Darkly His: The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

"Don't play with me, Steele." He growled dangerously, and Merry giggled.

"Well...." She said. "I prefer the name 'Steele' without that 'Missy' word backing it up."

The elevator dinged open. His office unfolded-floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp lines, cold colors, some flower vases and perfect order.

A perfect view of the bustling californian city.

It was beyond luxury and elegance.

She sat before he ordered her to.

Merry's eyes drifted-not to him, but to the desk.

Her fingers reached out without thinking, brushing a slim metal pill case near his blotter, cool under her touch.

Damon's gaze followed the movement instantly.

"Don't touch that," he said, too quick, too sharp-for something that small.

She stopped, then withdrew her hand as if she'd touched something private.

"Damon," she said plainly, "we both know this is a sweet opportunity. And we both know I'd do a fucking good job with everything you described yesterday. Don't drag this. I've got a handful of things to deal with."

"Don't swear around here. This is...."

He avoided her eyes.

She stood, walked around the desk, and stopped right in front of him.

His jaw tightened.

"We're wasting time," she murmured.

She lifted her leg and pressed her heel right at the crease between his torso and thighs one tiny inch from the masculine bulge beneath his suit pants.

He flinched, shocked she'd dare.

"What are you doing, Merry?"

"Showing you what you've been missing for months. And what I could take away again."

He tried to stay composed. He failed.

Her foot moved only lightly and his hip jerked. Their eyes locked. She smiled.

Then she stepped back.

Damon grabbed her waist instantly-reflex, instinct, maybe memory.

"Don't touch me, Damon. The job hasn't been taken yet. And until it is, you don't get access."

She guided his hands off her body.

He was silent. His jaw tight. His eyes dark. His hip stiff.

She cupped the back of his head, massaging slowly. "Relax. Can't believe you still want me that bad."

His voice rasped, "Steele. Just sex. Forget what you're thinking. I just want your body."

"Damon," Merry said evenly, "we both know why I'm here. You need control. Appearances. Someone who fits the picture and won't bore you to death."

She sat and leaned back, crossing her legs. "And I'm good at my job."

His jaw tightened. "This isn't a game."

"No," she said softly. "It's an arrangement. A family problem, I guess."

She stood and walked slowly to the glass desk, slow enough to make him aware of every step.

"We're wasting time. Aren't you excited about being my fiancé?" she murmured.

Damon didn't move. Didn't look at her. But the tension in him gave him away.

"Just sex," he said at last, like a warning. "No complications."

Merry laughed quietly. "What else did you think it'd be about."

Then, she went to sit again, smirking back into his watchful blue eyes.

"Give me the fucking contract papers, Damon Blackwell. I'll need a good lawyer."

Damon was suddenly in front of her. He slipped his hand into her hair.

"What....?"

Damon only smirked softly and stepped back.

****

****

As Merry walked out of the lawyer's office, she smiled softly.

Three missed calls.

All from Samantha.

Merry smiled faintly and didn't return them yet.

When the elevator opened into the lobby, Damon was already there.

Waiting.

Not pacing. Not watching the doors. Just standing, hands in his pockets, coat on, expression neutral.

"You don't linger," he said, walking beside her without looking.

"I like efficiency." He pushed open the glass doors. "Your contract's digital copy will be emailed within the hour. NDA included. Violation penalties are... severe."

She stepped into the afternoon light. Cameras across the street shifted, curiously.

Merry noticed. Damon didn't need to.

He stopped just short of the curb. Cars rolled past. The city pretended not to care.

"You cook," Damon said. "You attend what I attend. You don't speak to the press unless approved. You don't improvise."

She turned to face him, eyes bright. "You just hired me to improvise your life."

A pause.

Then, Damon spoke: "You don't fall in love with me."

Merry tilted her head, teasing. "Too late to make that rule."

Then, she huffed, irritated.

"WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE EVEN WORTH LOVING?"

His jaw flexed. "You don't use the past also."

"Then don't make me talk about it," she said simply.

Another pause. Longer.

Finally, he nodded once. Not agreement. Acceptance.

"My driver will pick you up at seven," he said. "You're moving into the penthouse tonight."

