Rain whispered against the tinted windows of the black limousine, a soft, relentless percussion that filled the hush inside the car. Camille Aragon sat upright in the backseat, her spine a perfect line of tension. Her slender hands rested over a leather portfolio that contained more secrets than legal documents. The polished heels of her Louboutins clicked softly against the floor with each uneven stone of the Rue de Varennes.
For five years, Camille had carved her path through the gilded battleground of Parisian corporate law, rising where many had fallen. But tonight—tonight was a different kind of negotiation. One no amount of courtroom finesse could fully prepare her for.
This was not a boardroom summons. It was an invitation to Damien Laurent's penthouse.
No explanation. No details. Just a message routed through his personal assistant, signed with the Laurent crest, and a single time. Midnight. Of course it would be midnight—Damien Laurent, Europe's most elusive billionaire, operated by no clock but his own. It suited a man whispered to have as many enemies as he did assets. A man cloaked in the kind of danger that polite society pretended did not exist.
Camille adjusted the crisp collar of her silk blouse and smoothed her skirt with slow, deliberate fingers. Her breath came shallow. There were no accidents in Damien Laurent's world. If he had called her, it was because he wanted something. And no one said no to Damien Laurent.
Not without consequences.
The limousine glided to a stop in front of an imposing steel-and-glass tower. The driver stepped out silently and opened her door as though for royalty. Camille emerged into the rain, her heart already hammering, her expression serene. Control, she reminded herself. Appearances were everything.
The doorman greeted her by name. A nod. No questions. She crossed the gleaming lobby and stepped into the private lift. No other passengers. No buttons, either—the lift simply began its smooth ascent, as though the building itself recognized her presence.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse foyer. Waiting there was Laurent's assistant, a slender woman with elegantly sharp features and an unreadable smile Camille knew well from countless corporate events.
"Right this way, Mademoiselle Aragon," she murmured, gesturing into the vast expanse of the penthouse.
Camille's heels made no sound on the Persian rugs as she followed. The suite was an immaculate display of wealth and power—glass, steel, and rare antiques, curated with almost surgical precision. Cold. Beautiful. Like the man himself.
And there he stood.
Damien Laurent, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Paris skyline glittering behind him. He held a crystal glass in one hand, a file in the other. Dark hair swept back in casual disarray. Grey eyes the color of cold smoke. A face carved in elegant brutality. There was nothing soft about him, nothing that invited warmth. He was not traditionally handsome—he was dangerous. The kind of man whose presence altered the gravity of a room.
"Camille," he said without turning. His voice was low, cultured, and laced with something darker beneath the surface. "Come in. We have a contract to discuss."
Camille inhaled slowly and stepped forward.
This was the game. And it had already begun.
She took her seat across from him in a low leather chair, setting her portfolio on her lap. Damien finally turned, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in everything—posture, expression, the flicker of tension beneath her calm exterior.
He set the glass down and tossed the file onto the table between them.
"Your punctuality is appreciated," he said. "Sit."
"I am sitting," she replied, her tone cool.
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. He liked defiance. It amused him. Or perhaps it intrigued him.
He poured a second drink and handed it to her without asking. Then he sat, one leg crossed over the other, the image of relaxed power.
"That portfolio you brought," he said, "is not why you're here."
Camille tilted her head, meeting his gaze. "Then why am I here, Monsieur Laurent?"
He regarded her for a moment, as if weighing how much of the truth to reveal. Then he spoke, each word deliberate.
"Because you're the only person in my company I can't predict."
The admission was unexpected—and disarming.
"You summoned me for that?"
"No," he said smoothly. "I summoned you because I need something. And you're uniquely suited to provide it."
She kept her expression neutral. "What is it you want?"
"A marriage."
The word landed between them like a weapon.
Camille blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A contract marriage. Six months. Public appearances. A fabricated history. You will be compensated well beyond your current salary. And at the conclusion of our arrangement, you will receive full, uncontested rights to your patents from your tenure at Laurent Bioworks."
Camille's pulse spiked.
He knew. Of course he knew. The years-long legal battle she'd waged in vain to reclaim ownership of her early work—research that had made Laurent Bioworks millions. And now here he was, dangling the prize she'd all but given up on.
It was too calculated. Too fast.
"Why me?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
His gaze darkened, something sharp flickering beneath the surface.
"Because you understand discretion. Because you despise being controlled. And because you are not easily intimidated."
Camille rose abruptly, heart pounding. "This is madness. I'm not some pawn for you to purchase."
Damien stood as well, his movements smooth and unhurried.
"No," he said softly. "You're not for sale. You're for hire. There is a difference."
She turned toward the elevator, her mind racing. His offer burned like acid—impossible to ignore, impossible to accept.
But as the lift doors opened, he spoke one final line, his voice a quiet blade.
"Think carefully, Camille. You're not walking away from a job. You're walking away from freedom."
And damn him—he knew exactly where to cut deepest.
---
The rain followed her home, relentless against her apartment windows. Camille paced the sleek confines of her living room, her mind a storm of calculation and disbelief.
She had read the contract twice now, every clause, every subtle trap. She had brewed tea, then poured wine, then abandoned both. The hours crept toward dawn.
It wasn't about money. It was about power. About leverage. About reclaiming the part of herself that had been stripped away—by Laurent Bioworks, by the endless litigation, by the quiet war she'd fought alone for too long.
And beneath it all, another truth whispered: this was her chance. Not only to regain what was hers—but to get closer to the man who held answers she needed. Damien Laurent wasn't just the gatekeeper of her patents. He was also connected to the tangled web surrounding her brother's unsolved death. Too many coincidences. Too many buried truths.
Camille stood by the window, watching the pale glow of dawn bleed into the sky. Her reflection stared back at her—poised, determined, unyielding.
She no longer wanted safety.
She wanted power.
And if she had to marry Damien Laurent to reclaim it, so be it.
But he had no idea what he was getting in return.
Camille picked up her phone and typed a single message.
I accept.
The reply came within seconds.
Good. The game begins at dawn.