LEILA DAHAN

  Paul and I walked through the gardens and it was absolutely lovely. Didn’t say much. We didn’t have to. Just enjoyed the evening.

  It was nice. Until I notice my older sister staring at us from her balcony.

  We came back to our wing and I moved him into my room without telling anyone.

  Not that it was a conversation I was interested in having. Not with my mother. Not with Amira. And especially not Selene.

  There was no fanfare. No whispered suggestions. I just walked into his guest suite, handed him a pillow, and said, “Pack it up. You’re staying with me in the main room.”

  He didn’t blink. Just raised an eyebrow like he already knew this moment was coming. It irked me. Paul had the kind of awareness that felt unfair. That razor-sharp stillness of someone who knew how to wait. To listen. To strike. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trained. Still it made me want to watch him. Be around him. Get to know him more.

  And I wasn’t the only one.

  I saw the look in Amira’s eyes the second he walked into the dining room. The transformation couldn’t not have been more blatant or obvious. One moment she was barefoot and bohemian, and the next she was sashaying like a Bond girl. I saw the way she sat straighter, the way she laughed at things that weren’t funny. The lip gloss. The sudden interest in French wine. She would have been more subtle by simply dropping robe in front of him.

  I also saw the way our older sister tracked Paul with her gaze like he was a pressure point she wanted to press until he broke.

  And she would. If I left him alone for more than five minutes, she’d corner him in some hallway, run her hand up his chest, and whisper something scandalous.

  That’s always been Selene’s way—wearing that mask of restraint while thinking no one notices the hunger underneath.

  But I noticed and it didn’t help that she hated her husband who was an asshat on the best of days.

  So, yes. I moved Paul into my room.

  He dropped the pillow on the foot of my bed and stretched, shirt clinging to his back in a way that had to be illegal in several countries. He noticed my silence.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I was standing by the window, arms folded, looking out over the moonlit coastline. I hadn’t spoken in minutes.

  Was I okay?

  I wasn’t sure.

  Because for the first time since this ridiculous game started, I didn’t feel in control.

  Not over the plan. Not over the room. Not over myself.

  “Fine,” I said, too quickly.

  He gave me that look—the one he does when he knows I’m lying and won’t press unless I invite it. I hated how much I liked that about him.

  “I know you’re probably tired of talking about it,” he said quietly. “But this part matters. Tonight was the test.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “And?”

  “I think they bought it. Most of it.”

  He moved closer. Just one step. Barefoot. Quiet. Effortless.

  “They definitely bought the chemistry,” he said, voice low.

  That made me turn.

  Because now he was closer.

  And I wasn’t okay.

  God in heaven, he was hot. Not just physically—though that alone was enough to unravel me. It was the presence. The way he didn’t fill a room with volume, but with gravity. The heat in his stare. The slow, deliberate way he moved.

  He was the kind of man women dreamed about and ruined themselves trying to keep.

  And I was standing five feet from him in a silk camisole with no bra, no backup plan, and no idea how I was supposed to breathe.

  I didn’t move.

  Neither did he.

  The air between us thickened—unspoken, undeniable. It wasn’t about the act. It wasn’t even about attraction anymore. It was pressure. Like something waiting to snap.

  But I wasn’t going to tell him anything.

  If he knew what we, HE, was up against he’d go running for the hills.

  I wasn’t going to tell him about Amira and her thirst.

  I wasn’t going to Selene and the way she looked at him like she wanted to mount him and then destroy every piece of him that didn’t belong to her.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  No. He didn’t need to know that yet.

  I wasn’t ready to admit that both my sisters wanted the same man I’d brought into this house as a pawn—and that somewhere between the airport and dessert, the pawn had become the only one on the board I didn’t want to sacrifice.

  “You didn’t expect this to get to you, did you?” he asked softly.

  I looked up, startled.

  “You think I’m unraveling?” I tried for steel in my voice, but it came out like silk instead.

  “I think you’re surprised at how much you like me.”

  He gave me a cheeky grin.

  He was right.

  I hated that he was right.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, turning back to the window, trying to anchor myself in the coastline, the breeze, anything other than the man five feet behind me who made my skin feel like it belonged to someone else.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t need to.

  I could feel him watching me. Assessing. Not with judgment—Paul didn’t judge. He read. Measured. Waited.

  “Let’s sleep,” I said. “We’ve got breakfast with the war council tomorrow.”

  “Am I getting a uniform?”

  “Just wear the same thing and glare a little more. They'll assume you killed someone overnight.”

