CAMERA AND CHAOS

The moving trucks lumbered along, hulking and weirdly quiet, spitting Lena’s sad little collection of boxes into the belly of Damien’s penthouse. Argento Heights stretched below—a mess of lights and glass, all glitz, all hustle. Lena squeezed Noah’s hand so tight she was probably cutting off his circulation. The air tasted sharper up here, like it’d been filtered through money.

Stepping inside? Honestly, it felt like breaking into some art gallery where you’re pretty sure security’s about to ask what you’re doing with those scuffed shoes. Blinding white walls, freaky expensive art pieces that screamed “look, I’m rich,” and furniture so minimalist you’d swear you weren’t allowed to sit on it. Sure, it was stunning—but not the kind of place you could ever plop down and spill popcorn on the couch.

“Whoa,” Noah said, eyes round as saucers, nose pressed to the glass. “You can see everything, Mom! Like, everything-everything!”

“Yeah, buddy, the whole city.” Lena faked a peppy grin, even though her stomach was doing Olympic-level flips. She’d never felt so small in her life, like she’d wandered into a movie set and everyone else had the script but her.

Damien was already there, leaning against a marble column like he owned the world. Which, in this zip code, maybe he did. The guy looked annoyingly perfect—tailored suit, dark hair, that face. He could sell cologne in a magazine ad and you’d believe it. Total predator vibes, but in a way people paid extra for.

“Welcome,” he said, all smooth and echo-y, like the apartment itself was showing off. “Settle in. Someone’ll show you around.”

“Thank you, Mr. Locke!” Noah piped up, way too polite for a kid who once licked a subway pole. Lena gave his hand a squeeze, the international sign for “remember your manners, don’t embarrass me.”

Then, out of nowhere, this woman appeared—Ms. Sterling, straight out of a Vogue spread, heels clicking like she’d rehearsed it. She led them through a hallway that could’ve doubled as a bowling lane, finally stopping at a suite that made Lena’s old apartment look like a closet. Actually, the closet here probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

“This is… something else,” Lena whispered, trying not to sound like she’d never seen a chandelier that big outside of a hotel lobby.

“It’s awesome, Mom!” Noah yelled, already doing cannonballs onto the giant bed. “Can we live here forever?”

“Not forever,” Lena said, forcing a smile. “Just… a bit.”

Unpacking was laughable. Her stuff barely filled one corner of the closet, like a goldfish in a swimming pool. She wandered out to find Noah eyeing Damien, who was deep in a conference call. The kid’s curiosity was dialed up to eleven.

“Mom,” Noah whispered, tugging her sleeve, “Mr. Locke has my eyes.”

Lena froze. Yeah, she’d seen it too—that same freaky shade of blue that could cut glass. A color she’d hoped never to see again, at least not in this context.

“Lots of people have blue eyes, sweetie,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

Noah just frowned. “Yeah, but his are exactly the same. And our skin’s the same, too. Why, Mom?”

Damien hung up, eyes flicking to Noah—something unreadable there. “Just a coincidence, Noah. It happens.”

“Oh,” Noah said, clearly not buying it. “But Mom says I’m a genius. Maybe I know stuff you don’t.”

Lena’s heart did a nosedive. Nope, not going there. “Hey, want to check out the game room? Ms. Sterling said it’s epic.”

Noah was off like a shot. Lena turned to Damien, shooting daggers. “He asks a lot of questions. Maybe don’t encourage him.”

“And you’re terrified he’ll ask the wrong one,” Damien replied, deadpan. “I get it. But I’m not lying to him.”

“Then don’t bring it up at all,” Lena hissed. “This is complicated enough without him putting two and two together.” Her voice crumpled on the last word.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang—perfect timing. Ms. Sterling glided to answer and then announced, “Ms. Vivian Hale is here to see you, Mr. Locke.”

Vivian Hale. Of course. Lena knew the name—who didn’t? Socialite, professional homewrecker, Damien’s maybe-girlfriend, depending on the week.

