Chapter 3

  LEILA DAHAN

  All being said and experienced. This was one of the strangest days I’ve had in my lifetime. Even though it was genuinely fun.

  It wasn’t the haircuts or the clothes or even Vanessa’s army of skin-obsessed beauty technicians—it was him. Paul.

  He stood beside me on the sidewalk, hands casually tucked into his pockets, jaw sharp under the new trim, hair swept back to reveal cheekbones that should’ve come with a license. He looked like the villain in a spy movie. Or the hero pretending to be one. And yet… the rye humor in his eyes said he’d seen worse than either role could imagine.

  Or at least eluded to, which in and of itself could be a lie. That was what unsettled me the most. Not how good he looked now (and damn did he look good) but how much of it had already been there.

  He hadn’t needed the makeover.

  It was like…like..he’d just been hiding.

  Strange, I know.

  “Where to now?” he asked, voice low and even, like the chaos of the salon hadn’t even phased him.

  “My place,” I said, ignoring the flutter in my chest. “We’ve got a jet to catch in the morning, and I need to brief you. There’s a lot to go over. Faces. Names. History. My family’s expectation of you will be high.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  I gave him a look.

  He grinned, just a little.

  And damn it—there it was again. That thing. Danger wrapped in charm. A razorblade in a bunch of cotton candy. Not manufactured. Not rehearsed. Just… natural.

  I glared at nothing in particular.

  ---

  My penthouse sat above the city like it didn’t want to be part of it. The elevator opened directly into the main room, high ceilings and glass walls revealing a skyline lit like a jewelry box. Paul stepped in behind me, eyes sweeping the space with that quiet awareness I was starting to recognize wasn’t just habit—it was instinct.

  "Welcome," I said, my voice smooth.

  Paul entered, his eyes scanning the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. The decor was modern, with clean lines and muted tones, but personal touches—a vintage record player, a stack of worn books—hinted at the woman behind the design.

  "Nice place," he remarked, his tone neutral.

  I chuckled, leading him toward the living area.

  "I like to keep things simple," I replied.

  He scoffed. “Simple. Right.”

  Paul's gaze lingered on a discreet panel near the entrance. "You know. You let me in without much hesitation. Not concerned about inviting a stranger into your home? I appreciate confidence but that seems like a stupid risk."

  Leila smiled, lifting her wrist to reveal a sleek bracelet. With a gentle tap, a soft chime sounded.

  "Panic button," she explained. "Silent alarm, direct line to security. They would be here within two minutes."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "But I didn't press it," she continued, her eyes meeting his. "I trust my instincts. And I think I'm a pretty good judge of character."

  Paul studied me for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Fair enough."

  I gestured toward the couch. "Drink?"

  "Sure."

  As I moved to the bar, Paul took a seat, his posture relaxed but alert.

  “You know my family hates this place.”

  Paul turned to me. “Why?”

  “It’s too far downtown. Too modern. Too… mine.”

  He nodded like he understood. And maybe he did.

  I walked over to the wall panel and tapped the screen. “Ordering food. Preferences?”

  “Nothing green. Nothing that looks like it was arranged by a florist. Something that was previously alive preferably.”

  “Got it,” I said, hiding a smile. “Barbarian menu. Coming right up.”

  As the delivery ticked its way into the system, I wandered back toward the windows and watched my reflection ripple against the city lights. My mother used to say the city had two faces: the one you sell, and the one that sells you.

  I’d spent most of my life selling mine.

  Leila Dahan, heiress. Leila Dahan, art fund director. Leila Dahan, fashion's quiet powerhouse. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Perfect body. Perfect manners.

  But beneath it?

  I was tired.

  So. Freaking. Tired.

  My parents had orchestrated the weekend down to the detail. A gala at the family estate. Strategic guests. Carefully timed “accidental” introductions. And at the end of it, I was expected to be charmed by a man I didn’t choose—someone with an impeccable résumé, a billionaire’s lineage, and the emotional range of a spreadsheet.

  Or worse, someone inherently entitled or cruel. Seen my share of those running in the circles I do.

  I needed a weapon.

  Instead, I found Paul.

  And now I was wondering if I’d brought a bomb to a gunfight.

