Real or Fake?

Isabella's POV

When Damien said he’d send someone with an outfit, I pictured something classy. Understated. A simple cute dress. But the garment I pulled from the box was anything but.

The fabric was black like ink—luxurious and impossibly soft, yet structured to perfection. It clung to my curves like it had been sewn onto my skin, wrapping around my waist and hugging the swell of my hips. The neckline plunged dangerously low, a sharp V that barely kept my breasts in place. The slit up the thigh whispered scandal. Every step promised a glimpse of sin.

I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.

Ellie had come to fix my hair and makeup. She swept my hair into soft waves that framed my face and painted my lips blood red. It was a look that screamed dangerous woman—and maybe I was one now.

At 7:06, I descended the grand staircase.

Damien was already waiting by the car, glancing at his wristwatch. But the second his eyes landed on me, time stopped.

He looked at me like he was going to strip me out of the dress and take me right there, in the driveway. The terrifying part? I wouldn’t have stopped him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough. “I regret picking that dress.”

“Why?” I managed to ask, barely above a whisper.

“Because now I have to spend the entire night watching other men stare at my fiancée,” he growled, stepping forward and brushing a thumb over my jaw. “And I’m not in the mood to share.”

My heart stuttered. Obsessive. Possessive. Terrifying.

And I was fucking wet.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He opened the car door for me, helping me inside with a gentle hand on the small of my back. When we pulled up to the estate, my jaw nearly unhinged.

It was a mansion carved from dreams—or nightmares, depending on your taste. Massive wrought iron gates, an endless gravel driveway, and white stone walls glowing beneath the moonlight. A fleet of luxury cars lined the circular path, glinting like predators in the dark.

Damien handed me something before we stepped out. A black velvet mask.

“It’s a masquerade,” he said, slipping his own on with expert ease. “Link your arm to mine. And don’t ever let go.”

I nodded, sliding my hand around his bicep. It was solid. Warm. Dangerous.

We stepped through the doors, and the world stopped.

All eyes turned to us.

I could feel the heat of every gaze, the low murmurs of curiosity, envy, lust. We were the storm they didn’t know they were waiting for.

A woman—tall, blonde, too polished to be real—slithered up to Damien and placed a manicured hand on his chest.

“Well, well,” she purred. “I haven’t seen you downtown in a while. When did the playboy become so… tamed?”

Damien didn’t respond. He only tugged me closer by the waist.

I rolled my eyes and knew exactly what he wanted. I plastered a smile across my face and slid my hand over his chest knocking the woman’s hand off, as I tilted my head with mock sweetness.

“Find another dick to hold onto,” I said smoothly. “This one’s taken.”

Her smile wavered before she turned and slithered off.

Damien smirked down at me. “So possessive,” he teased. “Calling my dick yours already?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I muttered angrily, but the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.

We walked deeper into the sea of people. Damien greeted many of them with a calm grace, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries. And each time, he introduced me with the same deliberate words.

“This is Isabella—my fiancée.”

Fake fiancée. But the way he said it made it sound carved in stone. He’s using my real name?

Then we saw her.

Cleo.

Her eyes narrowed the second she spotted us. Her dress—black, elegant, and unmistakably the same one as mine—clung to her body in nearly identical fashion.

“Oh,” she sneered. “Didn’t know frogs had taste. Thanks for ruining my look.”

Then she turned to Damien, plastering a sweet smile. “Damie, someone wants to see you.”

Damien didn’t even flinch. “Why don’t you go find another young man to drain dry? This one’s busy.”

Cleo scowled and turned on her heel.

A moment later, a stout, red-faced man approached Damien. “Mayor wants a word,” he said.

Damien turned to me. “Stay here. Don’t move an inch. And for the love of God, don’t stand out too much.”

I nodded, watching him disappear into a private corner with the mayor. But even as they spoke, his eyes kept returning to me—sharp, protective.

That’s when a man approached.

He was handsome, charmingly so, and not in the overpowering way Damien was. His mask was trimmed in silver, and his suit fit like a second skin.

“You look like you don’t want to be here,” he said, offering me a smile.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone else who doesn’t want to be here either.”

We laughed. He offered his name. I gave a fake one. He handed me his business card.

That’s when Damien returned.

Stormed, actually.

He yanked me away so fast I nearly stumbled, tossing the card at the man’s feet with a glare that could melt bone.

He dragged me into a quiet corner of the mansion. My breath came in sharp bursts.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hissed, ripping the mask off. “Didn’t you say to blend in? What better way than to talk to someone?”

His jaw clenched. He grabbed my chin—firm, but not quite painful. “You think I’ll let some man flirt with what’s mine?”

Before I could respond, his mouth crashed into mine—hot, punishing, greedy.

His hands found my breasts, squeezing roughly through the fabric. His body molded against mine, claiming every inch.

I tried not to respond.

I failed.

I kissed him back, melting into the heat and danger. Our tongues tangled. His hands roamed.

And then—he stopped.

“Don’t talk to another man, princess,” he growled. “You’re my fiancée.”

“Not real,” I gasped. “Fake fiancée.”

He pulled me so close I could barely breathe. “Say that again, and I’ll strip you naked right here and make you understand the difference between real and fake.”

His words sent a bolt of fear—and something else—down my spine.

The dream slammed back into me.

No. No, I can’t let it happen. I can’t let my mind wander. I have to stay sharp.

I said nothing, just watched as he steadied his breath.

Finally, he whispered, “Let’s go back in.”

And I followed.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of champagne flutes, slow jazz, and swaying bodies on the dance floor. I let him guide me. I smiled when needed. I touched when required.

“Where are you going?” Damien asked when I slipped from his grasp.

“Ladies room,” I said. “You’re not allowed in there.”

His frown deepened. “Hurry.”

I nodded and turned, weaving through the crowd until I found the door. Inside, the lights were low and soft. Elegant.

I took a breath.

Then the lights flickered.

And a cloth pressed against my face.

I struggled to escape but couldn’t.

Then, everything went black.