Vivian stormed in, all legs, perfume, and designer attitude. She smiled at Damien, but her eyes ran over Lena like she was sizing up a knockoff purse.

“Damien, darling,” she purred, not even glancing at Lena. “Heard the news. Congrats. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Damien’s jaw ticked, but his voice stayed cool. “Vivian, meet Lena Cruz—my fiancée. Lena, Vivian Hale. She’s… a friend.”

Finally, Vivian turned, her smile sharp enough to cut. “So, you’re the lucky one. Gotta say, you’re not what I pictured, to be more clear, you're not his type. But then, Damien’s always had a thing for surprises.”

Lena wasn’t about to wilt under that glare. She squared her shoulders, stared Vivian down. “And what exactly is Damien’s type?”

Vivian’s eyes did this little twitchy thing—annoyance, pure and simple. “Someone who actually gets this world. Someone who can float through all these parties and fake smiles without tripping over their own feet. Someone who… fits.” The way she said “fits,” you’d think Lena was a pair of shoes two sizes too big.

Lena, bless her, pasted on a smile that looked like it might crack if you poked it. “Hey, I’m a fast learner. Damien can show me the ropes, can’t you, babe?” She linked arms with Damien, who was just radiating tension like he was trying to win an award for it.

“Of course,” Damien said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. He pretty much herded Vivian toward the door. “Always a pleasure, Vivian, but we’ve got a mountain of pre-wedding nonsense to deal with. You know how it is.”

Vivian’s grin was all teeth, no warmth. “Naturally. Best of luck, both of you. Though, darling,” she shot at Damien over her shoulder, “don’t expect everyone to buy into this little show. Some of us have known you too long to be fooled.”

And off she went, leaving a thick cloud of awkward in her wake. Lena let go of Damien’s arm, suddenly feeling like she’d shown up at a masquerade ball in sweatpants.

“She’s not buying it,” Lena muttered.

“Most people won’t,” Damien replied, not bothering to put any feeling into it. “But that’s not the point. It’s all about the illusion.”

Later, once Noah was tucked in and the world was quiet, Lena found herself in the living room, just kind of marinating in her own imposter syndrome. The windows stretched floor to ceiling, and the city outside sparkled like it was showing off. Lena just felt small, like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

Damien drifted in with two glasses of wine, face unreadable as always. He handed her one.

“To keeping up appearances,” he said, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast.

Lena took a sip, the wine burning on the way down. “To appearances,” she echoed, voice tight and maybe a little bitter.

Awkward silence. You could practically chew the tension. Damien reached out and took her hand—soft, almost gentle.

“You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “Seriously. Thank you.”

Lena jerked her hand away, every muscle on edge. “Don’t get any weird ideas, Damien. This is just business.”

He smiled, but his eyes caught the light in a way that made her nervous. “Sure. But business gets messy sometimes.”

Next day? Total circus. Cameras everywhere, stylists, PR people buzzing around like caffeinated bees. Lena got the full Cinderella treatment—hair, makeup, the whole nine yards. She parroted whatever lines Damien’s team fed her, smiled until her cheeks ached, and basically felt like a marionette in a very expensive dress.

During one shoot, Damien slid an arm around her waist, all possessive for the cameras. Flash, flash, flash. Then—bam—he spun her around and kissed her.

Not a peck. Not for show. It was deep, hungry, and way too familiar. Suddenly she was back in that moment she tried to forget—the night she’d let herself get lost with a stranger.

When he finally pulled away, Lena was gasping, heart going nuts, the photographers still snapping like they’d just won the lottery.

And then? Just like that, the crew started packing up, and Damien walked out. No words, nothing.

Alone in her room, Lena paced like a caged animal, brain short-circuiting. Eventually, she found Damien in the living room, staring out at the endless city lights.

“You kissed me like you actually meant it,” she bit out, voice shaking.

Damien turned, eyes burning. “And what if I did?”