  Because the man standing in my penthouse wasn’t just a last-minute stand-in. He was… unpredictable. Controlled. But there was something simmering beneath the surface that hadn’t been there this morning. Or maybe I hadn’t looked closely enough.

  When he turned, the city lights caught his profile. The suit, perfectly tailored, emphasized the lean power in his build. His face—clean-shaven now—held shadows even in brightness. He looked like someone who could walk into a room and make every other man feel underdressed and overconfident.

  He caught me staring. And blew me a kiss and shot me a wink. Like we were teenagers at a dance club.

  “What?” he asked, voice quieter now.

  I straightened. “You’re going to be a problem.”

  “For them or for you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He nestled further into the sofa, easing in with the comfort of someone who could turn every environment into neutral territory. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t check his phone. Just watched me like I was something to study.

  “You said you’d explain more about what we are up against,” he said. “Lay it on me.”

  I nodded and crossed the room, settling across from him. I swirled my drink in my hand and thought through my explanation.

  “My family’s not royalty, but they might as well be. The European Strategic Trust is embedded into half the infrastructure projects between here and Dubai—energy, transport, tech, even military logistics if you know where to look. We don’t just move money. We design the world it moves through. My mother is… complicated. Think Grace Kelly if she were raised by Machiavelli—flawless posture, razor-sharp instincts, and a voice that can cut glass or seduce kings, depending on what the room requires. I have three siblings. My older sister Selene is married to power with a husband that she hates, dresses like a Vogue cover, and looks at everyone like she’s calculating what they’ll be worth in five years. She's a master of elegance and quiet destruction. Amira, my younger sister, pretends to be above all of it—earthy, granola, barefoot at brunch. But can be spiteful if she thinks she is getting overlooked. And then there’s Nathan, the only boy. Technically the heir to the company. Sweet, quiet, smarter than anyone gives him credit for. The pressure on him is suffocating, but he carries it with this... soft resilience. He sees more than people think. Probably more than he should. Its really unfair to the kid. He loves video games and coding. ”

  He gave a low whistle. “Fun childhood.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Selene followed the script and is miserable. My parents and more importantly my maternal grandfather expects me to marry someone that fits. Someone safe. Predictable. Publicly polished. Privately controlled.”

  “And you’re going to show up with me.*” He arched an eyebrow. “Got to love a good curveball.”

  “I needed the opposite. Someone no one could research. Someone who doesn’t care about their approval. Someone that is unknown enough that they’ll question how well they even know me.”

  He nodded slowly. “Seems like quite the risk for a simple statement of independence. And if this all backfires?”

  “Then I lose my last ounce of independence. My trust fund gets locked into a marriage clause. The board votes me out so I can make babies. And I become a figurehead in a power suit.”

  I smiled. “A sexy power suit but a figurehead and powersuit nonetheless.”

  He rolled his eyes. ‘You couldn’t help yourself could you.”

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t been checking out my ass.”

  His face didn’t change. But something in his jaw tightened.

  I straightened up. “It's not just about independence for the now, I am trying to make a statement for the future.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If they reject the statement.”

  “I am screwed,” I said, leaning back, “so bottomline, I need this to work.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. Not with sympathy. Not pity. Just contemplation and then maybe understanding.

  I shifted topic.

  “Have you ever flown private before?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Once or twice Ihave jumped out of a couple of them.”

  I blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Military.”

  I didn’t ask more. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  I smiled. “Well, my dearest boyfriend, you are in for a treat. There are crappy things about being bloody rich. But flying private is one of the perks.”

  He grinned. “Looking forward to it, girlfriend.”

  I was about to say more but instead, I nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room’s that way. You can toss yourself in there..”

  I stretched my body, emphasizing the lines of my legs and the swell of my chest and backside. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  He looked back at me and then shook his head. “Sexy bitch.”

  The food came fifteen minutes later, wheeled in on a gold-handled cart by a delivery guy who looked terrified to even make eye contact. I tipped him before he could bolt and pulled off the metal domes.

  “Lamb sliders, truffle mac, lobster bao,” I said, waving at the spread as Paul returned to the living room. “And just for you—an entire A5 Wague ribeye steak. Medium rare. No flowers on the plate.”

  He grinned and dropped into the armchair with a satisfied groan. “A woman of taste. I take back everything I said about you being soulless.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “When did you call me soulless?”

