A deceit deal with the ruthless billionaire CEO

ne flutes in hand, the big chandelier above cast gentle light on the polished floor. Victoria, however, was no longer only a journalist. She was Andrew Sinclair's intende

porter enquiries seemed like a burden she could not escape. Throughout the whole experience, Andrew had been calm, collected, and completely composed. He was the image of the ideal, callous millionaire. She, on the other hand, was only trying to keep up. Walking to the exit, a reporter ran up to them and thrust a microphone into her face. Ms. Harrington, is it love or only a business arrangement? The public is curious. Victoria stood still. The inquiry was too personal, too direct, and it made her heart race. His presence hung like a shadow, and she could feel Andrew's gaze on her. He had not forewarned her about this one. She had been ready for the cameras, for the phoney smiles, but not for this. She looked at Andrew, wishing he would speak up. His jaw was tense and his face impossible to read. The stillness between them was oppressive. Her thoughts raced. Should she tell a fib? Should she speak something straightforward and practiced? Should she, though, be honest and say this was a hoax? That there was only a contract, no affection? Her throat caught on her breath. Stuck between the reality and the fiction she had to live for the next six months, she felt trapped. The strain was intolerable, and in that split second she questioned whether she was acting or whether the part was beginning to consume her completely. "I, " she started, but the words froze in her throat. Her eyes darted back to Andrew, who gave her a barely noticeable nod, as if to say so. Her heart thumped. What if this turned out to be a mistake? She smiled and corrected her posture. It's just what it seems. A commercial deal. As the words escaped her mouth, the reporter's face beamed with joy and the cameras went crazy. The audience was happy. She had done her share. Her head was still spinning, though, as she walked away with Andrew. Was that accurate? Or had she simply been dishonest with herself? Swarming about them, New York's elite, the gala was a swirl of gold, silver, and polished faces. Victoria went following Andrew, who was smoothly weaving through the throng, and the chatter was a distant murmur in her ears. His presence drew attention; every step was confident and certain; his hand was always on the small of her back guiding her through the crowd of people. She was doing her part, yet something within her seemed odd. They walked inside the main hall and the cameras flashed again. Her image wrapped closely with Andrew's calculated character, she was the focus as his fiancée. Dressed in a suit that made him look like he belonged to this world, a world that seemed so alien to her, he looked every bit the part. But even with the performance, something was bubbling under the surface. His touch against her skin made her feel heavy, and for a brief moment she saw something deeper in his gaze, something concealed beneath his suave attitude. Though his every word and action were exact, it was the times he believed no one was looking that allowed her to see the man behind the mask. He was unfeeling. Removed. His presence was strong as they mixed. Too conscious of the part she was playing, Victoria remained mute and, when appropriate, offered courteous smiles. But with every smile Andrew beamed, she saw how his eyes would fl