The scent of freshly brewed coffee and aged books filled the air as Elara Bennett tucked a loose strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear, her fingers flying over the keyboard in a rhythmic symphony of productivity. Her favorite corner of the Willow & Ink Café had become her unofficial office—cozy, quiet, and conveniently close to an outlet. She adjusted her wire-framed glasses and took another sip of her latte, steeling herself for another day of juggling freelance gigs and the crushing weight of student loan debt.
She was midway through editing a travel blog when the unmistakable sound of designer shoes echoed on the hardwood floor. A low murmur followed, subtle enough to make her glance up without really paying attention—until her eyes landed on him.
Damon Ashford.
The name alone was enough to cause an entire city’s worth of gossip to ignite like wildfire. The media loved him. Women adored him. Men envied him. CEO of Ashford Industries, heir to a fortune larger than most people could fathom, and cold as a winter storm. He was power in a tailored suit, charisma bottled into a six-foot-two figure with ice-blue eyes that could pierce right through you.
And now, he was standing three feet away from her table.
“Elara Bennett,” he said, his deep voice smooth and controlled like aged whiskey.
She blinked, confused. “I’m sorry… Do I know you?”
His lips curved in the faintest smirk, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise impassive expression. “Not personally. But I will do my research.”
That didn’t help.
She closed her laptop slowly, suspiciously. “Okay… creepy intro aside, what kind of research leads a billionaire to a struggling copywriter who can barely afford her rent?”
He gestured to the seat across from her. “May I?”
“I mean, sure, if you're about to offer me a million-dollar writing gig,” she quipped, folding her arms.
“I’m not,” he replied bluntly. “I’m about to offer you something much stranger.”
Her brows lifted. “Stranger than a millionaire stalking me at a café?”
“I need a girlfriend.”
Elara nearly choked on air. “I’m sorry—what?”
“A fake girlfriend,” he clarified, as if that made it any less ridiculous. “For the next six months.”
She stared at him, waiting for the hidden camera crew to jump out. “Is this some kind of reality show prank? Because if it is, I want royalties.”
“No cameras. No pranks.” His voice didn’t waver. “I need someone to play the role. Discreet, believable, intelligent. And frankly, someone who doesn’t already swim in my social circle.”
Her head was spinning. “Why me?”
“Because you’re unknown. Which makes you authentic. You’re also articulate, self-sufficient, and—no offense—not desperate enough to fall in love with me overnight.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you picked me because you think I’m… plain?”
“I picked you because you don’t have an agenda.” He leaned forward. “You’re a blank slate. And I need that.”
Elara’s brain short-circuited for a moment. “Okay, pause. Let’s say I even entertain this lunacy—why do you need a fake girlfriend?”
He exhaled sharply. “My father’s retiring. Which means the board of Ashford Industries wants reassurance that I’m not just capable of running the company—but also stable. Settled. They want the image. A woman by my side, the happy façade. It’s politics.”
“So… you want a human prop?”
He didn’t flinch. “Precisely.”
“And you think I’m the perfect prop.”
“I think you’re the perfect partner for the role.”
She let out a dry laugh, pressing her fingers to her temples. “This is insane. Even for New York.”
“I’ll pay you $250,000 for six months,” he added quietly.
Her heart stopped.
“That’s… that’s more than I made in five years.”
“Exactly.”
She hesitated. Her mind conjured up rent notices, bills, debt, the overwhelming pressure of survival.
“You expect me to pretend to be in love with you?” she asked, voice thin.
“No,” he said. “I expect you to pretend to like me. That’s all the media requires. Holding hands, attending events, smiling in public. The illusion of connection.”
“And in private?”
“You’ll have your own space. Your privacy. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
Elara studied him, trying to decipher the man behind the polished exterior. There had to be a catch. Men like Damon Ashford didn’t just need anything.
“What’s the real reason?” she asked softly.
His jaw clenched, just for a second. “There’s someone gunning for my seat on the board. Someone who believes I’m too reckless. They’ll dig for anything to use against me. I need to appear settled. Untouchable.”
“Still sounds like a soap opera.”
“Then play the lead, Miss Bennett.”
She stared at the checkered tabletop, the words echoing in her mind like a dare. There was something about him—arrogant, yes, but also… desperate? No. Determined. And utterly sure she was the answer to his problem.
“What if I say no?” she asked finally.
He stood slowly, adjusting his cuffs with the elegance of a man who always got what he wanted. “Then I walk out and find someone else. But I’d prefer not to. I chose you for a reason.”
He slid a sleek black card across the table. “You have until tomorrow. That number connects directly to me. Don’t call unless you’re in.”
With that, he turned and left, the door swinging behind him as though he had never been there at all.
Elara stared at the card in silence.
For the next hour, her latte went cold. Her laptop dimmed. Her thoughts raced like a train off the rails.
It was madness. Utter madness.
But so was being three months behind on rent, with no backup plan and no family to fall back on.
That night, as she sat in her studio apartment with peeling paint and a barely functioning heater, she thought of her dreams—traveling the world, publishing her novel, clearing her debt, starting fresh.
$250,000 could make that happen.
All she had to do was lie for six months.
Elara picked up her phone and dialed the number on the card.
It rang once.
Then twice.
“Miss Bennett,” Damon answered, his voice calm and collected.
She inhaled sharply. “I’m in.”