  That made him chuckle. A real one. Low and warm.

  And I hated how much I felt it.

  I turned my back to him. He laughed and left the room.

  Jerk.

  ***

  I thought my intentions were clear. That we were on the same page.

  So color me surprised when I found Paul in back in the sitting room of my suite with a pillow, lounging watching a soccer game on his phone.

  He didn’t look up. “It's amazing the coverage you have here. Impressive.”

  I stood for a few moments in my clothes that barely concealed me.

  “Seriously?” I said from the doorway.

  Paul didn’t look up. “Seriously?”

  “Why do you think I moved you into my room? Why are you back here?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I assumed you were trying to seduce me but then you chickened out. I found it quite adorable.”

  I almost threw my phone at him. Damn this man and his freaking charm.

  I made a show of rolling my eyes, then stepped towards him, arms crossed, silk robe trailing behind me. “You need to come back to my–our bedroom.The staff start cleaning suites at seven. If they find you out here, we’re done. Cover blown. The whole pretend boyfriend thing falls apart before breakfast.”

  “I’ll wake up before seven.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s exactly the point. You dragged me into your room so people wouldn’t talk. I get it. But no said anything about sleeping in the same bad. I will stay in your suite but I’m sleeping here, like a good prop.”

  “You’re not a prop,” I muttered.

  He tilted his head. “Then let me stay out here.”

  “No.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Explain to me why you want me to sleep in your room.”

  “I want you in there,” I snapped. “So the maids think we’re… whatever we’re pretending to be.”

  “I think you're paranoid. Maybe we are taking it slow. You can just explain that I didn’t want to often your delicate sensibilities.”

  I groaned and turned toward the bedroom. “Just come with me. I’ll sleep on the floor. You take the bed.”

  He was behind me before I reached the door.

  “No chance,” he said.

  I stopped. “What?”

  “You’re not sleeping on the floor. This place is made of imported stone and bad decisions. Your spine will file a lawsuit.”

  I turned slowly to face him. “Then what do you suggest?”

  He shrugged. “We share the bed.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll snore. Or steal the blanket. Or breathe near me.”

  He smirked. “You invited me to your bedroom but you're scared of sharing a bed? Just to clarify you’re older than 15 right? If you’re scared you cannot keep your hands off me just say so.”

  I exhaled through my teeth. “You overestimate your affect on me. Fine. We sleep in the bed. No touching. A strict line down the middle.”

  “Sure.”

  “Like a pillow wall or something.”

  “Of course.”

  “Two adults. Professional. No funny business.”

  He stepped past me, already heading for the bedroom. “So like we're married. Got it.”

  I blinked. “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  “How much is it going to cost me?” I asked suspiciously.

  He turned his head just enough for me to see the smirk.

  “Another million,” he said.

  My jaw dropped. “A million dollars to share a bed?”

  “I’m valuable,” he said, deadpan. “You’re lucky I’m on sale.”

  I wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or throw the nearest pillow at him.

  Instead, I stormed into the bedroom first.

  “You’re insufferable,” I muttered.

  He followed. “And you’re terrible at negotiating. Aren’t you some kind of CEO?”

  ---

  It was dark in my room. We lay back to back. At least, that’s how it started.

  The room was massive—vaulted ceiling, soft lamplight glowing against warm stone walls. The bed could’ve comfortably fit four people with room for regrets. But still, I was acutely aware of every inch between us.

  No touching.

  No speaking.

  No thinking about the smell of his skin or the way his breathing had already started to slow like he was made for sleep.

  It took me longer.

  A lot longer.

  When I finally drifted off, it was shallow. Fragile.

  And sometime in the middle of the night… I woke up.

  My head was on his chest. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around my waist. My thigh—God, my thigh—was resting across his leg like I belonged there. I was glad he wasn’t awake because if he had he’d see that my chest was almost fully on display.

  Worse?

  He was twitching.

  Not violent. Just subtle. Shoulders shifting. Jaw clenching. A sharp exhale every now and then, like his body was bracing for something that wasn’t coming.

  It wasn’t restlessness.

  It was memory.

  He was fighting ghosts in his sleep.

  My chest tightened.

  I didn’t move.

  Instead, I moved up his body and held his head to my chest letting him hear my heart beat. I whispered, “You’re safe.”

  I don’t know if he heard me.

  But after a while… the tension faded.

  His grip eased.

  His breathing slowed.

  And I stayed where I was—wrapped in the arms of the man I hired to pretend.