Chapter 3 The Out-of-Control Kiss

The charity gala at the Natural History Museum was my third official appearance as Mrs. Blackwood. Three weeks into our arrangement, and I'd almost perfected the art of the adoring gaze, the gentle touch on Damien's arm, the practiced laugh at his dry observations. Almost.

You're fidgeting, Damien murmured as we ascended the museum steps, camera flashes exploding around us. His hand rested possessively on the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my gown.

These shoes are medieval torture devices, I whispered back through my smile. Not all of us were born to swan around in designer heels.

Those 'torture devices' cost six thousand pounds and were handmade in Milan. His fingers pressed slightly firmer against my spine, guiding me forward. Consider them an investment in our image.

I'd prefer to invest in comfortable footwear and a plane ticket home, I replied, but kept my smile fixed for the cameras.

Inside, the museum's great hall had been transformed. A massive dinosaur skeleton loomed above tables draped in white linen and adorned with centerpieces of rare orchids. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and canapés so artfully arranged they barely resembled food.

Remember, Damien said as he accepted two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, the Alhambra Group will be watching us tonight. Their representatives are—

—sitting at table seven, near the stage. Sheikh Abdullah's nephew Tariq is their lead negotiator. I did my research. I took the offered champagne. I'm not just a pretty face in a painful dress, Damien.

Something that might have been surprise flickered across his features. No, he agreed after a moment. You're not.

We circulated through the crowd, performing our well-rehearsed dance of marital bliss. I'd grown adept at the subtle language of this world—the air kisses that never touched skin, the compliments laced with poison, the strategic positioning of bodies to include or exclude. It was exhausting.

Elena Blackwood! A woman with a helmet of blonde hair and a smile that didn't reach her eyes approached us. I've been dying to meet Damien's mysterious bride.

Victoria. Damien's voice carried a warning note. I see you managed to secure an invitation after all.

Darling, I'm on the board. She turned to me, assessing me like a new purchase she found disappointing. Victoria Pembroke. Damien and I were... close, once upon a time.

How lovely to meet you. I matched her insincere smile with one of my own. Damien hasn't mentioned you.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. No? Well, we do have so much history, it's probably hard to know where to begin.

Ancient history, Damien cut in, his arm slipping around my waist. If you'll excuse us, Victoria, we need to greet our hosts.

As he steered me away, I glanced over my shoulder to see Victoria watching us with narrowed eyes. An ex? I asked quietly.

A mistake, he replied tersely. One I'd prefer not to discuss.

You know, for this arrangement to work, you might consider sharing some basic information about your life. Like a list of vengeful exes I should avoid.

Our arrangement works perfectly well with you knowing exactly what you need to know. Nothing more. His tone ended the conversation.

We took our seats at the head table, where Damien immediately engaged in conversation with the museum's director about tax benefits of charitable giving—a topic so mind-numbing I found myself reaching for a second glass of champagne.

Mrs. Blackwood. A deep voice drew my attention. May I say you bring much-needed beauty to these stuffy affairs.

Tariq Al-Fayez, the Sheikh's nephew, stood beside my chair. Younger than I'd expected, perhaps in his early thirties, with kind eyes and an elegant bearing.

Mr. Al-Fayez. I smiled, genuinely this time. Please, call me Elena.

Only if you call me Tariq. He gestured to the empty chair beside me. May I?

Before I could answer, Damien's hand appeared on my shoulder, his grip just tight enough to communicate displeasure. Tariq, good to see you. His voice was cordial, but I felt the tension radiating from him. I see you've met my wife.

A pleasure indeed, Tariq replied, unfazed by Damien's territorial display. I was just about to ask her about Italy. I'm considering purchasing a small vineyard in Tuscany as a personal investment.

Damien's fingers relaxed slightly on my shoulder. Elena is quite the expert. Her family's vineyard produces some of the region's finest wines.

I shot Damien a surprised look. It was the first genuine compliment he'd ever paid me.

Perhaps you could tell me more, Tariq said, taking the seat beside me. What makes Tuscan soil so special?

