Chapter 4 Welcome To the team

The roaring chaos of the Barcelona airport terminal faded into a sharp, high-pitched ringing in my ears. On my screen, the TikTok overlay of Elena flaunting her diamond ring next to my fake caption had just ticked past 30 million views.

My phone vibrated so hard against my palm it practically burned. The screen lit up with a restricted number.

I swallowed the lump of absolute panic in my throat, slid my thumb across the glass, and brought the phone to my ear. "H-hello?"

"Mia?" A woman’s voice cut through the speaker. It wasn't the screeching rage of an internet mob. It was cold, clipped, and terrifyingly precise. "My name is Victoria Vance. I am Damien Grey’s primary manager. Do not hang up."

My heart did a violent flip against my ribs. "Look, Ms. Vance, I can explain—"

"Save it," Victoria interrupted smoothly. "You are currently sitting near Gate 12. If you look out the glass doors to your right, a black Mercedes van with tinted windows is waiting at the VVIP curb. The driver knows your name. I suggest you get in."

"Am I being sued?" I stammered, my legs turning to pure jelly as I stood up from the airport bench. "Because I don't have money for a legal battle. I spent half my life savings just to—"

"Your safety is guaranteed, Mia. For now," Victoria stated, her voice leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "We are in a private, high-security suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Mr. Grey is waiting. You have exactly three minutes to get into the car before the paparazzi realize who you are."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, I was being ushered up a private service elevator and led down a plush, carpeted hallway. My mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. When the security guard opened the double doors to the luxury penthouse suite, I took a deep breath, preparing myself to face a firing squad of corporate lawyers.

Instead, I walked right into a hurricane.

"How the hell did security let a civilian into the VVIP lounge in the first place?!"

The voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards and rattled my teeth.

Damien Grey was pacing the floor of the suite like a caged panther. He was wearing a dark, custom-tailored three-piece suit, the jacket discarded on a nearby velvet sofa, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal a glimpse of dark tattoos. He was massive—easily 6'3"—and the sheer, suffocating aura of his presence filled the entire room. He was furious.

"Mr. Grey, she's here," Victoria said quietly, stepping aside.

Damien whipped around. His piercing, dark eyes locked onto mine, and the words died completely in my throat.

Up close, he didn't look human. He looked like an apex predator. The sharp, aristocratic angles of his jawline, the intense focus in his gaze, the dangerous symmetry of his face—it was utterly devastating. He started walking toward me, demanding to know why I had leaked such a ridiculous lie to the press, his voice lecturing me about PR damages and family boundaries.

But my brain completely short-circuited. I didn't hear a single syllable.

God, he is beautiful, my mind screamed in a frantic, unhelpful loop. I was just staring at the crisp line of his collar, completely hypnotized by the way he moved. I was a finance nerd; I dealt with numbers and logic, but looking at Damien Grey felt like staring directly into the sun.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors burst open. Marcus, a giant, stoic British man who looked like he headed Damien’s security detail, rushed into the room. He didn't look at me. He walked straight to Damien and whispered something urgently into his ear.

I caught fragmented words: "...Julian leaked the memo... conservative board... demanding stability..."

In an instant, Damien’s furious countenance completely vanished.

The storm in his eyes cleared, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. He blinked, slowly turning his gaze back to me. It felt like he was evaluating a highly profitable stock option.

He took a slow step forward, unbuttoning the top link of his collar. "I'll be your boyfriend for a month."

The room went dead silent.

"What?" I gasped, the shock finally forcing my brain back online. "I... excuse me?"

"You heard me," Damien said, his tone entirely unbothered now, as if he hadn't just been trying to incinerate me with his eyes two seconds ago. "I will play the role of your boyfriend for the next thirty days. We go to the wedding in Italy together. We give the media exactly what they want."

I shook my head, utterly lost. This was looking too good to be true. It felt like God had literally come down from heaven to intervene in my pathetic life, giving me a weapon to completely obliterate Elena and Harry's smugness. But I wasn't an idiot. "Why? Why would a global superstar fake-date a civilian? What's the catch?"

"You don't need to know the corporate logistics," Damien said smoothly, gesturing to a seat at the glass conference table. "All you need to know is that we both have a problem, and this solves it. Sit down, Mia. Wait here."

He turned and strode out of the room with Victoria, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

Two grueling hours passed. I paced the hotel room, checking the weather app as a massive storm began to roll over the city, grounding flights. Just as I was about to lose my mind, the doors opened again.

Damien walked back in. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked like a CEO entering a hostile takeover. In his hand, he held a thick, crisp stack of legal documents.

He slid the papers across the glass table, the heavy ring on his finger catching the light.

