Chapter 2 Terms Of Engagement

Celeste Laurent was no stranger to high-stakes negotiations. She'd closed multi-million-dollar film deals, walked red carpets with studio executives who smiled through gritted teeth, and dodged sharks disguised as friends in Hollywood's glittering elite, but standing in front of Damien Sinclair, she realized something frighteningly different: this wasn't business. This wasn't contracts, publicity, or power plays. This was about survival and control.

Celeste gripped the edge of the penthouse bar, nails pressing into cool marble. Across the room, Damien leaned lazily against the couch, impossibly composed, as if he hadn't just coerced her into a fake engagement with a look alone, a cold, unreadable stare that made her skin prickle.

She hated him. She hated that he could make chaos look effortless.

"So." She folded her arms, trying to anchor herself. "How exactly do you plan on making this engagement... 'real'?"

Damien tilted his head, assessing her like a chess player analyzing his opponent. "The way every power couple does."

Celeste arched a brow. "Oh? Enlighten me."

"We give them a story." His voice was silk over steel. "A grand romance, carefully curated appearances, candidly leaked moments, and a ring so iconic that even the press, and our enemies, buy it."

She laughed, short and incredulous. "You've really thought this through."

"I had to." His jaw tightened. "This wasn't an accident, Celeste. Someone is trying to control the narrative. If we don't, we both lose."

Her stomach sank. He was right. Hollywood thrived on perception. She had built her empire on it: precise choices, calculated appearances, and never letting scandal dictate her career. This wasn't a fleeting rumor. This was a bomb with her name written all over it. If it exploded publicly, the fallout could destroy her, and Damien, too.

She exhaled sharply. "Fine. On my terms."

His lips quirked in that faint, dangerous half-smile. "I'd expect nothing less."

"First," she said, lifting her chin, "there's an expiration date. Three months. No extensions. No surprises."

A flicker of amusement crossed him. "Three months? The media will expect a wedding in six."

"Then you'd better have a convincing breakup planned," she snapped.

Damien simply raised a hand, a silent gesture to continue.

"Secondly," she pressed, "this isn't a real relationship. No blurred lines."

His gaze darkened, unthreatening yet magnetic. "Define 'blurred lines.'"

Celeste's jaw tightened. "You know exactly what I mean."

The silence that followed was electric. "Once, there had been no lines, only fire. Heartbreak that scorched them both, leaving ashes in its wake."

She shoved the memory away.

Damien's expression didn't change, but his eyes sparked a challenge.

"Anything else?"

"Yes." She straightened. "I don't trust you. I will not be controlled."

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. "That's not a condition. That's just who you are."

She ignored the pulse of irritation his words caused. Instead, she pulled out her phone. "I need to call my publicist. Damage control starts now."

He leaned in, voice firm. "Not yet."

Celeste blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You call your publicist, it leaks before we're ready. We plan the first move. Together."

Her jaw clenched. The last thing she wanted was to strategize with Damien like partners in business, but he was right. She exhaled, slow and sharp. "Fine. What's the plan?"

Damien pulled a sleek leather notebook from his jacket, flipping it open. One word appeared on the page: Paris.

Celeste's pulse skipped. "Paris?"

"An engagement party," he said, calm as ever.

Her stomach lurched. "You're kidding."

"I don't joke about business."

"Absolutely not. I am not flying to Paris for some media spectacle."

"You are." He closed the notebook, slipping the pen into his pocket. "It's the only way to control the scandal. First impression, not them."

Her stomach turned. Cameras, lights, fake smiles, and Damien Sinclair pretending to be her lover, and yet, he was right.

She clenched her fists. "I hate you."

He smiled faintly. "I know."

Three days later, she was on a private jet to Paris.

She adjusted oversized sunglasses as flashes from paparazzi outside painted the tarmac in strobe-like chaos. Headlines had already hit: Celeste Laurent and Damien Sinclair Jet to Paris for Exclusive Engagement Celebration!

The media was ravenous.

Damien, perfectly composed, scrolled through his phone across from her, as if their "engagement" weren't the most calculated stunt in Hollywood.

Celeste sat opposite him, pulling out her phone. Her publicist's messages blinked insistently.

Emily: Are you sure about this?

Emily: It's Sinclair, you two have history.

Emily: History that burned everything to ash.

Celeste typed back, trying to sound decisive.

Celeste: I don't have a choice. Three months.

She lifted her gaze. "You better have an ending planned."

His eyes were unreadable. "Do you really want it to end?"

Her pulse spiked. "What did he mean by that?" She refused to give him a hint.

"Yes," she said firmly.

For a moment, silence. Then Damien leaned back, smirk curling his lips. "Then we make everyone believe it."

Celeste exhaled slowly. "Three months. That's it. Play the role, fake the passion, smile for the cameras, then walk away. I can do this..."

But inside, a whisper she refused to hear: "surviving Damien Sinclair a second time might be impossible."

As the jet lifted, Paris below them, the city lights like spilled diamonds, Celeste felt it, something was already shifting. A spark, a danger, a temptation she couldn't name, and then there was Damien Sinclair, impossibly calm, already two steps ahead, controlling a game she didn't even know she was playing.

The hum of the jet engines was steady, almost hypnotic, but Celeste couldn't relax. She pressed her fingers into the armrests, trying to ignore the tight coil of nerves that were building up inside.

