a charity case. You will embarrass me before we even start."

My eyes stung. "I don't have money for new clothes. That's why I'm here, remember?"

He stared at me for a long second, then put his glass down and walked toward me. I backed up until my back hit the door.

He stopped right in front of me. Too close. I could smell his cologne - expensive, woody, intoxicating.

"Lila," he said, his voice low. "You are Mrs. Sterling now. At least for the next six months. My wife does not wear rags. My wife wears Dior. Do you understand?"

"I - I understand."

"Good." He stepped back and picked up his phone. "Elena will be here in twenty minutes with clothes. Your room is down the hall, last door on the left. Do not enter my room. Ever."

"My room?"

"Yes. We are married, but we are not that married. We will have separate rooms. This is business."

Of course. Separate rooms. No sex. No falling in love. Rules.

So why did my chest feel a little... disappointed?

Twenty minutes later, a beautiful woman named Elena arrived with racks and racks of clothes. Dresses, heels, bags. All designer. All my size.

"How did you know my size?" I asked Damien.

"I know everything about you, Lila," he said without looking up from his laptop. "I told you. I had you checked."

I went into my room - my room was bigger than our entire old apartment - and tried on a black dress. It hugged me perfectly. I had never felt so beautiful. And so fake.

When I came out, Damien finally looked up.

He stared. His eyes went from my face, down to my waist, down to my legs, and back up again. His throat moved as he swallowed.

For a moment, the cold CEO was gone. He just looked like a man looking at a woman.

"You'll do," he said hoarsely, quickly looking back at his laptop. But his hands were clenched tight.

Elena smiled knowingly. "Mr. Sterling has good taste."

That night, I lay in a bed that was softer than clouds, in a room that cost more than my life, wearing silk pajamas that cost $500.

And I stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the penthouse, wondering if I had just sold my soul.

Then there was a knock on my door.

"Lila?" It was Damien's voice.

I opened the door. He was standing there in black pajama pants and no shirt.

My mouth went dry. The man had abs that looked photoshopped.

"My grandfather calls early," he said, his eyes avoiding mine. "He will want to speak to you tomorrow. If he asks how we met -"

"How did we meet?" I interrupted. We never discussed it.

He stepped into my room, closing the door behind him.

"We met at the bookstore you work at. I came in to buy a first edition for my grandfather. You recommended poetry. I fell in love with your mind before your body. Tell him that."

"That's... actually romantic."

"It's a lie. Just remember it." He turned to leave, then stopped. He looked back at me, his eyes lingering on my silk pajamas.

"And Lila? Don't ever open the door dressed like that again. Unless you want me to break my own rules."