For the next hour, I found myself in the most enjoyable conversation I'd had since arriving in London. Tariq was intelligent, well-traveled, and genuinely interested in viticulture. Throughout our discussion, I was acutely aware of Damien beside me, pretending to listen to the museum director while monitoring every word of my conversation.

When dinner concluded and the auction began, servers appeared with fresh rounds of champagne. Tariq excused himself to rejoin his uncle, and Damien immediately leaned toward me.

You're being reckless, he said quietly, his mouth close to my ear. One glass of champagne with dinner is elegant. Three is approaching inappropriate.

I set down my glass with deliberate slowness. Are you counting my drinks now?

I'm protecting our investment. His eyes flicked to where Tariq stood with his uncle. And getting too friendly with Tariq isn't helping matters.

He asked about wine. I answered. It's called conversation, Damien. Some people enjoy it.

He wasn't interested in wine. He was interested in you.

I laughed, the sound sharper than I intended. Jealousy wasn't in our contract, Mr. Blackwood.

Neither was intoxication. He nodded toward a waiter. Water, please.

Stop treating me like a child. I picked up my champagne again, deliberately meeting his eyes as I drained it. I'm your wife, remember? Not your employee.

You're both, actually. His voice was low, dangerous. And right now, you're failing at your job.

Something in me snapped. Weeks of playing the perfect wife, of smiling through his coldness, of pretending we were in love—it all boiled over in an instant.

Then perhaps I quit. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the marble floor. Several heads turned in our direction.

Damien's hand closed around my wrist, his smile never faltering though his eyes blazed with anger. Sit down, he said through clenched teeth. You're making a scene.

Let go of me. I tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

Elena. His voice softened, suddenly concerned. Are you feeling well? You look flushed.

It took me a moment to realize he was creating a cover story. To anyone watching, he was now the concerned husband, not the controlling businessman restraining his rebellious wife.

I—I think I need some air, I said, playing along despite my anger.

Damien stood immediately, his arm sliding around my waist. Excuse us, he said to the table with an apologetic smile. My wife isn't feeling well.

He guided me across the hall, his body tense against mine. We were almost to the exit when Victoria Pembroke stepped into our path, a malicious smile playing on her lips.

Leaving so soon? But they haven't even announced the major donations yet. Her eyes flicked to me. Though I suppose it's understandable if you're not feeling well. Champagne can be so tricky when you're not accustomed to fine things.

How fortunate that you've never had that problem, Victoria, Damien replied smoothly. Excuse us.

We moved past her, through the grand entrance hall, and toward the elevators that would take us down to the parking garage. Once inside the elevator, Damien dropped his supportive arm from my waist.

That, he said coldly as the doors closed, was completely unacceptable.

You know what's unacceptable? I turned on him, the champagne lending me courage I might not otherwise have had. Being treated like a possession. Being told how to speak, how to sit, how many sips of champagne I'm allowed.

I told you from the beginning what this arrangement would entail.

You told me to play a role. Not to become your puppet. The elevator descended too slowly, the small space amplifying the tension between us. I fulfilled my part tonight. I smiled, I charmed, I played the devoted wife. But I draw the line at being monitored like a child.

You were flirting with Tariq.

I was discussing soil composition and grape varietals!

You were— He stopped, shaking his head. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you embarrassed me by storming off like that.

Oh, I'm sorry, did I damage the perfect Damien Blackwood image? The man who controls everything, including his wife? The elevator doors opened into the deserted parking garage. Maybe next time you should marry a mannequin. They're much more compliant.

I strode out ahead of him, my heels echoing on the concrete. I had no idea where I was going—I didn't even know where our car was parked—but I needed to put distance between us before I said something I truly couldn't take back.

Elena! His footsteps quickened behind me. Stop. You're being childish.

I whirled around. And you're being a tyrant! I agreed to be your wife for appearances, not your possession!

Lower your voice. He glanced around the empty garage. This is not the place—

There is no place! Not with you! No place where I can be myself, where I can speak without being corrected, where I can exist without being judged against some impossible standard of perfection!