"Not tonight, Damon. I have my kitchen staffs to deal with first. Tomorrow."

"I want efficiency."

She smiled, slow and knowing. "You're already breaking my own rules, Damon. You'll have to manage me."

He met her gaze then. Really met it.

"This is temporary," he said. "You leave at year-end."

Merry stepped back, the noise of the city rushing in between them.

She walked away before he could answer.

Across the street, a phone lifted. A photo snapped.

Damon watched her go, something tight settling behind his chest.

****

****

Morning came too bright.

Damon was already awake when the glass walls of the penthouse began to shine with sunlight.

He stood at the window, shirt half-buttoned, coffee untouched on the counter behind him. His reflection stared back, eyes rimmed dark, hair tousled, jaw set too tight, like sleep had been a personal insult.

He hadn't looked at the bed since he rose.

Merry was going to be there soon. Curled on her side. Breathing. Sleeping.

That was the problem.

He turned away before the thought finished forming.

His phone buzzed.

A message from his father.

"Board meeting moved forward. PREPARE. Your image matters more than ever. Don't embarrass me. Have you gotten that fiancée?"

Damon locked the screen without replying.

The elevator ride up to his office was silent and brutal.

By the time he reached the executive floor, the mask was back in place.

Cold, precise, impenetrable.

The moment he stepped out, everything irritated him.

"Good morning, sir," his assistant said too brightly.

He didn't answer.

A junior analyst trailed him with a tablet, voice eager. "Few minutes ago, the board rescheduled the meeting to eleven-"

"I said nine," Damon snapped without breaking stride.

"Yes, sir, but Martin's office called-"

Damon stopped so abruptly the analyst nearly collided with him.

"I don't care what Martin's office wants," he said quietly.

The quiet was worse than shouting.

The analyst swallowed. "Understood, sir."

They moved again. Faster.

A catered breakfast sat untouched. Someone had chosen pastries with powdered sugar. Damon stared at them like they were an offense.

"Who ordered this?" he asked.

A staffer raised her hand hesitantly. "You usually-"

"Get it out," he said. "Now."

She scrambled.

His assistant tried again, cautiously. "Sir, if you'd like to postpone-"

"No. Call them in now."

The word landed hard.

A steel case slipped from someone's hand. Damon flinched at the sound before he could stop himself.

The room noticed.

His fingers curled slowly at his side.

Unacceptable.

"Why are you all standing there?" he snapped coldly. "If you don't have something useful to add, leave."

They left.

Too fast.

Too obedient.

When the door shut, Damon gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. He stared at the polished surface until his reflection blurred.

Control. He needed control.

His hand went where it always did-automatic, unthinking.

Nothing.

He paused.

He checked the blotter. The pen. The edge of the desk.

His hand moved again, slower this time. He shifted a folder. Checked the corner. Ran his fingers along the smooth surface like the answer might be hiding in plain sight.

The pill case was gone.

The reaction was immediate and sharp. Not panic but worse.

He straightened, jaw tightening, breath measured. He stood very still, counting once. Twice.

He never misplaced anything.

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

His fingers closed around something that did not belong to him.

****

****

At lunchtime, Merry ate with him publicly.

Dressed. Calm. Watching him like she already knew.

"You yelled at three people," she said mildly, setting a mug down on the table. "One of them almost cried."

"I pay them well," he replied. "They'll recover."

She didn't argue. Didn't smile.

"That wasn't about them. You're acting and I think I'll enjoy some parts of your show. Not all, though."

He froze just for a fraction of a second.

"What do you mean, Steele?"

"You're in trouble somehow," she said. Not a question.

Silence thickened.

He poured himself coffee he wouldn't drink. "You don't get to diagnose me."

"No," she agreed easily. "But I get to notice patterns. You get cruel when you're scared of things."

His jaw tightened.

"You were shaking," she said softly. "Your hands. You didn't even notice."

That hit.

He set the cup down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim.

"This arrangement," he said coldly, "does not include emotional analysis."

Merry held his gaze, unflinching.

"Then stop making me see your weaknesses," she said. "Be extra-cold."

Damon looked like he would strangle her.