"The Grey Non-Disclosure & Public Relations Agreement," Damien murmured, his voice low and commanding as he leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "Thirty days, Mia. Strict physical boundaries. Absolute digital blackout. If you sign this, I pay back every cent of your life savings, and I make sure your ex-boyfriend crawls on his knees to apologize to you."

He slid a heavy, expensive fountain pen across the paper, the gold nib gleaming under the hotel chandeliers.

"Sign it," Damien whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "And let's go ruin a wedding."

"Take your time," Damien murmured, leaning back into his leather chair and crossing his legs with an effortless, predatory grace. "Read every line. I don’t like partners who claim they didn't know the rules after the game has already started."

I swallowed hard, pulling the thick stack of papers toward me. My fingers were trembling slightly, but the moment my eyes hit the legal text, my professional finance-nerd brain instinctively took over. I was a corporate auditor. Breaking down complex, terrifying documents was exactly what I was trained to do.

As I scanned the crisp black ink, I couldn't help but deconstruct every single clause in my head.

Clause 1: Scope and Duration.

The contract was active for exactly thirty days. It would begin the second we landed on Italian soil and terminate at precisely midnight after the final Lake Como wedding event. The objective was written in cold, clinical legalese, but in plain words? I was being hired to play the role of his exclusive, deeply devoted, long-term girlfriend to project a "stable, family-oriented" image to his business partners and the public. But why? I thought to myself

An image of stability? The irony is almost laughable. But thirty days of playing pretend in exchange for total immunity from Elena’s bullying? I can survive a month of that.

Clause 2: Physical Boundaries and Performance Cues.

My eyes widened slightly at this section. The contract explicitly stated that Public Displays of Affection—such as hand-holding, brief waist-touching, and polite cheek-kisses—were permitted only when cameras were present or when within direct eyesight of Harry and Elena. Outside of public "performance" hours, there was a strict, zero-tolerance prohibition on unscripted kissing, closed-door intimacy, and any form of sexual contact. Any breach would immediately void the agreement.

Strictly business. No unscripted touching. Perfect. He thinks I’m going to throw myself at him just because he has the jawline of a Roman god. Please. I am here for revenge and a paycheck, Mr. Grey. Keep your hands to yourself and we won't have a problem.

Clause 3: Financial Consideration and Expenses.

This was the part that made my breath hitch. Grey Enterprises agreed to completely reimburse the thousands of euros I had wiped from my life savings for that cursed VVIP ticket. Even better? Upon successful completion of the thirty days, a massive lump sum would be deposited into my account—an amount that would secure my financial freedom for the next five years. Furthermore, all travel, security, and styling expenses—explicitly routing through my friend Tali's boutique—would be fully funded by his corporation.

Five years of total financial independence. I could quit my grueling corporate firm, start my own consulting practice, and never have to worry about rent again. And he’s funding Tali’s styling? Tali is going to scream so loud she’ll wake the dead. This isn't a contract; it's a lottery ticket.

Clause 4: The Emotional Firewall.

This clause was practically dripping with corporate ice. Both parties had to legally acknowledge that this was a transactional, mutually beneficial arrangement. Developing genuine attachments, catching feelings, or displaying signs of romantic vulnerability was strictly prohibited. If either party tried to make the relationship real, the contract would be instantly terminated and the payout forfeited.

Catch feelings for an unbothered, arrogant billionaire superstar? Not a chance. My heart was broken by a trust-fund boy once; I’m not about to let his terrifying uncle finish the job. This heart is under lock and key.

Clause 5: Absolute Digital and Media Blackout.

Mia was forbidden from posting Damien Grey on her personal social media. I could not speak to journalists, I could not take unapproved photos, and every single public statement had to be routed through Victoria "The Dragon" Vance. If I leaked even a whisper of this contract to the press, Damien's legal team would sue me into absolute, generational bankruptcy.

Total control. Victoria wants to pull all the strings. She thinks because I'm a civilian, I'm a liability who's going to post tacky selfies for clout.

I let out a slow, quiet breath, looking up from the final page.

The terms were rigid, controlling, and incredibly strict. In any other circumstance, a legal document like this would have sent me running in the opposite direction. But right now? With my flight back home likely grounded by the storm, my savings deleted, and my toxic ex preparing to parade his new fiancé in front of the world?

This contract wasn't a trap. It was my salvation. It was a golden, ironclad shield that would allow me to walk into that wedding and completely shatter Harry and Elena's smug reality, all while securing my financial future.

I looked Damien dead in the eye, uncapped the heavy gold fountain pen, and pressed the nib to the paper.

With a swift, practi

ced motion, I signed my name at the bottom of the page.

"Welcome to the team, Mia," Damien murmured, his deep voice sending a sudden, unexpected shiver straight down my spine as he reached across the table to claim the document.