He was closer now, his face tight with anger. You think this is easy for me? Parading around with a stranger, pretending we're in love, when every moment is a calculated risk?

At least you're in familiar territory. This is your world, your rules. I jabbed a finger at his chest. I'm the one who gave up everything—my home, my freedom, my identity.

For eight hundred thousand euros, he reminded me coldly. A price you agreed to.

And I'm earning every cent, dealing with you!

We were inches apart now, both breathing hard, the air between us electric with anger and something else—something I didn't want to acknowledge. Damien's eyes dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second, and something shifted in his expression.

You are the most infuriating woman I've ever met, he said, his voice suddenly husky.

And you are the most controlling, cold-hearted—

I never finished the sentence. Damien's mouth crashed down on mine, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me against him with a desperation that matched the anger of moments before. For a heartbeat, I was too shocked to respond. Then, as if some dam had broken inside me, I was kissing him back, my fingers threading through his hair, my body arching into his.

The kiss was nothing like the chaste pecks we exchanged for cameras. This was raw, hungry, uncontrolled. His hands slid up my back, one tangling in my hair, the other pressing me closer until I could feel the rapid beat of his heart against mine. I gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, a low sound escaping from his throat.

Reality crashed back when the elevator dinged somewhere behind us. We broke apart, both stunned, staring at each other with wide eyes. Damien looked as shocked as I felt, his perfect composure shattered, his hair disheveled where my fingers had gripped it.

That... I started, then faltered, my voice unsteady.

Was a mistake, he finished, already rebuilding his walls, straightening his tie. One that won't be repeated.

The coldness in his voice doused whatever lingering heat had built between us. Of course, I agreed, stepping back, smoothing my dress with trembling hands. A momentary lapse.

The car is this way, he said, all business again, though I noticed he kept more distance between us than usual.

The ride home was silent, thick with unspoken words and the lingering ghost of that kiss. I pressed my forehead against the cool window, watching London's lights blur into streaks of color, and wondered which was the bigger mistake—signing that contract, or discovering that beneath all that cold control, Damien Blackwood was capable of such fire.

I didn't have long to wonder. The next morning, as I was nursing a slight hangover with strong coffee in the kitchen, Damien strode in, dropping a newspaper on the counter in front of me.

Congratulations, he said, his voice arctic. We've made the front page.

I looked down at the headline: BANKING HEIR'S PASSIONATE DISPLAY: Blackwood's Marriage More Than Business? Below was a grainy but unmistakable photo of us in the parking garage, locked in that heated embrace.

How... I began, horror mounting.

Security cameras. Damien's face was a mask of controlled fury. Which some enterprising paparazzo apparently hacked into.

Damien, I—

Save it. He checked his watch. The Sheikh's office called this morning. They have 'concerns' about my professional judgment given these... images.

The implications hit me like a bucket of cold water. His deal—the very reason for our marriage—was in jeopardy because of one moment of lost control.

What do we do? I asked quietly.

His eyes met mine, cold and distant once more. We do damage control. I have a meeting with them this afternoon. Until then, stay here. Don't talk to anyone, don't go out, don't even look out the windows in case there are photographers.

I'm sorry, I said, meaning it. Whatever our personal conflicts, I hadn't wanted to jeopardize his business.

For a moment, something softened in his expression. Then it was gone, replaced by the businessman I'd first met in that sterile office.

The irony, he said as he turned to leave, is that a picture of us looking actually in love might be the thing that destroys everything we built this fake marriage to achieve.

After he left, I sat alone at the kitchen counter, staring at our image on the newspaper. Even in the grainy photo, there was no mistaking the passion between us. It looked real—far more real than any of our carefully choreographed public appearances.

The contract sat in the drawer of my bedside table, with its clear clause: No physical contact beyond what is necessary for public appearances. We'd broken the very first rule of our arrangement. And now, as I traced a finger over our entwined figures in the photograph, I wondered if we'd broken something else as well—the careful distance that had kept this arrangement safe, businesslike, and uncomplicated by actual feelings.