  He gave me a surprised look that was clearly insincere. “Oh must have been in my head.”

  I threw a pillow at him.

  We tucked into our food and said little and as did, I curled up on the couch across from him, barefoot now, my blazer tossed to the side. I watched him eat with the casual appreciation of a woman who knew what she’d done. The transformation was one thing. But the way he carried himself now—the way the new look fit him like armor he’d forgotten he had—it wasn’t just good. It was dangerous.

  He noticed me watching and raised an eyebrow. “You always stare at people while they eat?”

  “Only the ones I feed.”

  “Ah,” he said, pointing a fork at me. “So I’m a rescue.”

  “No,” I said, mouth curving, “you’re a stray I picked up off the sidewalk and turned into a PR stunt.”

  “You need to work on your witty comebacks. That one was way too cumbersome.”

  “You’ll survive.” I deadpanned.

  ”Yes, much better.”

  He laughed, and I hated that I liked the sound of it. Deep, warm, unpolished. Like it didn’t get out much.

  After we’d devoured enough calories to make Viktor cry, I disappeared into the hallway and returned with a fresh pair of men’s pajamas—soft, dark navy, still folded and bagged.

  I tossed them to him.

  He caught them, then looked at me like I’d just handed him a live snake. “You keep men’s pajamas lying around?”

  “My assistant does. For emergencies.”

  He held them up. “Are these emergencies usually six foot two and scruffy?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” He looked at the clothes again. “So you’re really not letting me go home.”

  “We’re leaving early. Pre-dawn early. Bags are already packed and loaded. The jet’s fueled and waiting. If you leave now, you’ll either oversleep or ghost me.”

  He blinked. “You think I’d ghost you?”

  “I think you’re the type who could vanish and no one would even know you’d gone.”

  That made him go quiet for a beat. Then he smirked.

  “You know,” he said, “If you wanted to take me to bed you could have just said so.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “I mean, I can pretend to be the perfect gentleman,” he added, standing now, the pajamas in hand. “Don’t worry I we can get drunk and act like it was a “mistake”..”

  “Paul—”

  He ignored me.

  “I get it. You’re only human. The temptation.” He sighed. “It’s hard being this good-looking.”

  I threw a pillow at him, again.

  He caught it midair and chuckled, heading for the guest bath. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good. Just don’t start sleepwalking into my room tonight. I spook easily. I am going to shower; don’t you dare peek. I am super shy. ”

  The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and I was left in the silence of my own apartment, fighting the absolutely *irrational* smile tugging at my mouth.

  What the hell was I doing?

  ---

  Fifteen minutes later, he returned, hair damp, skin clean, and wearing the navy pajamas like they’d been tailored for him. I’d thrown on my own version of loungewear—silk pants, a fitted cami, and a sweater so soft it might’ve been smuggled from baby alpacas in Peru.

  He strolled out like he owned the place, barefoot and casual, rubbing a towel over his hair.

  “You have shampoo that smells like sugar and danger,” he said.

  “You used the Le Labo? Thats french you know.”

  “The French are assholes.”

  I rolled my eyes and gestured to the screen. “Movie?”

  He looked surprised. “A movie? Are we done with pre-gala prep?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve got two hours of anxiety to burn.”

  “Alright movie it is. Don’t you dare try to make out with me though. Remember I am shy.”

  I flipped him off. He just laughed.

  He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, feet up, arms spread like he belonged there. “Your pick.”

  I scrolled. “Romantic comedy or psychological thriller?”

  He gave me a look. “Is there a difference?”

  “Fair point.”

  We landed on something ridiculous. A con artist, a stolen painting, a fake engagement. Ironic. Too ironic. But we both laughed more than we should’ve. Somewhere halfway through, I realized I’d curled closer, a throw blanket draped across my lap, my legs tucked under me. Paul didn’t move much, but every now and then I caught him glancing sideways, like he was memorizing something and didn’t want to admit it.

  Around the third fake wedding scene, I turned to him.

  “So. Still think you’re up for this?”

  He didn’t look away from the screen. “You mean pretending to be in love with a woman who makes sarcastic threats and has wine delivered with her toiletries?”

  I smirked. “Yes.”

  “Sounds like the easiest thing I’ve done all week.”