Damien Sinclair on the other hand, was sitting across from her, impeccably dressed, utterly calm, scrolling through his phone as though this trip to Paris were a casual weekend getaway.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though her voice carried an edge.

Damien looked up, his gaze locking on hers with that same unreadable intensity. "Sometimes."

She let out a sharp laugh, more bitter than amused. "You're impossible."

"I prefer 'relentless,'" he corrected, tilting his head, "and you're, predictably defiant."

Celeste felt a flicker of heat rise to her cheeks. "Defiant? That's one way to put it."

He stood, crossing the cabin with that effortless control that always seemed to leave her breathless. He stopped just a few feet away, leaning casually against the seat in front of her. His presence was magnetic, dangerous, and maddeningly intoxicating.

"You're tense," he said softly, almost a purr. "Told you this would be more than a photo op."

"I am not tense," she snapped, though her pulse betrayed her.

"You are," he murmured, stepping closer. His gaze swept over her like a predator, slow, deliberate. "And I could fix that... if you let me."

Celeste's stomach fluttered. She clenched her jaw. "Do not let him get to you. Do not."

Damien smirked. "Ah, I see. You want to resist. Fine. I like a challenge."

She swallowed hard. His words stirred something dangerous inside her, a mix of frustration, desire, and... fear. She had survived Hollywood storms, ruthless competitors, and public scrutiny, but Damien Sinclair was another level entirely.

The jet jolted slightly as they hit turbulence. Celeste's fingers dug into the leather of her seat. Damien reached out, his hand brushing hers. She flinched but didn't pull away.

"Relax," he murmured, his thumb tracing idle patterns over her knuckles. "It's just turbulence... for now."

Her pulse jumped at the intimacy of the touch. She wanted to pull away, but a part of her didn't. A part of her wanted to lean in, close the distance he'd created effortlessly between them.

"You're infuriating," she hissed.

"And you, my dove, are exquisite," he countered softly, leaning closer. The scent of his cologne wrapped around her like a velvet cage. "Always so precise, so controlled. I know exactly how to push you, yet you never break, at least not fully."

Celeste's throat tightened. "Why does he do this to me?"

Damien's lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. "We'll be in Paris soon. Cameras, cameras, cameras, but behind closed doors, we can have... other kinds of negotiations."

She shivered despite herself. "Don't."

"Too late," he said, his gaze dropping just enough to ignite something primal in her. "I already have."

She wanted to yell, to fight, to assert control, but the truth was, she was already losing. That magnetic pull he had over her was undeniably effortless, and the fact that they were about to go public with their engagement only made every look, every brush of fingers, every smirk feel infinitely more dangerous.

The rest of the flight passed in a charged silence, punctuated only by the occasional click of his pen against the notebook he kept open. Paris drew closer beneath them, the city lights twinkling like scattered jewels across the dark canvas of night.

When the jet touched down, Celeste forced herself to look composed. She had to. Cameras, flashes, headlines, this was not a moment for hesitation. This was a moment for performance.

Damien stepped out beside her, his arm brushing hers. Her body reacted instantly, heat blooming in a dangerous, impossible way. She had to remind herself that all this wasn't real, that it was just a façade, a game, a strategy."

The media swarmed as they disembarked, and Damien played his role perfectly, charming, effortlessly engaged, the picture of the billionaire playboy in love. Celeste smiled, pressed her lips into a carefully curated curve, her stomach twisting as the cameras clicked.

Inside the limousine, the tension escalated. Damien leaned close, whispering in her ear. "We're playing a dangerous game. Remember... not everyone around us is who they seem, and not every smile is harmless."

Celeste's heart thudded. "I know. I can handle it."

"You'll try," he corrected softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "but remember, I don't play to lose. Not at this table."

Her chest tightened. Not at this table... The words settled deep inside her, along with a warning that was impossible to ignore.

By the time they arrived at the chateau, the sun was setting, painting the Parisian skyline in amber and gold. Photographers snapped, flashes lighting the courtyard like fireworks. Celeste adjusted her gown, aware of every eye on her, and aware of every heartbeat echoing in her chest.

Damien's hand found hers, fingers curling around hers possessively. She jerked slightly but didn't pull away.

"Remember," he murmured, "we're a story. A spectacle, but some stories, they leave scars."

Celeste swallowed. She wanted to argue, to remind him this was temporary, but the look in his eyes told her she was already in deeper than she'd planned.

The gates closed behind them, and inside, the chateau was prepared, a lavish engagement celebration, every detail meticulously designed to dazzle and distract. Media, influencers, industry moguls, all eyes would be on them tonight, and Damien Sinclair, he thrived in the chaos.

She stepped forward, heels clicking on the marble, and Damien's hand lingered at her waist. Just for a moment. A moment that was all it took for her resolve to wobble.

And then she felt it: a presence watching from the shadows, a sense that this engagement, this meticulously planned façade, might not be as controlled as they thought.

Her stomach twisted. Someone's here. Watching. Waiting.

Damien leaned close, whispering in her ear with a heat that made her shiver. "Ready to play our parts?"

Celeste nodded, trying to steady herself, but her mind raced. "This was supposed to be temporary. Three months. That was all."

And yet, as cameras clicked and the lights flashed, she realized one terrifying truth, in Damien Sinclair's world, even pretending could cost her everything, including herself.

As the chateau doors closed behind them and the first wave of guests arrived, Celeste felt an invisible hand tightening around her life. Someone knew more than they should, and that someone wasn't playing by the rules.