  That one landed.

  I didn’t respond. Not with words.

  Just sat there, feeling the weight of the moment settle over both of us.

  Tomorrow, we’d be on a jet headed toward a powder keg of aristocrats, family betrayals, strategic marriage proposals, and photographers who could ruin my life with a single snap.

  But for tonight…

  It was just me, him, the glow of the TV.

  And the kind of silence that felt like it meant something.

  And that? That was the most dangerous part of all.

  The credits rolled in a slow, glittering crawl, fading into the low hum of the city beyond the glass. Paul didn’t move. He hadn’t said much during the last twenty minutes of the movie, but I could feel the shift. The way his arm rested along the back of the couch. The angle of his head. The stillness in his body—not bored, not tired. Waiting.

  I muted the TV and turned to face him.

  He looked at me, eyebrows raised slightly, like he already knew I was about to say something I hadn’t fully thought through.

  I hesitated.

  “I was thinking,” I started, shifting my legs underneath me, “we should kiss.”

  Paul didn’t blink.

  Then, slowly, he leaned forward. “You were thinking about kissing me? Can’t say I am surprised.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

  “Oh no,” he said, sitting up straighter now, clearly amused. “By all means, keep explaining the part where we have to kiss each other.”

  I folded my arms. “If we show up at that villa and can’t even pretend to be physically comfortable together, it’s going to be obvious. We have to convince my critical family that we are in love and together. People will be watching for any signs that this is bullshit. Especially my mother. She reads everything like a script.”

  “So you want to practice,” he said slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “And you thought now—” He glanced down at the pajamas I’d given him. “In your living room, wearing these—was the time?”

  I fought the flush crawling up my neck. “We’re leaving in six hours. When else would I spring it on you? At the private boarding gate with my father’s people all around?”

  He leaned back again, studying me like I was an unsolved equation. His voice dropped an octave, just enough to make me internally kick myself for ever suggesting this.

  “So let me get this straight,” he murmured. “You want us to kiss. For training. No emotion. No spark. No chance of… complications.”

  I straightened my spine. “Exactly.”

  “Alright.”

  He stood up.

  Just like that.

  No teasing, no dramatics. He stood, crossed the room in two strides, and looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t decode.

  My heartbeat picked up—not because I was nervous. No. I never got nervous.

  This was just... unexpected.

  “Paul,” I said, suddenly aware of the heat coming off him, the way his shadow cut across my bare legs.

  “You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

  I opened my mouth. “Yes.”

  But it came out softer than I intended.

  He reached down and brushed a thumb against my cheek. And then—he kissed me.

  Not a peck. Not something polite or casual. Not practice.

  His hand slid gently beneath my jaw, tilting my face toward him, and his mouth met mine with a quiet, steady pressure that shattered every expectation I had.

  It was warm. Slow. Intentional.

  And devastating.

  There was no rush. No fumbling. Just the sure, focused kiss of someone who didn’t second-guess. Who knew how to read a situation—and a woman. Who kissed like he’d meant to do it all along and was only just getting around to it.

  My fingers curled in his shirt without thinking. My breath hitched before I could stop it.

  And just when I thought I had adjusted to the heat of it—he deepened the kiss and placed his hands on my hips.

  No show. No pretense. Just something real slipping between the cracks of a fake plan.

  When he finally pulled back, I was breathless.

  Literally breathless.

  I stared at him, stunned, lips tingling, pulse fluttering like a bird trapped in a glass room.

  He looked down at me, jaw slightly tense, eyes unreadable. And then, damn him, he smirked.

  “Convincing enough?”

  I swallowed. My mouth felt foreign. My brain wasn’t catching up.

  “You... you’ve done that before,” I said, barely above a whisper.

  He shrugged. “Well that's a stupid thing to say. Of course I’ve kissed someone before. Though admittedly it's been a while.”

  I wanted to say something clever. Something sharp and dismissive. Something that would put distance between us again.

  Instead, all I could manage was, “We should get some sleep.”

  He nodded once. “Yeah. Probably.”

  He turned and started walking toward the guest room.

  Halfway down the hall, he paused. Glanced back at me.

  “And Leila?”

  “What?”

  “Remember it was just a practice kiss.”

  I glared at him and stood then retreated to my room.